“Jace saw something that night,” Ms. Harlan added, “and Josie carries it with her, whether she knows it or not.”
I could hear Mark’s voice in the background, his calm trying to steady my own panic.
“If we’re part of this, we have to protect them,” he said, his tone firm.
My mind raced—could the missing child case the caseworker mentioned be tied to this fire?
“I’ll dig,” Mark promised, “even if it means we’re stepping into something dangerous.”
We hung up, the silence in our kitchen feeling heavier than the words that had just been spoken.
The Abandoned Foster Home
At dawn we drove to the old foster home, its windows boarded, its paint peeling like dead skin.
Mark pushed open the front door; the hinges screamed, echoing through empty hallways.
Dust rose in the shafts of light that cut through cracked blinds.
We followed the hallway to where a rusted metal door marked “Basement” stood, its lock corroded but still stubborn.
“Looks like no one’s been down here in years,” Mark muttered, holding the flashlight up to the keyhole.
My heart hammered as I felt the cold air seeping from the cracks.
We forced the lock; the bolt gave with a grinding sound, and the door swung open, revealing a narrow stairwell descending into darkness.
At the bottom, a low hum of old fluorescent lights flickered to life, casting a sickly glow over a wall of framed photographs.
Every picture showed Josie and Jace, smiling, but each also held a woman I didn’t recognize—her eyes seemed haunted.
“Who is she?” I whispered, my voice trembling.
Mark stepped closer, his hand brushing the frames, and a sudden creak echoed from above.
Footsteps rattled the stairwell; a shadow flickered at the edge of the light.
Before we could react, a dark figure lunged toward us, and the lights abruptly cut out, plunging the scene into darkness.
Escaping the Basement
We burst out of the darkness, the cold air slamming against our lungs.
Mark grabbed my arm, his grip fierce enough to steady my shaking hands.
Behind us, the basement door slammed shut, a final, echoing thud that sounded like a warning.
I lunged for the front porch light, its harsh glare cutting through the night.
“We need to talk to Ms. Harlan, now,” I hissed, the words tangled with dread.
We found her waiting on the cracked porch swing, eyes hollow, hands clasped around a chipped mug.
“You’ve seen enough,” she whispered, voice cracked like old floorboards.
“What did you do, Ms. Harlan? Why put them with us?” Mark’s tone was low, dangerous.
She stared at the ground, then lifted her gaze, a tear slipping down her cheek.
“I didn’t choose them. The fire… it wasn’t an accident.”
Her words fell like ash.
“Their mother… she was a whistleblower. She dug up the adoption ring, the money, the children sent to the wrong families.”
“The agency wanted her silenced.” I felt the world tilt.
