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 describedby 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.