Suddenly, the headlights of my car illuminated a rotting, wooden sign: Miller’s Creek – Closed.
“I’m at the turnoff,” I told her. “I have to kill the lights so no one sees me. Stay quiet. I’m coming.”
I parked the car deep within a thicket of weeping willows, turning off the engine and darkness immediately swallowed me. The only sound was the violent drumming of rain on the metal roof.
I stepped out into the mud, pulling my jacket tight. Armed only with the weak flashlight on my smartphone, I began to trek through the dense brush, following the overgrown path along the rushing creek. The air smelled of wet earth and decay.
After ten grueling minutes of slipping through the mire, the silhouette of the hidden cabin appeared. It was a derelict, collapsing structure, swallowed by ivy and thorns. It looked completely abandoned, a place forgotten by time.
I approached the porch, the wooden steps groaning under my weight. “Valeria?” I whispered loudly into the dark, using her name for the first time in seven years.
A floorboard creaked inside.
I pushed the heavy oak door open. The interior was freezing, smelling heavily of mildew and damp wood. By the faint glow of my phone light, I saw the overturned furniture and the thick layer of dust. In the center of the room, a section of the floorboards had been pulled back, revealing a dark, gaping hole with a wooden ladder leading down into the earth.
“Sis?” I called out, leaning over the edge of the opening.
“Down here,” a voice trembled from the blackness below.
I scrambled down the ladder, my boots slipping on the damp rungs. When my feet hit the dirt floor of the root cellar, I shone my flashlight around the small, claustrophobic space.
Sitting in the corner, wrapped in a threadbare wool blanket, was my sister. She looked incredibly fragile. Her skin was deathly pale, her cheeks sunken, but her eyes—those sharp, intelligent eyes—were undeniably hers.
Before I could say a word, she threw her arms around my neck. We held each other in the dark, sobbing silently, bridging a seven-year gap built on a foundation of horrific lies.
“We have to go,” she whispered against my shoulder, pulling back. “We have to get to the city, to the federal investigators. The local police are in his pocket.”
“Okay,” I nodded, wiping my face. “Let’s get you out of here.”
I turned toward the ladder, preparing to climb up first, when my flashlight beam caught something in the far corner of the cellar. There was a large, heavy iron trunk, secured with a massive padlock. But what caught my attention wasn’t the trunk itself—it was what lay on top of it.
A dusty, gold-plated trophy.
I froze. I stepped closer, pushing the beam of light directly onto the inscription. It was a high school debate championship trophy. It belonged to my sister.
