Just then, my phone buzzed with an incoming text from an unknown number: “Do not dig further.”
I stared at the message, heart pounding, feeling the ground shift beneath my feet.
In the silence that followed, a distant clatter echoed from somewhere upstairs—a sound like a cabinet door being forced.
My mind leapt ahead, imagining the police station’s locked cabinet—its heavy metal door suddenly clicking open on its own, revealing a hidden file with Andrew’s name and a chilling photograph of a dead body.
Memories in the Parking Lot
I was scrolling through Mara’s message when a cold image slipped into my mind.
It was the night after graduation, the sky bruised purple, and I was waiting for Andrew by the school parking lot.
He was there, his shoulders stiff, voice low, arguing with a man in a dark hoodie I’d never seen before.
“You promised you’d be done by tomorrow,” Andrew hissed, the words clipped, his eyes darting.
The stranger’s laugh was thin, like a blade scraping metal. “You can’t back out now. Not after the cash is on the table.”
I felt a knot tighten in my stomach, but I told myself it was just teenage drama, that I didn’t need to get involved.
When the argument ended, the figure vanished into the night, leaving Andrew alone, staring at the empty lot as if waiting for something else.
Later, I pretended not to notice the exchange, but the scene replayed every time I read Mara’s words.
Now, with Leo’s phone flashing the details about police records, the memory surged like a warning I’d ignored.
“Mom, the letter says there’s a case file,” Leo said, his finger tapping the screen.
“It mentions a request for records from the county sheriff’s office,” I whispered, heart thudding.
My grip tightened on the kitchen table. I knew what I had to do.
“I’m going to the station tomorrow,” I announced, trying to keep my voice steady.
The resolve felt like stepping back into that parking lot, finally looking the shady figure in the eye.
The Police Station and a Sudden Threat
The next morning, rain slicked the downtown streets as I pushed through the precinct doors.
Officer Ramirez looked up from his desk, his badge glinting, a tired smile forming.
“You’re Rebecca?” he asked, voice calm.
“Yes, I’m here about the Andrew Hale file Mara mentioned.”
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “That case was sealed. No official charges ever filed.”
“Sealed?” I echoed, feeling the word reverberate.
He tapped a folder on the counter, a thin metal cabinet behind it locked tight.
“There’s a hidden file,” Ramirez said, “links him to the Varela family — a local mafia.”
My pulse surged. “Can I see it?” I asked, voice barely a whisper.
He reached for the cabinet, his hand hovering over the lock.
“One moment,” he muttered, then his radio crackled, a frantic voice breaking in.
“Ramirez, we need you now! Situation escalated at the downtown warehouse!”
His eyes widened. “I’m sorry, I have to go.” He stood, grabbing his coat.
“Wait— the file—” I called, but he was already at the door, the rain pounding his shoulders.
