A young girl vanished at Disneyland in 1970 during a visit with her mother.

One moment she was taking photos with a costume character.

The next she had disappeared into the crowds and was never seen again.

Despite years of desperate searching, all leads went cold and the case became just another unsolved mystery.

But 20 years later, after severe flooding hit Southern California, a farmer checking his land near the theme park discovers something shocking partially buried in a dried up sewer channel.

Evidence that would finally reveal the disturbing truth about what really happened to the missing girl.

The morning sun barely penetrated the thin curtains of Marilyn Halberg’s modest apartment in Bua Park, California.

The walls, once white, had yellowed with age, and the lenolum floor showed wear patterns from years of foot traffic.

A loud thud from the neighboring unit jolted her awake.

Then came the scraping of furniture across the floor, followed by muffled voices and the occasional crash of something being dropped.

New neighbors again.

Marilyn sighed deeply, pulling herself upright in the narrow bed that creaked with her movement.

The weight in her chest that had been her constant companion for 20 years pressed down harder this morning.

It wasn’t the noise that truly bothered her.

It was what the sounds represented.

Life moving forward.

People starting fresh while she remained frozen in time, trapped in that horrible day in 1970 when 8-year-old Charlotte had disappeared at what was meant to be the happiest place on earth, Disneyland.

As she listened to the commotion next door, memories flooded back.

She used to own a house, a real house with a yard and two bedrooms and a garage.

It was in a neighborhood not far from here.

But the house was gone now.

The financial strain had become too much.

Missing work for searches, hiring private investigators, printing flyers.

It had all added up.

More than the money, though, the house had become a museum of pain.

Moving to this apartment was supposed to help her heal, to finally let go.

But Charlotte’s face still appeared in her dreams every night.

And during her waking hours, she saw her daughter in every blonde girl she passed on the street.

20 years, and the wound was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday.

She shuffled toward the bathroom, thinking she might freshen up and perhaps introduce herself to the new neighbors.

But before she could take another step, the phone on her nightstand rang.

She glanced at the caller ID display.

Detective Nolan Berea.

It had been months since she’d heard from him.

She picked up the receiver with a trembling hand.

Hello, Marilyn.

It’s Nolan Bera.

His voice was careful, measured.

I need you to sit down.

She sank onto the edge of the bed.

What is it? We found something.

Something related to Charlotte’s case.

The room seemed to tilt.

After all these years of false leads and dead ends, she’d learned to protect herself with pessimism.

I don’t need this, Nolan.

Every time you find some small thing, it never leads anywhere.

I can’t keep doing this to myself.

This is different, Marilyn.

This is substantial.

We need you to come to the scene to identify some items.

Despite herself, she felt a flicker of something she hadn’t felt in years.

What did you find? A farmer who owns land near Disneyland discovered an old storage case, a suitcase.

Inside was a character costume and what appears to be a child’s dress.

Marilyn, it looks like the dress Charlotte was wearing that day at the park.

The phone nearly slipped from her hand.

She gripped it tighter, her knuckles white.

Address.

You’re sure? That’s why we need you.

Only you can confirm if it’s hers.

We’re sending an officer to pick you up.

Can you be ready in 15 minutes? Yes.

The word came out as barely a whisper.

Yes, I’ll be ready.

After hanging up, Marilyn moved with sudden purpose.

She dressed quickly in slacks and a blouse, not caring that they were wrinkled.

As she gathered her purse, her eyes fell on the old Polaroid camera sitting on her dresser.

She’d kept it all these years, unable to part with it, even though she rarely used it.

It was the same camera she’d used that day at Disneyland.

On impulse, she picked it up, checking the battery compartment.

Dead, of course.

She rummaged through her junk drawer until she found fresh batteries, replacing them with hands that shook only slightly.

The camera might be useful, she thought.

If nothing else, it would help her document whatever they’d found.

True to his word, an officer arrived in exactly 15 minutes.

He helped her into the patrol car.

“The site is in Stanton,” he told her as they pulled away from the apartment complex near a dried up sewer channel that runs along Disneyland’s outer border.

“Stanton? Not far at all.

Charlotte could have been so close all these years.

” The drive took only 10 minutes, but it felt like hours.

When they arrived, Marilyn saw the scene was already busy with activity.

Officers had cordoned off an area near the concrete channel, and she could see people in uniforms taking photographs and measurements.

Yellow tape fluttered in the morning breeze.

Detective Berea met her as she stepped out of the car.

He looked older than she remembered, his hair now more gray than brown, deep lines around his eyes.

20 years had aged them both.

Marilyn, thank you for coming.

I want you to meet James Beckett.

He’s the one who found the suitcase.

A weathered man in his 60s stepped forward, cap in hand.

His face was deeply tanned from years of outdoor work, and his hands were rough and calloused.

Ma’am, James said, his voice gentle.

I’m real sorry about your girl.

When I saw what was in that case, I called the police right away.

Tell her what you told me.

Detective Berea prompted.

James cleared his throat.

I came out this morning to check my land.

We had that big flood last week and I wanted to see what damage was done.

the sewer canal that runs through my property.

It’s been dry for years, but the flood washed out a lot of the builtup sediment.

That’s when I saw it.

A red suitcase partially buried in the mud.

Go on, the detective encouraged.

I thought maybe it was just trash at first, but something about it seemed off.

It was old, real old.

When I opened it, he paused, swallowing hard.

There was this costume inside, a rabbit costume like what they’d wear at the theme park, and underneath it, a little girl’s dress, blue with flowers on it.

Everything was faded and covered in dirt.

Water had gotten in over the years.

When I saw that dress, I knew something bad had happened.

That’s when I called you folks.

Detective Berea touched Marilyn’s elbow gently.

Are you ready to look? She nodded, not trusting her voice.

They led her to where several forensic technicians had laid out the items on a blue tarpollen.

The red suitcase sat to one side, its leather cracked and faded, but it was the contents spread beside it that made Marilyn’s knees buckle.

“May I touch them?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

“We’ve collected all the evidence we need,” one of the technicians said, handing her latex gloves.

“Just be careful.

” With trembling hands, Marilyn pulled on the gloves and knelt beside the tarpollen.

The dress was almost unrecognizable.

What had once been powder blue was now a murky gray, the embroidered daisies barely visible.

But as she lifted it gently, checking the seams in the inner lining, she knew.

It’s hers, she whispered, tears streaming down her face.

This is Charlotte’s dress.

I made it myself.

see here.

She pointed to a tiny imperfection in the hem.

I had to redo this section because I’d measured wrong.

She set the dress down carefully and turned to the costume.

The rabbit head was grotesque in its decay.

Once white fur had yellowed and matted, the stuffing inside had collapsed, giving the face a sunken appearance.

The mesh eyes were broken, creating the illusion of closed eyelids.

Detective Berea handed her a photograph, one she’d given them 20 years ago.

In it, Charlotte stood beaming beside a white rabbit character in front of Sleeping Beauty Castle, their hands clasped together.

“This costume,” Marilyn said, studying it through her tears.

“It looks different from the one in the photo.

” “The fabric has weathered,” the detective explained.

“20 years of exposure to moisture and dirt.

The stuffing shrank, the materials degraded.

She could see remnants of what it had been.

A pink ribbon around the neck now faded and stained.

The remains of a heart decorated shirt, velvet pants that had nearly disintegrated.

A forensic technician approached.

We’ve found no fingerprints on the exterior and interior.

The water washed them away.

Marilyn pulled out her Polaroid camera.

The officers looked surprised, but she explained, “For my own records, even if even if we don’t find her, I want to remember that we found these.

” She took several photos, the camera’s flash illuminating the sad artifacts.

Each image emerged slowly from the camera, and she tucked them carefully into her purse.

Another officer jogged over.

“Detective, we’ve been in contact with Disneyland.

Helen Ang, the director of guest relations, will meet with us at their corporate office.

She won’t come to the scene, worried about media attention.

As if on Q, Marilyn heard the sound of approaching vehicles.

News vans were pulling up beyond the police tape.

Reporters already setting up cameras.

Let’s give a brief statement and get out of here, Detective Bare said.

The detective spoke first, confirming that based on new evidence, the Charlotte Hullberg case was no longer classified as just a missing person case, but potentially a criminal child abduction.

The case was officially reopened.

When the reporters turned to Maryland, she managed only a few words.

I thought I’d lost all hope, but there’s a spark of light again.

I pray I’ll be reunited with my daughter.

They hustled her into a police car before the questions became too overwhelming.

Detective Berea and his partner, Detective Mills, rode with her to Disneyland’s corporate offices.

The building was a stark contrast to the magic of the park itself, all glass and steel and serious faces.

Helen met them in the lobby, a woman in her 40s with perfectly styled hair and a sympathetic expression.

Mrs.

Halberg, “I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through,” Helen said, shaking her hand.

“We’ll do everything we can to help.

” She led them to a conference room where several people were already waiting.

“This is our costume department supervisor and some of our senior staff from entertainment operations,” Helen explained.

“We have most of the documentation from the original investigation,” Detective Berea said.

“But we’d like you to examine the costume we found.

” The forensic team had arrived with a secure evidence box.

They set it on the conference table which had been covered with protective cloth.

Everyone dawned gloves before the box was opened.

The costume department supervisor, a thin man named Gerald, leaned in closely.

He examined the fabric, the stitching, running his fingers along the seams.

This is definitely handsewn, he said.

Our costumes use standardized machine stitching.

Someone brought in samples of official park costumes for comparison.

The differences were obvious even to Marilyn’s untrained eye.

Also, Gerald continued, “This isn’t even meant to be the White Rabbit.

Look at the ear shape, the face structure.

This is a knockoff of the March hair character.

” He pointed to a brown tag sewn inside the costume head.

This confirms it.

Not park issued.

It’s an unauthorized costume.

Which means whoever wore this probably wasn’t Disney staff, Detective Mills said.

Helen nodded.

As we told police 20 years ago, no entertainment staff quit or went missing between June and July 1970.

All were accounted for and interviewed.

This was planned, Detective Berea said grimly.

Someone obtained this costume specifically to get close to children at the park.

They may have been watching Marilyn and Charlotte for some time.

Marilyn felt sick.

The idea that someone had stalked them planned this.

Detective Berea examined the sewnin tag more closely.

The text is too weathered to make out a brand or manufacturer.

We’ll need to research costume makers from that era.

After documenting everything, the police prepared to leave.

Detective Berea turned to Maryland.

We’ll take you home now.

You need rest.

We’ll call as soon as we have any updates.

They thanked Helen and her staff for their cooperation.

As they walked back to the cars, evidence boxes in hand, Marilyn felt the weight of 20 years pressing down on her shoulders.

They had evidence now.

Real evidence.

But would it be enough to find Charlotte? The police escort dropped Marilyn at her apartment building just after noon.

The officer walked her to her door, making sure she got inside safely before leaving.

But once alone, Marilyn couldn’t sit still.

She paced her small living room.

The Polaroid photos spread on her coffee table.

How had the suitcase remained hidden for 20 years? She studied the images, her mind racing.

Someone must have disposed of it in the sewer system, thinking it would never surface.

The weight of it would have made it sink into the sediment.

But she remembered seeing news reports last year about the county’s sewer system modernization project and then the recent flooding, the heaviest rain in decades.

It must have washed out years of accumulated debris, finally exposing what someone had tried so hard to hide.

She couldn’t just wait for the police to call.

20 years of waiting had taught her that sometimes you had to search for answers yourself.

Marilyn pulled out the thick yellow pages directory from beneath a stack of magazines on her coffee table.

The book was wellwn pages dogeared from years of use.

She flipped to the business section, running her finger down the listings.

Costume shops, party supplies, magic shops, theatrical suppliers.

Several businesses were listed within the county.

She made notes on a pad, organizing them by distance.

The closest one caught her eye.

Craraers’s Costume Creations in Santa Ana.

The address seemed familiar.

She’d driven past that area countless times, only 15 minutes away.

Without hesitating, she grabbed her keys and headed for her car.

The old Honda Civic started on the second try, and she navigated through the familiar streets of Santa Ana.

The shop was in a run-down strip mall sandwiched between a defunct video rental store and a check cashing place.

A faded, closed sign hung in the window, but Marilyn could see movement inside.

The blue glow of a television flickered through the dusty glass.

She rang the bell, hearing it echo inside.

After a moment, shuffling footsteps approached.

The door opened a crack and an elderly man peered out.

“We’re closed,” he said, starting to shut the door.

“Been closed for years.

” But then he paused, looking at her more closely.

His eyes widened with recognition.

“Wait a minute.

You’re that lady from the news.

The mother?” His voice softened.

“What brings you here? How can I help?” I’m Marilyn Halberg, she said.

I’m sorry to bother you, but I saw your shop in the directory and thought maybe.

Come in.

Come in, the man said, opening the door wider.

I’m Elias Crara.

Please come inside.

He locked the door behind them and led her through the dimly lit shop.

Dust moes danced in the shafts of sunlight that managed to penetrate the grimy windows.

Mannequins in various states of dress stood like silent sentinels draped in costumes from bygone eras.

“Sit, please,” Elias gestured to an old leather sofa that had seen better days.

“This place has been closed for 5 years now.

I’m getting too old, and my son,” he shrugged.

He never wanted the business, but I couldn’t bear to throw everything away, so I just live here now among all these old things.

Marilyn looked around, taking in the antique sewing machines, bolts of fabric covered in plastic and racks of costumes ranging from 1920s flapper dresses to polyester disco outfits.

I saw the news report this morning, Elias continued, “About your daughter, the costume they found.

Terrible thing.

” Marilyn pulled out her Polaroid photos.

“That’s why I’m here.

I’m looking for any information about this costume.

I thought maybe someone in your line of work might recognize it.

She showed him the photos, including the close-up of the brown tag inside the costume head.

Elias studied them carefully, adjusting his thick glasses.

This tag, he said slowly, “It’s not mine.

I always used white tags with red lettering, and I never made anything quite like this.

” He looked closer, but this costume has been altered.

See these seam patterns? I know this work.

He pointed to specific areas on the photo.

The seam between the ears and head here.

The way the mouth has been sewn shut.

This nose button, it’s been replaced with a different one than the one in your photo.

Do you think someone was trying to disguise the original costume? Marilyn asked.

Elias shook his head thoughtfully.

Maybe, but to me it looks more like they were trying to change the character’s expression.

Look at these creases and folds above the brow, the cheek line, the chin.

In the original photo from the news, the rabbit looked happy, friendly.

But these alterations, he trailed off.

What? Marilyn pressed.

Whoever did this wanted to make it look sad or maybe even scary, maybe to frighten someone.

But that’s just my opinion.

Marilyn felt a chill.

Had the kidnapper altered the costume to scare Charlotte, to punish her somehow? Her mind began spiraling into dark possibilities, and she forced herself to focus.

Elias was still studying the photos intently.

Suddenly, he sat up straighter.

Wait here.

I think I remember something.

He disappeared into a back room.

After a while, she heard Elias returning.

He carried several items which he laid carefully on the coffee table, a button nose similar to the one in the photo, round glasses frames, and a yellowed piece of paper.

“What’s this?” Marilyn asked.

“I just remembered,” Elias said, excitement in his voice.

“Years ago, someone came in with this sketch.

They wanted us to alter a costume to match it.

I’m forgetful now and I didn’t handle it personally.

I had staff back then and I usually gave alteration jobs to them.

But when I saw those glasses and that nose in your photo, it joged my memory.

I still had these items in stock and when I checked the back, I found this sketch.

Marilyn examined the sketch.

It was identical to the altered costume, the same sad expression, the same modifications.

Do you have any records of who ordered this? she asked urgently.

Receipts, staff contact information.

Elias sighed.

I can give you my old staff contacts, and I’ll happily help the police, but the paper receipts.

He gestured around the cluttered shop.

I threw them out years ago.

There were thousands, and I was worried about termites.

Look at this place.

Wood, fabric, paper everywhere.

It’s termite heaven.

Marilyn’s heart sank, but Elias held up a finger.

However, there might be hope.

My son Benjamin, he has special needs.

Diagnosed with obsessivecompulsive disorder as a teenager, but he’s brilliant with technology.

Before I closed the shop, he was entering all our old records into Lotus 123.

I bought him an expensive computer back then, thinking he could build a future in computers.

Did he finish entering everything? I honestly don’t know.

There were so many receipts.

But if you’re looking for any chance of finding that order, Benjamin would be your best bet.

Where can I find him? Benjamin Crara works the morning shift at Fresh Fields Grocery here in Santa Ana.

Elias wrote down the address.

Keep this sketch.

It might help Benjamin find the record faster.

Marilyn took the paper gratefully.

Thank you so much.

I’ll let the police know about this.

Would you be willing to share those staff contacts with them? Of course, Elias said warmly.

Anything to help find your daughter? Marilyn climbed into her car, her hands still trembling with excitement from the discovery.

She carefully placed the sketch on the passenger seat and started the engine.

Freshfields Grocery was a medium-sized store, bigger than a corner market, but not quite a full supermarket.

The parking lot was half full with the afternoon shopping crowd.

Marilyn parked and entered through the automatic doors, the familiar smell of produce and baked goods greeting her.

Several employees in green aprons moved about the store.

She approached an empty checkout lane where a middle-aged woman was organizing shopping bags.

Excuse me, Marilyn said.

I’m looking for Benjamin Crara.

Does he work here? The cashier smiled.

Oh, Ben.

Yes, he’s doing stock today.

Should be somewhere in the aisles or maybe in the stock room out back.

Thank you.

Marilyn walked through the store, scanning each aisle.

She found him in the canned goods section, methodically arranging soup cans with precise spacing.

He was a thin man in his 30s, wearing the store’s green apron over a neatly pressed shirt.

His name badge read Benjamin K.

“Benjamin Cra?” she asked.

He looked up, blinking behind wire- rimmed glasses.

“Yes, can I help you?” His voice was soft, careful.

“Hi, I’m Marilyn Halberg.

I just came from your father’s shop.

” His expression immediately shifted to concern.

“Is my father in trouble? Is he okay?” “No, no, he’s fine,” Marilyn assured him.

“Actually, he’s been helping me.

I was just there and he said, “You might be able to help me, too.

” Benjamin adjusted a can that was slightly out of line, then gave her his attention.

She noticed he didn’t seem to recognize her, which meant he probably hadn’t seen the morning news.

“You see,” Marilyn began, choosing her words carefully.

“I’m looking for information about a costume alteration that might have been done at your father’s shop years ago.

” He said, “You digitized all the old receipts?” Benjamin’s face lit up with pride.

Yes, I did.

Every single one.

Entered them all into Lotus 123.

It took me 2 years, but I got them all.

Actually, he added, I’ve been thinking about converting everything to Microsoft Excel.

It’s becoming more popular and the functionality is superior, but I haven’t had the time.

Would you be willing to check your database for a specific transaction? Benjamin glanced at his watch, a digital Casio that he kept perfectly synchronized.

I’d be happy to help, but I’m still on shift.

I get off at 2 p.

m.

, which is in He checked his watch again.

28 minutes and 43 seconds.

I have my laptop in my locker.

We can look then if that’s acceptable.

That would be wonderful, Marilyn said.

Thank you so much.

Benjamin nodded and returned to his soup cans, adjusting one that had shifted during their conversation.

I’ll meet you at the front of the store at exactly 2:00 p.

m.

Marilyn had 30 minutes to kill.

She decided to use the time productively, pushing a cart through the aisles and picking up essentials she’d been putting off buying.

Bread, milk, eggs, some canned soup.

Her mind wasn’t really on shopping, though.

She kept checking her watch, thinking about what Benjamin might find in his database.

After paying for her groceries, she loaded them into her car and sat in the driver’s seat, windows cracked for air.

The sketch from Alas lay on the dashboard, and she studied it once more, committing every detail of the altered rabbit face to memory.

The thought that someone had requested this change and used it to frighten her little girls stirred a deep anger within her.

But she reminded herself that her daughter would be 28 years old by now, and all she could do was hope she was still alive and well.

She set the sketch aside and pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to steady her breathing.

At exactly 200 p.m. , she saw Benjamin exit the store, now out of his work apron and carrying a black laptop bag.

He stood by the entrance, scanning the parking lot methodically until he spotted her in her car.

Marilyn opened her door to get out and in her eagerness swung it wide without looking.

The door nearly collided with the door of a car that had just parked beside her.

An elderly man with a tripod walking stick was struggling to exit, and her door came within inches of hitting him.

“Oh!” Marilyn gasped.

“I’m so sorry.

” The old man glared at her, his face creased with irritation.

A woman rushed around from the driver’s side.

She appeared to be in her late 20s with light brown hair pulled back in a simple ponytail.

“Are you all right, Papa?” the woman asked anxiously, steadying the man with gentle hands.

“I’m fine,” the man grumbled, leaning heavily on his walking stick.

He shot Marilyn a glare.

“Watch where you’re going, will you?” or are those eyes just for decoration? I’m really sorry, Marilyn repeated, stepping back to give them more room.

Please go ahead.

She waited as the woman helped the elderly man navigate around the cars and toward the store entrance.

Only after they’d passed did she fully exit her vehicle and walk over to Benjamin.

I apologize for keeping you waiting,” Benjamin said, adjusting the laptop bag on his shoulder.

“The computer looked heavy and bulky, one of those early models that were barely portable.

” “Not at all,” Marilyn assured him.

“Where should we work?” Benjamin led her to the side of the grocery store, where a small garden area had been set up with a long wooden picnic table for customers who wanted to rest or eat their deli purchases.

They sat across from each other and Benjamin carefully unpacked his laptop.

“This will be tedious,” he warned, powering up the machine.

“The database contains every transaction from 1965 to 1985.

That’s 20 years of receipts.

The laptop screen came to life, displaying the black background and white text of Lotus 1 2 3 in the typical typewriter font.

Benjamin’s fingers flew over the keyboard with practiced ease.

We need to search for alterations from 1970 or earlier, Marilyn said, showing him the sketch.

Something involving a rabbit head costume.

Benjamin studied the sketch carefully, then began setting up search parameters.

I’ll filter by year first, then search the description fields for keywords like alteration, rabbit, costume, and head.

They leaned over the screen together, scanning through hundreds of entries.

Time seemed to slow as they methodically checked each possible match.

Benjamin would highlight entries, expand the detail fields, check the descriptions, then move on.

45 minutes passed, then an hour.

Marilyn’s eyes were starting to burn from staring at the screen when Benjamin suddenly straightened.

“Here,” he said, his voice tight with excitement.

Look at this.

The entry was dated May 15th, 1970.

In the description field, it read Costume alteration, nose button replacement, spectacles edition, facial seam work, rabbit head, measurements, 24-in circumference, 18in height.

That’s it, Marilyn breathed.

Who ordered it? Benjamin scrolled to the customer field.

There in white letters against the black screen was a name Raul Drifos.

Payment method cash.

Raul Drifos, Marilyn repeated, committing the name to memory.

Benjamin, you’ve done it.

This is exactly what we needed.

The police need to know about this immediately.

Benjamin beamed with pride.

I’m glad my condition could help someone for once.

People usually find my obsessive recordkeeping annoying.

Marilyn was reaching for her phone when a loud thud echoed from the parking lot.

Then another, the sound of metal on metal.

“What’s that?” Benjamin asked, looking up from his laptop.

“I really don’t like that sound.

” Marilyn stood and walked quickly toward the front of the store.

The sounds were coming from where she’d parked.

As she rounded the corner, she stopped in shock.

The elderly man with the walking stick was repeatedly slamming his car door against hers, opening and closing it with deliberate force.

Between slams, he was hitting her tire with his tripod walking stick.

“Papa, stop!” the woman was pleading, trying to pull him away.

“Please get in the car.

” “Hey,” Marilyn shouted, running toward them.

“What are you doing? Stop that.

” The woman managed to push her father into the passenger seat and shut the door.

She turned to Marilyn, her face flushed with embarrassment and something else.

Fear.

I’m so so sorry, the woman said, her hands shaking as she opened her wallet.

He’s He’s not well.

Please let me pay for the damage.

The woman fumbled with her bills, taking an unusually long time to select one.

Finally, she pulled out a $20 bill and thrust it at Marilyn.

“No, that’s not necessary,” Marilyn said, noticing how the woman had hesitated as if $20 was more than she could afford.

“Really? It’s okay.

” But the woman grabbed Marilyn’s hand and pressed the bill into it.

“Please,” she said, and Marilyn could see tears in her eyes.

Without another word, the woman hurried to the driver’s seat.

As the car reversed, Marilyn caught a glimpse of the woman wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

Something about the gesture, about the way she moved.

The cashier from earlier had come outside, drawn by the commotion.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” she asked Marilyn.

“I’m so sorry about your car.

Mr.Drifos doesn’t usually seem that upset.

He’s always been quiet, keeps to himself.

He’s one of our regular customers.

” Marilyn felt the world tilt.

“What did you say his name was?” “Mr.Drifos,” the cashier repeated.

“Raul Drifos? He’s actually a good man.

Just must be having a bad day.

” Marilyn couldn’t breathe.

She looked down at the $20 bill in her hand, and her heart nearly stopped.

Written on the back in shaky handwriting was a single word, “Help.

” The woman in the car, light brown hair, late 20s, the right age.

Could it be Charlotte? She whispered.

She looked up, but the car was already gone, disappeared into traffic.

Benjamin had joined them, laptop bag in hand.

I work in the back, he said, shaking his head.

I’ve never known any customers names.

With trembling fingers, Marilyn dialed Detective Berea’s number.

The moment he answered, her words spilled out in a frantic rush.

He had to interrupt, urging her to slow down, then asked firmly what she had done.

She explained how she had gone to Santa Ana, visited the Taylor, and stopped by the grocery store.

I I I found him, Raul Drifos.

He was just at Freshfield’s grocery.

And Nolan, I think my daughter was with him.

She wrote help on a bill.

You need to come now.

Within 15 minutes, police vehicles converged on Fresh Fields Grocery.

Detective Berea arrived with his partner, Detective Mills, and another patrol officer, making three officers total.

They quickly took control of the scene, interviewing Benjamin and the cashier, who had witnessed the incident.

“We don’t keep customer addresses,” the cashier explained apologetically.

“But I can print out what Mr.Drifos purchased today.

She hurried to her register and reprinted the receipt.

Marilyn studied it over Detective Berea’s shoulder.

Two gallons of gas, oatmeal, various grains, canned goods, fruit.

Nothing that seemed unusual for a grocery run.

What can you tell us about this man? Detective Mills asked the cashier.

He lives up in the mountains somewhere, she said.

That’s all I really know.

He and his daughter are very private.

They come in about once a month for supplies.

Always pay cash.

Never cause any trouble.

Well, until today.

Detective Bera turned to Marilyn.

Did you get a good look at their car? Make, model, license plate.

No, I’m sorry, she said.

I didn’t think.

But Benjamin spoke up.

It was a 1984 Ford Crown Victoria beige four-door.

I didn’t catch the license plate.

I was distracted by the noise he was making with the car doors.

The detective immediately got on his radio.

Dispatch, this is Detective Bara.

I need you to contact DMV.

We’re looking for a Raul Drifos who owns a 1984 Ford Crown Victoria Beige.

Need a registered address ASAP.

While they waited, Benjamin showed the officers the database entry he’d found.

Detective Mills took detailed notes while Detective Berea coordinated with dispatch.

After several tense minutes, the radio crackled to life.

Detective DMV search shows a Raul Drifos owns a 1984 Crown Victoria, Beige.

Registered address is 4786 Mountain View Road, Majesca Canyon.

That’s our lead, Detective Bera said.

Let’s move.

Marilyn rushed to her car.

Benjamin hesitated by her window.

“May I come?” he asked.

“I feel invested in this now.

I want to help.

” “Get in,” Marilyn said without hesitation.

They formed a convoy, following the police cars as they headed into the foothills.

The road gradually climbed, leaving the suburban sprawl behind.

Houses became fewer and farther between, and oak trees crowded closer to the road.

The address led them to a weathered house set back from the road.

The place looked abandoned, windows dark, painting, weeds growing tall enough to reach the front door.

No car in sight.

Detective Mills scanned the property carefully before moving in.

He stepped onto the overgrown lawn, calling out once, then again louder.

When there was no answer, he approached the front door, tested the handle, and peered through the dusty windows.

After a moment, he stepped back and shook his head.

“This doesn’t look inhabited,” Detective Mills observed, motioning for his officers to begin a sweep of the perimeter.

“But Benjamin had already noticed something.

” “Look,” he said, pointing to the dirt driveway.

“Fresh tire tracks.

Someone was here recently.

” Detective Berea crouched down, examining the tracks.

“Good observation.

He’s right.

These are maybe in two old three at most.

But look at this place.

The weeds, the decay.

Nobody’s lived here regularly for years.

Drifos must have just come to grab something or hide something.

He stood and returned to his radio.

Dispatch, we need backup at 4786 Mountain View Road.

Also, start the paperwork for a search warrant.

Suspect not on premises, but was here recently.

These tracks lead out, Detective Mills noted, following them with his eyes.

He continued up the mountain.

Then that’s where we go, Detective Berea decided.

Everyone back in your vehicles.

Follow the tracks, but stay behind us.

Drive carefully.

These mountain roads can be treacherous.

They continued their pursuit, following the tire tracks.

As the road wound higher into the mountains, the terrain became increasingly rugged with thick oak forests pressing in on both sides and only occasional glimpses of isolated homes through the trees.

These cabins look old, Marilyn observed to Benjamin.

1930s, 1940s construction from the style.

We’re heading deeper into Majesca Canyon, right into the Santa Ana Mountains.

Benjamin nodded, gripping the door handle as Marilyn navigated a particularly sharp curve.

It’s isolated up here.

Perfect place to hide someone.

Eventually, the tire tracks led them to where the paved road gave way to gravel.

The tracks became harder to follow, crisscrossing with other vehicle paths.

Detective Berea’s voice came over the radio he’d given Marilyn.

We’re going to search this area.

The car can’t have gone far.

Stay close and don’t wander off on your own.

More patrol cars arrived as backup, their presence reassuring in the growing shadows of late afternoon.

Officers spread out, checking side roads and hidden driveways.

Time seemed to blur as the search continued.

Officers had knocked on doors of the few inhabited cabins they found, asking about Raul Drifos, but no one seemed to know the name, which puzzled everyone.

In such a small mountain community, neighbors usually knew each other.

Finally, they reached the end of the drivable road.

Beyond stretched a paved walking path blocked by a heavy metal gate.

A sign read Cleveland National Forest.

Authorized personnel only.

Detective Berea examined the gate, testing the heavy padlock.

This is locked tight.

It’s federal land beyond here.

We can’t proceed without proper authorization.

The other officers agreed.

They’d made good progress, but darkness was approaching and they needed to regroup.

I’ll issue a B.

Be on the lookout immediately.

Detective Berea announced Raul Drifos can’t leave this area easily.

We’ll have units watching all the exit roads.

Tomorrow morning, we’ll return with proper warrants and Forest Service cooperation.

Reluctantly, everyone returned to their vehicles.

The police cars led the way back down the mountain, their tail lights disappearing around curves ahead.

Marilyn drove slowly, her heart weighed down with frustration.

So close.

After 20 years, they had been so close.

She had even touched the woman’s hand when she passed her the bill.

The woman who was most likely her Charlotte.

Benjamin, sitting beside her, could sense her distress.

We made incredible progress today, he said gently.

We have a name, a location.

The police are taking this seriously.

Your daughter will be found.

What if he managed to run? Marilyn’s voice was tight with anxiety.

What if he takes Charlotte and disappears again? I can’t go through another 20 years of this.

The police have the roads watched.

He won’t get far.

But Marilyn couldn’t shake the unease gnawing at her.

The police cars were now far ahead, their flashing lights just faint glimmers in the distance.

She was driving so slowly it felt like her legs had lost all strength and she was falling further behind.

“Are you all right?” Benjamin asked.

“Would you like me to drive?” Marilyn nodded, pulling over to a wide spot on the shoulder.

They both got out to switch seats.

The mountain air was cool and crisp, scented with oak and sage.

Marilyn paused, looking back up the road toward the gated area.

That’s when she heard it.

A faint shout carried on the wind.

She froze, straining to listen.

“Did you hear that?” she asked Benjamin.

“No, I didn’t hear anything.

” They stood in silence, listening.

Then it came again, definitely a voice, maybe two, somewhere in the forest.

Marilyn’s eyes found a narrow dirt path leading into the woods, barely visible in the fading light.

Without thinking, she started toward it.

“We shouldn’t go alone,” Benjamin warned.

“It’s too dangerous.

We need to get help.

Maybe borrow the neighbor’s phone and call the police back.

” “Someone could be in danger,” Marilyn insisted.

It could be them, Raul and Charlotte.

I can’t just leave.

She entered the path, dried leaves and gravel crunching under her feet.

The sound seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet forest.

Benjamin followed reluctantly.

The path wound deeper into the woods, barely visible in the gathering dusk.

They climbed steadily, pushing through undergrowth that caught at their clothes.

Then, like something from a nightmare, the same car model and a cabin materialized through the trees.

They sat on a small rise, a ghost of a building.

No mailbox, no power lines.

The wood sighting was weathered gray.

The porch railing had collapsed and several windows were boarded over.

“We need to go back,” Benjamin whispered.

“Borrow a phone from a neighbor’s house.

Call the police.

Tell them where this is.

” But then they heard movement, footsteps crunching on dry leaves, the sharp snap of a branch breaking nearby.

Someone else was in the woods.

Marilyn’s heart pounded as she pressed forward, instincts waring with fear.

They had just started to turn back when Marilyn froze.

Through the trees, she saw a woman walking into the cabin, her movements quick, almost fertive.

Marilyn’s breath caught in her throat.

Was it her? She took an involuntary step forward, eyes straining to see more.

The smell hit her first.

Gasoline thick and cloying in the air.

“That’s coming from the cabin,” Benjamin said urgently from behind her, eyes wide.

“This is bad.

This is so out of the order.

We need to leave now.

” I mean it.

“My daughter could be in there,” Marilyn said, her voice breaking.

“She could be in danger.

” She bolted toward the cabin before Benjamin could stop her.

Adrenaline drowned out her fear.

She had to know.

Behind her, she heard Benjamin’s voice, low and urgent as he spoke with someone.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw them.

Officers, they must have noticed she and Benjamin weren’t following and had doubled back to check.

One of them was already on his radio, signaling for backup.

Marilyn reached the cabin door.

It was slightly a jar, and the gasoline smell was overwhelming.

She pushed it open wider, but strong hands pulled her back.

“Ma’am, stay back.

” An officer had caught up.

More police were spreading through the woods, flashlights cutting through the sunset gloom.

“Check the perimeter,” Detective Berea ordered.

“And get fire department here now.

I can smell gas.

” The officer pushed the door fully open.

Police.

Hands in the air.

He didn’t draw his weapon.

With gasoline fumes this thick, a spark could be catastrophic.

From the darkness inside, Raul Drifos emerged, leaning heavily on his tripod walking stick.

One hand was raised, the other gripping the stick for support.

“I am Raul Drifos,” he said calmly.

“I know you’re looking for me.

” Two officers moved in, handcuffing him carefully.

As they led him past Marilyn, their eyes met.

His were strangely peaceful.

“Good luck,” he said softly.

Then Marilyn saw the flame, small at first, licking at gasoline soaked rags near the fireplace.

The fire spread with terrifying speed.

“Get him out!” Detective Berea shouted.

Officers rushed Raul away from the building.

From inside came a muffled scream, desperate, terrified.

“Charlotte! There’s someone in there!” Marilyn screamed.

Officers plunged into the smoke-filled cabin.

Moments later, one emerged, coughing.

“There’s a woman chained to a bed.

We need bolt cutters.

” “I’ll get them!” Benjamin shouted.

“I’m a fast runner.

” He sprinted back toward the police cars with an officer.

The fire was growing, smoke pouring from the windows.

Officers tried to enter again, but were driven back by the heat.

Benjamin returned, carrying heavy bolt cutters.

Without hesitation, he plunged into the burning building despite officer shouts to wait for the fire department.

From outside, Marilyn watched in terror.

She could hear Benjamin inside, the sound of metal on metal as he worked on the chains.

Then a crash.

Part of the roof had collapsed.

Sirens wailed as firet trucks screeched to a halt, lights flashing through the thickening dusk.

Firefighters rushed into action, spraying water on the roaring blaze, working quickly to keep the flames from leaping to the nearby bushes and dried leaves.

Through the swirling smoke and rising steam, two figures stumbled into view.

Benjamin supporting a woman, both of them coughing violently, their clothes singed and faces stre with soot.

Paramedics rushed forward, guiding them to safety.

They administered oxygen, checked for burns, worked with professional efficiency.

The woman was in shock, her head down, light brown hair singed and tangled.

Marilyn wanted desperately to approach, but held back, not wanting to interfere with medical treatment.

They both have burns that need hospital treatment, a paramedic announced.

We need to transport immediately.

Detective Berea appeared at Marilyn’s side.

We have everything under control.

We’ll talk at the hospital.

He turned to face her fully.

What you did tonight going off on your own.

It was reckless.

You could have gotten yourself and others killed.

I’m sorry, Marilyn said, tears streaming down her face.

I truly am.

But detective, if you were in my place, what would you do? I’ve waited 20 years.

20 years without a single real lead.

And today, finally, evidence.

If I’d gone home and waited, my daughter would have burned to death in that cabin.

The woman on the gurnie looked up at those words.

Her voice was weak, damaged by smoke.

She’s right.

Raul saw the news this morning.

He wanted to burn us both.

That’s why we went for gas.

She focused on Marilyn and her eyes filled with tears.

I saw you on TV.

I knew it was you in the parking lot.

You came for me.

Her voice broke.

Thank you, Mom.

The word hung in the air, strange and wonderful after 20 years.

“Oh, Charlotte,” Marilyn sobbed.

They reached for each other, but the paramedics gently intervened.

Please, we need to treat the burns properly.

You can’t touch yet.

We have to go now, the lead paramedic said as they loaded both Charlotte and Benjamin into the ambulance.

I’ll meet you at the hospital, Detective Berea told Marilyn.

She ran to her car, following the ambulance down the mountain, its lights flashing in the darkness.

The ambulance screamed through the night, its sirens cutting through the mountain darkness.

Marilyn followed closely, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were white.

They arrived at St.

Joseph Hospital in Orange where emergency staff were already waiting.

Charlotte and Benjamin were rushed inside on Gurnie’s medical personnel surrounding them.

A nurse approached Marilyn.

“Ma’am, you’ll need to wait in the waiting room while we treat them.

” “No,” Marilyn said firmly.

“I’ve waited 20 years.

I’m not leaving her side.

The nurse saw something in her eyes and nodded.

You can wait just outside the ER curtains, but please let us work.

Marilyn paced the hallway, unable to sit still.

20 years of searching had finally ended, though she’d almost lost Charlotte again to fire.

The smell of smoke still clung to her clothes.

Detective Berea and Detective Mills arrived 40 minutes later.

They guided her to a small private room.

Raul Drifos has confessed to everything.

Detective Berea began.

He’s been surprisingly cooperative.

The man has nothing to lose.

He is dying.

Lung cancer stage three.

Doctors say he has maybe a year without treatment.

He never sought medical help because he feared exposure.

Huh? Marilyn said bitterly.

Let him die in prison.

He stole 20 years from us.

20 years of agony and he gets to live free for all that time.

One year in prison isn’t justice.

If I had money, I’d pay for his treatment myself.

Keep him alive to serve 20 miserable years behind bars.

Your anger is completely justified.

Detective Berea said quietly.

I’d feel the same in your position.

He opened his notebook.

Drifos told us he’d been watching you both.

He used to live in your apartment building.

same unit actually before you moved in.

He said he liked watching the people who lived there after him.

When you and Charlotte moved in, he became obsessed.

Said Charlotte was sweet and beautiful.

That he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Marilyn felt sick.

He stalked us.

Yes, he learned your patterns.

You visited Disneyland the first weekend of each month.

After my paycheck, Marilyn confirmed it was our special tradition.

He spent months preparing, got the costume from a storage unit facility auction, practiced wearing it, learned the park layout.

That day, Charlotte took photos with him.

With my Polaroid, Marilyn said she wanted to give him a copy, but I said no.

Why would I give our photo to a stranger? That upset him.

Later, when you were buying popcorn, he appeared again.

Charlotte recognized the costume and wandered over when he waved.

He promised her a special tour, a secret Alice in Wonderland World that other children didn’t know about.

Led her out through an employee service exit.

Why didn’t anyone see? Marilyn asked, though she knew the answer.

Security was minimal back then by today’s standards, and Raul had likely memorized the schedule and the comingings and goings of the staff.

There were no security cameras at the time, and the witness descriptions were vague.

just a rabbit character.

The case was officially treated as a child who wandered off in the crowd.

Without concrete evidence of foul play, Disneyland didn’t acknowledge it publicly.

Eventually, the trail went cold.

“What happened to her all these years?” Marilyn asked, dreading the answer.

He took her to that first house we visited, told her you died in an accident, that he was adopting her informally, homeschooled her.

When she was about 12, she saw a missing person poster at the grocery store.

That’s when he moved them to the cabin.

She tried to escape twice.

She tried to run, got lost in the woods both times.

He found her, brought her back.

He never hit her.

But the emotional manipulation was constant.

Using the costume to scare her while he drugged her was just one thing, and making her completely dependent on him.

Eventually, she stopped resisting, started calling him papa.

By the time she was an adult, he was all she knew.

Detective Mills added, “When we searched the cabin, we found signs she’d been taking care of him.

Bowls of oatmeal by the bed, adult bedlininers.

From what we can tell, when he saw the news this morning, he made a decision.

Rather than face capture in his condition, he chose to end it.

Burn them both.

” Was he? Marilyn couldn’t finish the question.

He denies any sexual abuse.

We’ll confirm with Charlotte and the doctors, but his obsession seems to have been about possession, not that.

Marilyn nodded, feeling slightly relieved, but still nauseated.

They left the room to find Elias Crara sitting outside Benjamin’s room, ringing his hands.

“How is he?” Marilyn asked.

“They say he’ll be fine,” Elias said, tears in his eyes.

burns, smoke inhalation, but nothing critical.

“That boy, he saved someone’s life today.

” “He saved my daughter,” Marilyn said, taking the old man’s hands.

“Without you both, this wouldn’t have happened.

Thank you.

” A doctor in surgical scrubs approached.

“You’re Charlotte’s mother?” “Yes.

” Both patients are stable.

Benjamin has secondderee burns on his arms and minor smoke inhalation.

Charlotte’s burns are more extensive.

Her ankles where the chains were, plus smoke damage to her throat.

Both will need several weeks of treatment.

Was there any sign of? Marilyn couldn’t say it.

No evidence of sexual abuse? The doctor said gently.

You can see them now, but only briefly.

They need rest.

They entered Charlotte’s room first.

She lay propped up, oxygen tubes in her nose, bandages on her arms and legs.

When she saw Marilyn, her eyes filled with tears.

“Mother,” she whispered, her voice raspy.

“I missed you so much.

” “My daughter,” Marilyn said, carefully taking Charlotte’s unbandaged hand.

“I never stopped looking.

” “I wanted to come home,” Charlotte said.

“But I never made it.

After a while, I made myself believe you were dead.

It was easier than hoping.

until this morning when I saw you on the news.

Detective Bereasia asked gently, “How did you see the news if you lived in that cabin?” “We went to the old house to clean,” Charlotte explained.

“Once a year,” Raul insisted.

“That’s when he turned on the TV to check if it’s still working.

When he saw the report about the costume being found, he panicked.

We rushed back to the cabin.

He wanted to stay there, but then got paranoid.

That’s why we went to the store.

for gas.

Why didn’t you escape? Marilyn asked.

At the store, he trusted you.

Charlotte’s face crumpled.

After 20 years, I’d learned to live with it.

I pied him.

He was old, sick.

I thought when he died, I could start over.

I’m so sorry, Mom.

There’s nothing to apologize for, Marilyn said firmly.

What you went through, it’s called Stockholm syndrome.

You can become attached to people who hurt you.

I experienced some of that with your late father.

They moved to Benjamin’s room where he sat in a wheelchair, bandages covering his arms.

His father held his hand.

Charlotte, Marilyn said.

This is Benjamin and Elias Crara.

They’re the reason we found you.

Benjamin risked his life to save you.

Charlotte looked at Benjamin with wonder.

Thank you, she whispered.

I’m just glad you’re safe, Benjamin said, adjusting his glasses nervously.

A nurse appeared.

One photo, she said, seeing Marilyn’s Polaroid camera.

Then everyone needs rest.

They arranged themselves.

Charlotte in her bed, Marilyn beside her, Benjamin in his wheelchair with Elias behind him.

The nurse took the camera and snapped the picture.

As the image slowly developed, Marilyn thought about the strange chain of events, a flood exposing a hidden suitcase, an old tor recognizing altered seams, a young man with OCD whose meticulous recordkeeping provided a crucial name.

Each person playing an essential part.

Sometimes, she said softly, we never know how our actions might help someone.

Elias, you kept that sketch.

Benjamin, you preserve those records.

Without you both, Charlotte would still be lost.

The Polaroid finished developing, showing four faces, two reunited after decades, two who had made that reunion possible.

It wasn’t a perfect photo.

They were bandaged, exhausted, in a sterile hospital room.

But to Marilyn, it was the most beautiful picture she’d ever taken.