Chapter 17 Ellie
ELLIE
Islide the deadbolt home and lean against the door, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway. The silence that follows feels heavier than the break-in, weighted with all the things neither of us said.
The laptop screen still glows on the table, browser history open like evidence of my own naivety. Someone violated my space, rifled through my work, made it clear they know exactly who I am. And when I needed an ally, when I thought maybe…
Oh, boo-hoo. Are you really that surprised?
No. I stop that line of thinking before it can take root.
I fill the electric kettle, hands steadier than they have any right to be. The ritual gives me something to focus on while I sort through what just happened. Caleb's careful distance. His professional tone. The way he left without looking back.
The water boils, and I make tea I don't want, wrapping my fingers around the mug for warmth that has nothing to do with temperature.
"Be careful who you trust," I repeat his parting words to the empty room. "Right back at you, Sheriff."
The encounter plays on repeat in my mind, and with each viewing, the details sharpen into something clearer and more damning. His quick exit. The way he wouldn't meet my eyes when he warned me off. How easily he slipped back into professional mode after I thought we'd moved past that.
I was temporary. Why wouldn’t I be?
Temporary is easier to swallow when you call it practical. When you dress it up as circumstance. Bad timing. Wrong place.
The truth is uglier. Temporary is what happens when people decide you’re useful in the moment but inconvenient in the long run.
I’ve learned how to live inside that space. How to be interesting without being threatening. Present without taking up too much room.
It’s a skill set no one puts on a résumé, but it’s saved me more times than I care to admit.
Besides, no man wants someone like me forever. I’m at best a stepping stone to something better. A holdover while you look for absolutely anything else.
And professionally, I’m just a problem to be managed, not a person to be trusted.
These realizations settle in my chest like a stone, familiar and cold. How many times have I made this mistake? Mistaking attention for interest, proximity for connection, professional courtesy for something more personal?
The heat starts in my chest—that awful, spreading warmth that signals the approach of shame. It's the same sensation I felt seeing that awful photo of myself for the first time. The realization that I was being recognized not as a professional with achievements but as a subject of ridicule.
I set the mug down harder than necessary, tea sloshing over the rim.
"Stupid." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "So bloody stupid."
Because that's what this is, isn't it?
Yep. Same shit. Different Day.
I misread the situation, expected more than was reasonable, and now I'm sitting here feeling foolish for thinking a sheriff in a small town might actually see me as anything other than… well… anything.
The laptop screen dims, then brightens again as I move the mouse. My research stares back at me—timelines, inconsistencies, questions that still need answers. Real work. Measurable progress. Things I can actually control.
I pull up a new document and start typing.
"Focus," I tell myself. "This is what you came here for."
The break-in wasn't random. Someone wanted me to know they'd been here, wanted me to understand that my presence hasn't gone unnoticed. But instead of scaring me off, they've given me confirmation that I'm on the right track.
I delete three peripheral leads from my notes, streamlining my approach. No more chasing every loose thread or hoping local sources will warm up to me. No more waiting for Sheriff Hart to decide I'm worth trusting. I'll work with what I have and build from there.
The missing file from the county records office. The witness accounts that don't match the official reports. The pattern of disappearances that clusters around specific locations and times of year. These are facts, not feelings. Evidence, not expectations.
Facts don’t care if you’re liked.
They don’t flinch when people withdraw or smile politely while steering you away from the point. Facts sit there, stubborn and patient, waiting for someone to notice when they stop making sense.
I trust that kind of silence.
I trust numbers. Dates. Gaps where something should exist but doesn’t.
I spread the files across my bed like pieces of a puzzle that's been scattered for thirty years. The pattern emerges slowly, then all at once, hitting me with the force of recognition.
"Jesus."
The word escapes unconsciously. Because there it is, laid out in black and white—or rather, in missing white spaces where information should be.
1990: Sarah Chen, 23, last seen near Millfield Trail. Hiking accident, body never recovered.
1997: Marcus Webb, 31, disappeared during camping trip, same general area. Equipment found, person gone.
2004: Jennifer Moss, 28, vanished while researching local folklore. Car found abandoned two miles from the trailhead.
2011: David Park, 35, missing after evening jog. Running shoes discovered by the old bridge.
2018: Rebecca Santos, 26, last contact from her cell phone pinged near the forest preserve.
Five disappearances. Three different decades. All within a three-mile radius of the same stretch of woods where Caleb found me today.
I sit back and let the dates breathe for a moment.
Not looking for answers yet—just letting my brain do what it’s always done best when I stop trying to force it.
The spacing nags at me. Not evenly distributed, but not chaotic either. Like something adjusting over time. Refining itself.
Whatever happened in 1990 wasn’t the first attempt. And 2018 wasn’t the last.
This isn’t a story with an ending. It’s one with intervals.
I pull up the demographic information I've been tracking separately.
Young adults, all between 23 and 35. All described by friends and family as curious, independent types who asked questions.
Sarah Chen had been investigating local environmental issues for her graduate thesis.
Jennifer Moss was writing about regional myths and legends.
David Park was a freelance photographer documenting rural communities.
The similarities that were never connected because no one laid them out side by side. Until now.
My laptop chimes with a new email notification, and I glance over expecting spam. Instead, it's from Thomas Reed, the librarian who tried to warn me yesterday.
Subject: You asked about the old files
Miss Carter - Found something you should see. Not safe to email. Can you meet tomorrow morning? Early. Before the library opens. - T
I stare at the message, and the fear that's been simmering since the break-in crystallizes into something sharp and clear. Not the paralyzing terror that makes you run, but the kind that makes you pay attention. That tells you the thing you're chasing is real and dangerous and worth the risk.
I gather the files into a neat stack and slip them into my bag.
Tonight, I'll organize everything I know into a timeline that can't be dismissed or explained away.
Tomorrow I'll meet Thomas Reed and see what he's found.
I've spent too many years making myself smaller, quieter, less threatening to the people who'd rather not hear uncomfortable truths.
Yeah. That’s done.
If someone's watching me, let them watch. Let them see exactly how much I've already uncovered, how close I am to connecting the final pieces.
The truth is here, buried under decades of careful silence and misdirection. And I'm going to dig it up, with or without Sheriff Hart's approval.
With or without anyone's help at all.
The numbers blur together until they don't. I spread the documents across my bed like tarot cards. Three disappearances in 1990. Two in 1997. Four in 2004. One in 2011. Three in 2018.
Seven-year intervals. Give or take a few months.
My pen hovers over the timeline, connecting dots that form a pattern too deliberate to ignore. The tea beside me has gone cold, but my hands shake anyway.
2018 plus seven equals 2025. This year.
"Jesus." The word escapes again.
This time it comes out more like a diagnosis than a prayer.
I lean back, staring at the evidence. Not random violence. Not even a sporadic serial killer. Something else entirely—organized, cyclical, predictable.
I pull up news archives, searching recent missing persons reports in surrounding counties. Nothing in Moonhaven itself, but two counties over—a hiker who never returned in August. Another county north—a college student who vanished in September. Both cases open, both assumed accidents.
Both fitting the demographic profile I've identified.
The pattern extends beyond Moonhaven's borders. Whatever's happening here radiates outward like ripples, touching multiple communities but always anchored here, in this place Sheriff Hart protects.
I cross-reference dates with local events. October features prominently. Late October, specifically. When leaves turn brilliant and air carries winter's first bite.
The same time I arrived.
If the pattern holds, someone else will disappear before Halloween. Someone young, transient, unlikely to be missed immediately.
Someone, potentially, like me.