Chapter Twenty-One: The Truth

I grew up in a modest two-story ranch tucked away on the edge of town, surrounded by four acres of dry Nevada earth and brush. A metal gate used to hang at the entrance, secured with a thick chain that clanked when the wind blew through. But as William pulled up to the property, the gate was hanging half-open, the chain snapped, and one of the fence posts bent back like it had been rammed by something—or someone.

Our house was isolated enough from Yerrington that no one from town would’ve seen or heard anything suspicious. Mom and I never made many trips into town outside of our yearly breakfast tradition. Groceries? Once or twice a month, tops. But soon, someone would start to notice her absence.

The gravel driveway crunched under the car’s tires. It brought back a memory—me at seven or eight, running around with a plastic airplane, tripping and scraping my knee so hard I nearly passed out from the sting. I remember wanting to cry but forcing myself not to.

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