Chapter 6 - Into the Whiteout
The drive back up the mountain was a masterclass in tension. The snow had piled up nearly three feet deep across the winding forestry roads, turning familiar turns into ghostly, white labyrinths. My Jeep’s tires churned and groaned, throwing up blinding sprays of powder as I fought to keep the steering wheel steady against the freezing gusts.
When I finally pulled up to Sarah and Marcus’s isolated two-story cabin, the scene looked entirely different by the harsh light of morning.
The front door hung slightly askew, the wooden frame splintered where Marcus had forced his way in during his rage the night before. Icicles hung from the shattered porch rail, sparkling mockingly in the pale sunlight that was beginning to break through the clouds.
I killed the engine, grabbed my heavy flashlight, and stepped out into the freezing air. The silence of the mountain was absolute, broken only by the crunch of my boots against the crusty snow.
Stepping inside the house, the air was bitterly cold. The heating system had shut down, likely due to a tripped circuit or a deliberate cutoff by Marcus before he fled. I moved quickly through the living room, stepping over shattered picture frames and scattered children's toys, making my way toward the kitchen stairs that led down to the basement.
The basement was pitch black. I flicked on my heavy flashlight, sweeping the beam across damp concrete walls, old storage boxes, and rows of canning jars left by the previous owners.
Behind the old brick pillar.
Sarah’s voice echoed in my mind.
I found the pillar near the back corner of the foundation. I ran my hands along the mortar until my fingers caught a slight lip in the stone. With a firm shove, a hidden panel swung inward, revealing a small, fireproof wall safe embedded in the concrete.
The keypad was dark. Marcus had cut the power to the unit.
"Damn it," I muttered, shining my flashlight closer.
Then I remembered. Marcus was arrogant, but he was also creature of habit. People who rely on digital trickery often use birthdays or anniversaries as master overrides. I punched in our parents' anniversary date—nothing. I tried Sarah’s birthday—nothing.
Then I tried Lily's birthday.
BEEP.
May you like
The small green LED light flickered to life, and the heavy metal door clicked open.
Inside sat three black portable hard drives, a stack of legal documents labeled with false power-of-attorney affidavits, and—resting right on top—the original, unblemished silver bracelet belonging to Sarah, identical to the one I had kept in my safe for seven years.
