Chapter 3 - The Secret in the Floorboards
The wind outside began to howl, signaling the arrival of a sudden, violent Appalachian storm. Rain lashed against the glass like handfuls of gravel.
I pulled out my phone. No Service.
"Damn it," I muttered. The storm was interfering with the already spotty mountain reception. We were completely cut off.
I walked to the fireplace, struck a match, and ignited the pre-laid logs. The warm, golden glow cast dancing shadows across the room. I gave the girls Olivia’s oversized wool sweaters and told them to rest on the rug near the fire. They curled into a tight, inseparable ball and fell asleep almost instantly, exhausted by whatever hell they had endured.
I couldn't sleep. My mind was a chaotic storm matching the one outside. I walked into the master bedroom. The air still smelled faintly of her lavender perfume. I sat on the edge of the bed, burying my face in my hands.
She spoke to them through the window.
If Olivia knew about these girls, she would have documented it. She was a meticulous journalist, always taking notes. I began to tear the room apart. I checked the drawers, the closet, the pockets of her old coats. Nothing.
Then I remembered the floorboard.
Underneath the vintage Persian rug near the window, there was a loose plank where we used to hide spare cash and our passports. I hauled the heavy rug aside and pried the wooden board up with my fingernails.
Inside the dusty cavity lay a small, leather-bound notebook.
My hands trembled as I opened it. The handwriting was unmistakably hers—elegant, sharp, hurried.
October 12th: I found a cabin off the old hunting trail today. It’s off the grid. I heard crying. There are children there. Twins. Kept like animals.
October 18th: The man's name is Silas Thorne. A local drifter with a violent record. I snuck close to the cellar grate today. I spoke to the girls. Emma and Ella. They are so sweet, so broken. I promised them I would get them out.
October 22nd: I have enough proof. I took photos of the locks, the perimeter. I’m going to the sheriff tomorrow morning. Silas saw me in the woods today. He looked right at me. If anything happens to me, Ethan... I love you. Find them. Please find them.
The date of the last entry was the day before she died.
Tears hot and fierce spilled down my cheeks. It wasn't an accident. She was murdered because she tried to be a hero. A suffocating wave of grief washed over me, instantly followed by a blinding, white-hot rage.
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Suddenly, a loud, metallic CRACK echoed from the front of the cabin.
The heavy brass chain on the front door strained. Someone was trying to kick it in.
