The drive back to the Dawes property was quiet.
Neither of them said what they were thinking.
They didn’t need to.
The letter.
The photograph.
The diary page.
It all pointed to one place.
The barn.
They reached the gate just after 4:30 p.m. The same rusted metal, the
same hush in the air—like the land itself was holding its breath.
Ronny parked farther down the path this time, out of sight from the road.
Just in case.
As they approached the barn, the structure seemed even older than before.
Its boards sagged deeper. The wind moaned faintly through the slats, as if
whispering secrets it had kept for over eighty years.
Maya paused just outside the door. “You sure?”
“No,” Ronny said. “But we’re here.”
They stepped inside.
The air was damp and heavy. Dust swirled in the beams of light cutting
through the broken boards. Everything was as they had left it—except the chair
in the center of the barn.
It was gone.
Maya’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Someone’s been here.”
Ronny’s eyes scanned the space. No footprints. No tire tracks. Just
silence.
He moved to the corner shown in the photo—the far end of the barn, near
the collapsed feed bin. The ground was hard-packed, but slightly sunken in a
rectangular shape. Just as the image had shown.
He crouched, ran a hand along the earth.
“This is it.”
Maya knelt beside him and pulled a small collapsible trowel from her
backpack. “I brought tools.”
Ronny blinked. “You’re frighteningly prepared.”
She smirked. “You’re not the only one who’s been waiting for something
like this.”
They dug slowly, methodically. The topsoil gave way easily, and within
minutes they hit something solid—boards. A makeshift wooden lid, maybe two feet
wide by four feet long, weathered and warped with age.
Maya cleared the dirt from the edges. “It’s nailed down.”
Ronny reached for the claw end of the trowel and pried gently. The wood
groaned as the first nail gave way. Then another. Finally, with a loud crack,
the lid broke free.
Beneath it was a shallow cavity. And inside—
A skeleton.
They both froze.
The bones were fragile, darkened by decades underground. The ribcage had
partially collapsed, and the skull rested to one side. Around the neck was a
strand of tarnished metal—a necklace, broken. A small medallion clung to the
end of it, etched faintly with the initials:
M.E.D.
Maya’s hand flew to her mouth.
“Oh God... it’s her.”
Ronny stared, heart pounding. The bones. The necklace. The quiet dignity
of what remained.
After all this time—Margie E. Dalton hadn’t vanished. She had been
buried here. Left. Forgotten.
Until now.
“She never left the barn,” Maya whispered. “They killed her. They buried
her. And they moved on like it never happened.”
Ronny exhaled, shaky. “And someone still doesn’t want her found.”
Just then, the sound of tires crunching gravel reached their ears.
They both turned.
A vehicle had pulled up just outside the gate. Not one they recognized.
Maya stood, eyes wide. “We’ve got company.”
Ronny replaced the lid, brushing dirt quickly over the edges.
“We need to go. Now.”
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