Jenna, my oldest daughter, was pouring cereal when I came into the kitchen with my keys.
“I have to run out for a bit,” I told her. “Keep an eye on your sisters, please. I’ll be back before dinner.”
I didn’t tell her about the note.
And I didn’t tell Aaron where I was going.
The road to the cabin felt longer than I remembered. When I passed the memorial marker — a wooden cross with fake flowers tied to it — my throat tightened so hard I thought I might throw up.
I didn’t tell Aaron where I was going.
When I reached the cabin, I stood on the porch and stared at the door.
“Just go in,” I said out loud, because hearing my own voice was better than listening to the panic in my head.
Inside, the air smelled stale and damp. I looked around slowly. The old plaid sofa. The cracked stone fireplace. Ben’s hunting magazines were still stacked in a corner.
But something was wrong. It took a moment to realize what it was.
There wasn’t enough dust for a place left empty for years.
My stomach dropped. “Someone’s been here.”
Something was wrong.
I crossed the room and yanked back the rug.
At first, I saw nothing. Then I spotted a floorboard that did not sit flush. I kneeled, got my fingers under the edge, and pried it up.
Underneath was a small hollow, and inside it lay a recording device in a Ziplock bag.
I pulled it out. My fingers shook so hard I nearly dropped the device trying to turn it on.
