Two young sisters selling eggs at their family farm’s roadside stand in rural Iowa simply vanished one summer morning, leaving behind nothing but an empty cash box and unanswered questions.

For months, their parents endured accusations and sleepless nights, never knowing if their daughters were dead or alive.

But three years later, a hobbyist with a fishing magnet makes an unexpected catch in the local creek.

something that would expose a truth so disturbing it would shatter an entire community’s sense of safety forever.

The morning sun cast long shadows across the vegetable garden as Grace Whitfield knelt between the rows of tomatoes, her worn gardening gloves already dirt stained from an hour of pulling weeds.

It was Tuesday, just past 9:00, and the Iowa heat was already building, promising another scorching July day.

She could hear the distant rumble of Garrett’s tractor in the far field, the familiar sound that had become the soundtrack of their 23 years of marriage on this farm.

Grace paused to wipe sweat from her forehead, leaving a streak of dirt across her skin when she heard the crunch of gravel from their long driveway.

Looking up, she saw Sheriff Daniels cruiser approaching, followed by two unmarked vehicles she didn’t recognize.

Her stomach tightened instinctively.

Police cars at a farm were rarely good news.

She stood slowly, her knees protesting after kneeling for so long, and wiped her dirty hands on her faded jeans.

Sheriff Daniels had been a family friend for years, attending the same church, buying eggs from their roadside stand when the girls ran it.

But as he stepped out of his cruiser, his face bore an expression she’d never seen before, a mixture of professional grimness and personal sorrow.

Morning Grace,” he said quietly as he approached.

Two people in suits emerged from the unmarked cars, a man and a woman, both carrying themselves with the rigid posture of law enforcement.

“These are detectives Morrison and Chen from the state police.

We need to speak with you.

Is there somewhere private we can talk?” Grace’s mouth went dry.

What’s this about, Tom? She used his first name, hoping to break through the official facade, but he merely gestured toward the house.

“Please, Grace, inside would be best.

” She led them through the back door into the kitchen, her muddy boots leaving prints on the lenolium she’d mopped just yesterday.

The detectives waited until she’d pulled out chairs around the worn oak table before introducing themselves properly.

Detective Morrison, the older of the two with graying temples, took the lead.

“Mrs. Whitfield, there’s no easy way to say this,” he began, pulling out a tablet from his briefcase.

“This morning, a magnet fisher found something in Cedar Creek.

It was an old milk can, and when he pulled it up, he paused, glancing at Sheriff Daniels, who nodded slightly.

There were human remains inside.

Small remains.

We have reason to believe they may be your daughter, Nora.

” The words hit Grace like a physical blow.

Her legs gave out and she grabbed the edge of the kitchen table for support, her knuckles white against the dark wood.

“No,” she whispered, then louder.

“No, that’s not possible.

Norah’s out there somewhere.

” She and Ka, they’re just Detective Chen, younger with sympathetic eyes, turned the tablet toward Grace.

I’m sorry, but we need you to look at these photos.

Can you identify this milk can? Grace forced herself to look at the screen.

The image showed a weathered metal milk can rust stained and covered in rivermuck, but the marking was still visible.

Farmhouse in faded letters with their farm’s old logo, a simple drawing of a cow that Garrett’s father had designed 40 years ago.

Oh god, Grace breathed.

That’s We had dozens of those before we switched to the modern cooling tanks.

We sold most of them at a farm auction, but kept some in the old barn.

I don’t know how many.

Morrison swiped to the next photo.

Grace caught a glimpse of something wrapped in blue tarp with yellow stripes before she had to look away, her stomach heaving.

Small bones so terribly small and tattered fabric that might have been.

I can’t, she gasped.

Please, I can’t look at that.

The medical examiner will need to confirm through DNA, Chen said gently, closing the tablet.

But the remains are consistent with a child of Norah’s age at the time of disappearance.

The preservation in the sealed can means we should be able to make a positive identification.

From outside came the sound of the tractor engine cutting off.

Grace saw Garrett jumping down from the cab, having spotted the police cars.

He was running toward the house, his work shirt flapping behind him.

He burst through the door, taking in the scene, the officers, Grace’s stricken face, and his expression shifted from confusion to dread.

What’s happened? He demanded.

Grace, Sheriff Daniels stood up.

“Garrett, you should sit down.

” “Tell me standing,” Garrett said, but his voice wavered.

The sheriff repeated the devastating news, each word seeming to age Garrett years.

He sank into the chair next to Grace, reaching for her hand.

“Where,” he asked horarssely.

“Where in Cedar Creek?” “Nar the old railroad bridge,” Morrison answered.

The can was wedged under some submerged logs.

“If not for the magnet fisher, it might never have been found.

” Detective Chen cleared her throat.

“Mr. and Mrs. Whitfield, I know this is an incredibly difficult time, but we need to search your property.

Specifically, we need to inventory any remaining milk cans and collect evidence.

Garrett’s head snapped up.

Evidence? What kind of evidence? Morrison’s face was professionally neutral.

The milk can came from your farm.

That makes this property a potential crime scene.

We need to determine if if the crime occurred here.

You think we Grace couldn’t finish the sentence.

The implication was too horrific.

You think we killed our own daughter? We have to follow the evidence.

Chen said, “I’m truly sorry, but we have a warrant.

” As if on Q, more vehicles began arriving.

Crime scene technicians in white coveralls emerged with metal detectors, evidence bags, and cameras.

Grace watched numbly as they spread across the property she and Garrett had worked so hard to maintain, treating their home like a crime scene.

“I’m calling our lawyer,” Garrett said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands.

He pulled out his phone and dialed Sarah Thornton, the attorney who’d handled their farm’s legal matters for years.

Grace heard him explaining in clipped sentences, his voice breaking when he had to say, “Nora’s remains.

” Within 20 minutes, Sarah’s BMW was speeding up the driveway.

She emerged in her courtroom suit, all business despite the rural setting.

“Where’s the warrant?” were her first words to the detectives.

“Morrison handed over the document.

” Sarah scanned it quickly, her expression darkening.

You’re treating my clients as suspects in their own daughter’s murder based solely on a milk can that could have been stolen from their property years ago.

Counselor, we have to investigate all possibilities, Morrison replied.

Your clients aren’t under arrest.

We’re simply executing a lawful search warrant.

And if we refuse to answer questions, that’s your right, but we’d prefer cooperation.

Two girls are still missing.

One girl, Grace interrupted, her voice hollow.

One girl is still missing.

Kora, my baby.

Kora is still out there somewhere.

And now she couldn’t continue.

Sarah put a protective hand on Grace’s shoulder.

My clients will cooperate fully with the search, but any questioning will be done with me present.

And if you’re planning to take them to the station, “We’d like them to come voluntarily,” Chen interjected.

“To provide DNA samples for comparison and to give formal statements about the milk cans and who might have had access to them.

” “Absolutely not,” Sarah said firmly.

“Not today.

My clients just learned their daughter is dead.

They need time to process this tragedy.

Either arrest them with probable cause or leave them to grieve in peace.

” The detectives exchanged glances.

Morrison nodded slowly.

We’ll complete our search and be in touch, but we will need those statements soon.

Grace watched the crime scene texts photographing their barn, their chicken coupe, even the old root cellar.

They were bagging soil samples as if the earth itself might hold evidence of her daughter’s fate.

Three years of not knowing, three years of hope against hope.

And now this.

Norah gone found discarded in the creek like garbage and the police treating them like suspects instead of grieving parents.

Tom, she said to Sheriff Daniels as he prepared to leave.

You’ve known us for 15 years.

You know we would never.

I know, Grace, he said quietly, pain evident in his eyes.

But I have to follow procedure.

The state police are led on this.

I’m just He trailed off, then placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

I’m so sorry about Nora, about all of this.

As the sheriff walked away, Grace saw their neighbors truck slowing at the end of the driveway, Walter Brennan craning his neck to see what was happening.

The police cars, the crime scene tape being strung around their barn.

By evening, the whole county would know their private tragedy was about to become very public.

The police had been gone for nearly an hour, leaving behind yellow tape fluttering around the barn and the ghost of their presence in tire tracks across the lawn.

Grace sat on the porch’s weathered wooden swing, her body folded in on itself while Garrett stood rigid against the porch railing, staring out at their violated property.

The evidence bags were gone, the photographers’s flashes just memory.

But the weight of what had been revealed pressed down on them both.

The rumble of Walter Brennan’s old Ford truck broke through their shocked silence.

Grace looked up to see their neighbor pulling into the driveway, his vehicle kicking up dust in the late afternoon heat.

Walter had been their neighbor for over 20 years, his property line running along theirs for nearly a mile.

He’d been a good friend through all those years, the kind of neighbor who’d show up to help during harvest without being asked who’d check on their animals when they took their rare vacations.

Walter’s face was already etched with genuine concern as he climbed out of his truck.

At 62, he moved with the careful gate of a man who’d spent his life doing physical labor, his joints reminding him of every fence post driven and hay bale lifted.

As he climbed the porch steps, Grace could see the worry deepening the lines around his eyes.

“Grace Garrett,” he said, removing his John Deere cap.

“I saw all the police cars from my east field.

Must have been a dozen of them.

What in God’s name happened?” Grace tried to speak, but found her throat closed with emotion.

Tears she’d been holding back since the police left suddenly spilled over.

Garrett moved to her side, his hand on her shoulder, and answered for them both.

“They found her, Walter.

They found Nora.

” Walter’s weathered face went white with shock.

“Found her? Where? How?” In Cedar Creek, Grace managed to say between sobs, “A magnet fisher pulled up an old milk can this morning.

Our milk can.

She was she was inside.

Walter’s legs seemed to give out, and he sat heavily in the wicker chair across from them, his hands gripping the armrests so tightly his knuckles went white.

“Dear Lord,” he whispered.

“Oh, Grace, Garrett, I don’t I can’t imagine what you’re going through.

” He was quiet for a long moment, his gaze distant.

When he spoke again, his voice was rough with emotion.

When I lost Daniel in that grain silo, it nearly killed me.

But at least,” he paused, swallowing hard.

“At least I got to bury my son.

Got to say goodbye.

You’ve spent 3 years not knowing what happened to your girls.

And now this.

” Grace noticed how Walter’s hands trembled slightly as he spoke about Daniel.

His son had been 24 when the accident happened 5 years ago, a young man just starting to take over more responsibility on the farm.

The grain silo had malfunctioned, and Daniel had suffocated before anyone could reach him.

She remembered attending the funeral how Walter had stood alone at the grave after everyone else had left, his shoulders shaking with grief.

His wife had left him the year before Daniel died, unable to handle his drinking problem that had developed after a bad harvest nearly bankrupted them.

“The police,” Walter said, pulling himself back to the present.

All those crime scene people, they don’t think you they do,” Garrett said bitterly.

“The milk can came from our farm, so we’re suspects.

They’re treating us like we killed our own daughter.

” Walter’s face flushed with indignation.

“That’s insane.

Anyone who knows you, how could they even think such a thing?” “They have to follow the evidence,” Grace said hollowly, repeating the detective’s words.

the evidence that says someone put our baby in our milk can and threw her in the creek like trash.

The late afternoon sun was starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that would have been beautiful any other day.

Walter looked at them both, then stood with decision.

“You shouldn’t be alone right now,” he said firmly.

“And I know you’re in no state to think about the animals.

I’ll handle the evening feeding.

I know where everything is.

Walter, you don’t have to, Garrett started.

But Walter cut him off with a raised hand.

It’s what neighbors do.

Besides, I know exactly what needs doing.

Those horses need their grain.

The chickens need to be locked up for the night.

And that old mayor of yours, Buttercup, right? She needs that special feed for her teeth.

Grace managed a weak smile.

Despite everything, Walter did know their farm almost as well as they did.

He’d helped them enough times over the years, and they’d returned the favor just as often.

Your feed delivery is scheduled for tomorrow morning, isn’t it? Walter continued.

“I can be here to receive it if you need to be dealing with with funeral arrangements or legal matters.

” The word funeral hit Grace like a physical blow.

They would have to bury their daughter, plan a service, pick out a coffin small enough for the remains that had been crammed into a milk can.

Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks.

Walter moved around their property with the easy familiarity of someone who’d been there countless times.

Grace watched from the porch as he headed to the barn, not the one wrapped in crime scene tape, but the newer one where they kept the feed.

He knew exactly which barrel contained the chicken feed, which bags were for the horses.

He even remembered that Buttercup needed the senior feed with added supplements for her aging teeth and joints.

As he worked, moving between the chicken coupe and the horse pasture.

Grace found herself grateful for his presence.

The routine of farm chores, even performed by someone else, provided a tiny bit of normaly in a day that had shattered their world.

Walter was just closing the chicken coupe door, having made sure all the hens were safely inside for the night when another vehicle turned into their driveway.

This one moved faster than Walter’s careful approach, gravel spraying as it breaked hard near the house.

The Channel 7 logo on the van side made Grace’s stomach drop.

Reporter Kelly Martinez jumped out before the van had fully stopped.

Her cameraman right behind her already hoisting his equipment onto his shoulder.

Martinez was young, maybe late 20s, with perfectly styled dark hair that seemed impossibly maintained in the rural Iowa heat.

Her eyes lit up when she saw Grace and Garrett on the porch.

“Mr. and Mrs.Whitfield,” she called out, hurrying toward them with her microphone.

Kelly Martinez, Channel 7 News.

Could we have just a moment of your time about this morning’s discovery? No, Grace said immediately, standing up.

Please leave.

This is private property, and we’re asking you to go.

But Martinez was already at the bottom of the porch steps, her cameraman’s lens trained on them.

I understand this is difficult, but the public deserves to know.

Garrett put his hand on Grace’s shoulder, a gesture that could have been comforting or restraining.

“We can answer a few questions,” he said quietly.

Grace looked at him in surprise, but saw something in his eyes.

Maybe the need to have their side heard to push back against the narrative that was already forming.

Martinez’s professional smile widened.

“Thank you.

First, can you confirm that human remains found in Cedar Creek have been identified as your daughter, Nora? The identification isn’t official yet, Garrett said carefully.

But yes, we’ve been told the remains are likely our daughters.

And the milk can they were found in that came from your farm? Grace saw the trap immediately, but Garrett had already nodded.

We had many of those cans years ago.

We sold most of them.

Martinez’s expression shifted, becoming harder, more predatory.

“Do you care to comment on the accusations that you murdered your own daughter?” The words hung in the air like poison.

Grace felt her knees go weak again.

“What accusations?” Garrett demanded.

“Who’s making accusations?” “Sources close to the investigation say you’re being treated as suspects.

That police searched your property for evidence.

” Martinez pressed closer.

Where are you hiding the second girl, Mr.

Whitfield? Where is Kora? How dare you? Grace gasped.

How dare you come here? And is it true you took out a large life insurance policy on both girls just months before they disappeared? Martinez continued relentlessly.

That you were having financial troubles with the farm.

Get off our property, Garrett said, his voice dangerously low.

Now, Martinez held her ground for another moment, the camera still rolling.

“The public will draw their own conclusions from your refusal to answer,” she said coolly, then finally gestured for her cameraman to lower his equipment.

As the news van pulled away, Grace noticed Walter’s truck had stopped at the end of their driveway.

He’d been watching the entire encounter.

After a moment, his truck slowly continued down the road, leaving them alone with the devastating realization that instead of being able to grieve their daughter’s death in peace, they would now have to defend themselves against accusations of murder.

By 7:00, darkness was falling across the Iowa farmland, the last traces of orange sunset fading into deep purple.

Grace and Garrett had spent the past hour in silence, each lost in their own grief when Walter’s truck rumbled back up their driveway.

His headlights swept across the porch where they still sat, unable to move forward with any normal evening routine.

“Walter climbed out, his figure silhouetted against his truck’s cab light.

“I’ve already taken care of your chickens and horses,” he called out as he approached.

“Got everyone fed and watered, coups locked up tight.

” Thank you, Walter, Garrett said, his voice from the day’s emotions.

We should pay you for Don’t even think about it, Walter interrupted.

Though, I did notice your grain supply is running pretty low.

The delivery tomorrow will help, but you’ll need something for the morning feeding.

I’ve got plenty in my barn.

Why don’t you come get a few sacks to tide you over? Garrett started to rise.

I’ll go with you.

No, Grace said suddenly, standing up.

I’ll go.

When Garrett looked at her with concern, she added, “I need to do something.

” “Anything.

I can’t just sit here anymore.

” “Grace, you should rest,” Garrett protested.

“Today has been.

” “I know what today has been,” she said sharply, then softened her tone.

“Please, I need to keep my hands busy or I’m going to fall apart completely.

” Garrett understood that need, the desperate desire to do something practical, something normal, when your world had been shattered.

He nodded reluctantly.

Grace climbed into Walter’s truck, the familiar smell of feed dust and old leather somehow comforting.

They drove the short distance to his property in silence, the truck’s headlights cutting through the gathering darkness.

Walter’s barn loomed ahead, a massive structure that had stood for nearly a century, weathered but solid.

Inside, a single overhead bulb cast harsh shadows across the packed dirt floor and equipment lined walls.

The barn smelled of hay and motor oil, the sense of a working farm.

Walter led her to the feed storage area, pointing out several 50-lb sacks of grain.

This should get you through a couple days,” he said, heftafting the first sack.

“Here, you get that end.

” Grace moved to help him, grateful for the physical task.

They worked together to load the first sack into his truck bed, then returned for another.

As Walter reached for the second bag, Grace’s eyes wandered around the familiar space.

That’s when she saw it.

a roll of blue work tarp tucked behind an old cultivator.

The distinctive yellow stripes visible even in the dim light.

The image from the detective’s tablet crashed into her mind with violent clarity.

The small form wrapped in that same blue tarp with yellow stripes.

The way the plastic had degraded after years in water, but still held its terrible secret.

Her baby, her Nora, wrapped and discarded like the world tilted.

Grace stumbled backward.

Her vision graying at the edges, she reached out blindly for support, but misjudged the distance, her head connecting hard with a low wooden beam.

Pain exploded across her forehead, and she felt herself falling.

“Grace!” Walter dropped the grain sack and rushed to her, catching her before she hit the ground.

“What happened? Are you all right?” She touched her forehead and her fingers came away sticky with blood.

A small cut, but head wounds always bled freely.

“The tarp,” she managed to say, pointing with a shaking hand.

“It’s the same in the photos,” wrapped around.

Understanding dawned on Walter’s face.

He looked stricken as he helped her to an overturned bucket to sit on.

“Oh, God, Grace, I’m sorry.

I didn’t think here, let me get that out of sight.

He quickly moved to the tarp, rolling it up tighter and shoving it behind other equipment where it couldn’t be seen.

When he returned, he had an old but clean rag in his hand, which he pressed gently to her forehead.

“I’m so sorry you had to see that,” he said, his voice full of genuine remorse.

“I use those tarps for everything around here, covering equipment, lining the truck bed.

I never thought about how it might after what you saw today.

Grace held the rag to her head, the sharp pain somehow grounding her in the present moment.

It’s not your fault.

They sell those tarps at every hardware store in the county.

It’s just seeing it brought it all back.

Walter crouched beside her, his weathered face creased with concern.

Maybe we should get you home.

Garrett will worry if we’re gone too long.

Grace nodded, suddenly exhausted.

They loaded one more bag of grain in silence.

Walter doing most of the work while keeping a watchful eye on her.

As they prepared to leave, he turned off the barn light, plunging them into darkness, broken only by the truck’s headlights.

“I’ll get the rest of those tarps out of here tomorrow,” Walter said quietly as he helped her into the truck.

“Won’t have anything around that might remind you.

” Back home, Garrett immediately noticed the blood on Grace’s forehead as she walked through the kitchen door.

His exhausted face shifted to alarm as he jumped up from the table where he’d been sitting with his head in his hands.

“What happened?” He moved to examine the cut, gently tilting her face toward the light.

“I’m fine,” Grace said, though she let him guide her to a chair.

I hit my head on a beam in Walter’s barn.

It’s just a small cut.

Garrett retrieved the first aid kit from under the sink, the same one they’d used countless times for the girl’s scraped knees and minor injuries.

His hands were gentle as he cleaned the wound with antiseptic, though Grace winced at the sting.

“How did you hit your head?” he asked, applying a small bandage.

Grace hesitated, then explained about seeing the blue tarp with yellow stripes, how it had triggered the memory of the evidence photos.

Garrett’s jaw tightened as she spoke, his movements becoming more rigid.

Those photos, he said quietly.

I can’t stop seeing them either.

Our baby wrapped in plastic like he couldn’t finish.

They sat in silence as he put away the first aid supplies, both lost in the horror of what had been done to their daughter.

By 8:00, Garrett had moved to the couch, saying he just needed to rest his eyes for a moment.

Within minutes, the emotional exhaustion of the day had pulled him into deep sleep.

Grace watched his face relax.

The lines of grief temporarily smoothed away.

She covered him with the quilt her mother had made years ago, the one the girls used to fight over during movie nights.

Grace returned to the kitchen table, but couldn’t bring herself to eat.

The casserole their church friend had dropped off that afternoon sat untouched in the refrigerator, her stomach churned at the thought of food.

Instead, she sat with her hands wrapped around a cold cup of coffee, her thoughts spiraling into dark places.

Someone had killed her baby girl.

Someone had taken Nora and she forced herself to confront the reality, cut her up to fit inside that milk can.

The medical examiner had been clinical about it during their brief phone consultation, talking about dismemberment and preservation conditions, but all Grace could think about was her daughter’s small body, how someone had done such unspeakable things to fit her into that metal container.

The house felt oppressively quiet.

By now, the girls would have been getting ready for bed.

There should be the sound of water running upstairs as they brushed their teeth, arguments about whose turn it was to set the table for breakfast, the soft murmur of Garrett reading bedtime stories.

Norah had loved the little house books, always asking for just one more chapter.

Cora preferred picture books about animals, making Garrett do all the voices.

Now there was nothing but the tick of the kitchen clock and Garrett’s soft snoring from the living room.

Through the kitchen window, Grace caught sight of headlights moving along Walter’s back access road, the dirt track that ran behind his barn and connected to the old county road.

The lights stopped and went dark near his barn.

Walter was probably doing his evening equipment maintenance, she realized.

He’d always been a creature of habit, checking his machinery every night, making sure everything was ready for the next day’s work.

She thought about how Walter had maintained these routines even after losing Daniel.

He’d told her once that the predictability of farm life had saved him after his son’s death.

The animals still needed feeding, the crops still needed tending, the equipment still needed maintaining.

The rhythm of farm life didn’t pause for grief.

Grace glanced at Garrett again.

He was sleeping so deeply, more exhausted than she’d ever seen him.

Today had aged him years in just hours.

She couldn’t bear to wake him, but her mind wouldn’t stop racing, circling around the funeral arrangements that would need to be made.

They’d need Walter’s flatbed trailer to transport chairs from the church for the service.

Their own truck wasn’t big enough, and Walter had always been generous about lending equipment.

she could walk over and ask him now while she knew he was in the barn rather than burden Garrett with one more task in the morning.

The decision made, Grace quietly took her phone from the counter and slipped out the back door.

The night was warm and humid, typical for July in Iowa.

Crickets chirped in the darkness, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

The walk to Walter’s property along their shared fence line was one she’d made countless times over the years.

They’d worn a path through the grass from decades of neighboring, borrowing tools, sharing equipment, helping with harvests.

Tonight, she used her phone’s flashlight to navigate.

The bright LED beam cutting through the darkness.

As she walked, Grace tried not to think about how Nora and Cora had loved to visit Uncle Walter, always excited to see his barn cats and the old plow horse he kept more as a pet than for work.

They’d felt safe on his property, just as safe as at home.

The barn loomed ahead, a thin line of light visible under the main door.

Grace could hear the faint sound of metal on metal.

Walter working on something, keeping his hands busy, just as she needed to keep hers busy.

10 minutes after leaving her house, she reached for the barn door handle.

Grace pushed open the barn door, the hinges creaking softly in the night air.

Inside, Walter was hunched over his workbench, a kerosene lantern casting dancing shadows across the walls.

Tools were spread before him as he worked on what looked like a carburetor.

The smell of machine oil and old hay filled the space.

At the sound of the door, Walter looked up startled, the wrench in his hand clattering to the concrete floor.

His eyes were wide with shock, clearly not expecting anyone at this hour.

Grace.

He straightened quickly, wiping his hands on his coveralls.

What are you doing here? Is everything all right? I’m sorry, Grace said, suddenly feeling foolish for the late visit.

I saw your lights on and thought, “Am I disturbing you?” “No, no, of course not,” Walter said, though he seemed to be composing himself, his initial shock fading into his usual neighborly demeanor.

He picked up the fallen wrench and set it carefully on the bench.

Just doing some maintenance.

Can’t sleep sometimes, so I come out here and work.

Keeps the hands busy, you know.

He stepped closer, and in the lantern light, she could see genuine concern etched across his weathered features.

“Is everything all right? Is Garrett okay?” “He’s sleeping,” Grace said.

Finally, the exhaustion just hit him all at once.

And you? How’s your head? He gestured to the bandage on her forehead.

It’s fine.

Just a small cut.

Grace took a breath, pushing forward with why she’d come.

Walter, I need to ask a favor for the funeral.

We’ll need to transport chairs from the church, and our truck isn’t big enough.

Could we borrow your flatbed trailer? Of course, Walter said immediately, his voice full of sympathy.

Of course, you can have it for as long as you need.

He moved toward the corner of the barn where equipment was stored.

Let me show you where I keep everything, the hitch, the tie down straps, the safety chains.

Grace followed him, grateful for his easy agreement.

Walter pulled back a tarp covering the trailer hitch and began explaining the setup.

She’ll hold about 40 chairs if you stack them right, he was saying, demonstrating how the ball hitch worked.

The wiring harness for the lights is right here.

Sometimes it’s finicky, so you might need to jiggle it.

And these straps here, they’re rated for Grace’s attention drifted as Walter talked.

Her eyes wandered around the familiar barn, taking in the organized chaos of a working farm.

That’s when she noticed his denim jacket thrown carelessly over a hay bale near the workbench.

The jacket’s pockets were turned partially out, personal items spilling onto the hay, his wallet, a ring of keys, some crumpled receipts, and a folded piece of paper partially open.

Even from several feet away, Grace could see it was a child’s drawing.

The bright crayon colors stood out against the white paper.

Without thinking, she stepped closer, drawn by something she couldn’t name.

The drawing showed two stick figures, a small girl with long brown hair labeled Clara in careful childish letters, standing next to a tall man labeled Daddy.

The girl wore a blue dress with flowers, and she was holding the man’s hand.

There were hearts drawn around them and a son with a smiley face in the corner.

Grace’s blood turned to ice.

The girl in the drawing looked exactly like Ka would at 11 years old.

The same long brown hair, the same way of drawing faces that Ka had developed in her art classes.

Even the handwriting.

The safety rating on these straps is important.

Walter was still talking behind her, oblivious.

You don’t want chairs flying off on the highway.

Grace forced herself to look away from the drawing, her heart hammering so hard she was sure Walter must hear it.

She managed to turn back to him, her face carefully neutral despite the terror coursing through her veins.

“Thank you,” she said, surprised her voice sounded normal.

“This is really helpful.

I should I should get back before Garrett wakes up and worries.

” She started toward the door, every instinct screaming at her to run.

But as she moved, Walter’s expression changed.

His friendly neighbor mask slipped, replaced by something cold and calculating.

“Grace,” he said quietly.

She was three steps from the door when Walter moved, faster than she would have thought possible for a man his age.

He stepped between her and the exit, and suddenly there was a shotgun in his hands.

She hadn’t seen where it came from, but now its barrel was pointed at her chest.

You saw Clara’s drawing, Walter said, his voice eerily calm.

I saw you looking at it.

Walter, I don’t don’t lie to me, Grace.

His tone was almost conversational, as if they were discussing the weather.

You know, now I can see it in your eyes.

Grace’s mind raced, trying to process the impossible.

Kora, you have Kora? Walter’s face twisted with something that might have been regret.

I tried so hard to spare you from more pain.

Three years, Grace.

Three years I’ve kept this secret, watching you and Garrett suffer, wanting to tell you, but knowing it would only hurt you more.

And now you just had to come here tonight.

Where is she? Grace’s voice cracked.

Where’s my daughter? Walk, Walter commanded, gesturing with the shotgun toward the back of the barn.

Deeper inside.

move.

Grace had no choice.

She walked slowly, her legs shaking as Walter followed with the gun trained on her back.

“She calls me daddy now,” Walter said, his voice taking on a dreamy quality.

“Took a while, but children adapt.

They forget.

” “She’s happy, Grace.

I want you to know that she’s been happy.

” “And Nora?” Grace could barely get the words out.

Walter’s expression darkened.

She got sick two years ago.

Pneumonia, I think.

I tried everything.

Antibiotics from the vet supply, fever reducers, even some old remedies my grandmother used, but she kept getting worse.

Grace felt her knees buckle, but Walter prodded her with the gun barrel to keep moving.

I couldn’t take her to a doctor, he continued, his voice matter of fact.

You understand that, right? They would have taken Clara away, too.

So I did what I could, but she was so small, so fragile.

When she died, I preserved her as best I could until I could figure out what to do.

The full horror of it crashed over Grace.

Walter had taken both her daughters.

He’d kept them hidden for 3 years, while she and Garrett died inside every day, not knowing.

Norah had suffered and died without her mother.

And Kora, “She’s alive?” Grace whispered.

Cora’s alive.

Clara, Walter corrected sharply.

Her name is Clara now.

My daughter Clara.

Grace realized with growing horror that he’d had Kora all this time just across the fence line, close enough that she could have heard her daughter’s voice on a quiet night if she’d only known to listen.

Walter prodded Grace with a shotgun barrel toward what looked like a solid wall at the back of the barn.

But as they approached, she saw it.

A cleverly concealed door built into the wooden paneling.

Walter reached past her to unlatch it, revealing wooden stairs descending into darkness.

Down, he commanded.

Grace hesitated at the top of the stairs she’d never known existed in all her years of visiting this barn.

Walter had hidden this so well, constructed it so carefully.

The implications made her stomach lurch.

Move,” Walter said, his voice harder now.

She descended the wooden steps, her hand gripping the rough rail.

The temperature dropped as they went deeper, and she realized they were going beneath the old feed storage area.

The smell hit her then, manure, thick and overwhelming.

Of course, the massive manure pile above would mask any scent from search dogs.

The police had been here multiple times in those first months, their dogs sniffing every inch of Walter’s property and found nothing.

At the bottom of the stairs, another door.

Walter reached around her to open it, and Grace gasped.

The room beyond was nothing like the rough basement she’d expected.

The walls were painted a soft pink, decorated with butterfly decals.

A bookshelf stood against one wall, packed with children’s books.

Chapter books for older kids, not the picture books her daughters had loved three years ago.

A comfortable bed with a handmade quilt occupied one corner.

There was even a small refrigerator, a microwave, a bathroom area behind a curtain.

And at a child-sized desk, a girl sat drawing.

Grace’s legs nearly gave out.

Kora.

The girl’s head snapped up and Grace saw her daughter, taller now, her baby face gone, replaced by the angular features of approaching adolescence.

11 years old, she’d missed 3 years of her daughter’s life.

But it was Kora’s eyes that broke Grace’s heart.

Hollow, fearful, confused.

At the sight of Grace, Ka flinched and scrambled backward, pressing herself into the corner behind the desk.

Grace’s scream of anguish tore from her throat before she could stop it.

Cora, baby, it’s mommy.

Calm down.

Walter snapped, nervousness creeping into his voice.

He kept the shotgun trained on Grace as she instinctively moved toward her daughter.

Stay where you are.

You’re scaring her.

Who is she? Cora whispered, her voice directed at Walter, not Grace.

Daddy, who is she? The word daddy was a knife in Grace’s heart.

Her daughter was looking at Walter with trust, with dependence, while staring at her own mother like a stranger.

“I’ve kept her safe,” Walter said, his voice taking on a defensive tone.

“Look at this room.

Look how well I’ve cared for her.

She’s been educated.

I’ve homeschooled her myself.

She can read at a high school level.

She knows math, science, history.

She’s been my daughter Clara these three years and she’s been happy.

Kora Grace sobbed, ignoring Walter’s gun to take another step toward her daughter.

Cora, sweetie, it’s me.

It’s mommy.

Please, baby, look at me.

Ka pressed further into the corner, her eyes wide with fear.

“My name is Clara,” she said in a small voice.

“I don’t know you.

” Walter stepped partially between them, the gun never wavering.

“This is the woman from the accident, Clara.

Remember I told you about the accident? This is the woman who hurt your sister, Nora.

” “No,” Grace cried out in horror.

“No, Ka, that’s not true.

He’s lying to you.

” “You’re scaring her,” Walter said coldly.

“Clara, remember what I taught you about strangers? About people who might try to confuse you?” Grace watched her daughter nod, saw the trust in Kora’s eyes as she looked at Walter and felt her world shatter all over again.

Three years.

Three years of lies, of twisted stories of stolen life.

Kora, please, Grace begged, tears streaming down her face.

“Remember our farm? Remember collecting eggs together every morning? You loved the speckled hen.

You named her freckles.

Remember how we’d make pancakes on Saturdays? How daddy would make them into funny shapes? Something flickered in Kora’s eyes.

Uncertainty, maybe a fragment of memory.

But then she shook her head violently.

My parents died in a car accident.

Daddy Walter saved me.

He pulled me from the wreck.

“She’s been happy here,” Walter insisted.

But Grace could hear the agitation growing in his voice.

He paced between her and the stairs, clearly struggling with the situation spiraling out of his control.

She has everything she needs.

Books, games, education.

I take her upstairs to the house at night.

She has a beautiful room there, too.

We watch movies together.

I teach her cooking.

We do art projects.

Look at her drawings.

Grace’s eyes swept over the drawings taped to the walls.

Hundreds of them.

Pictures of a farmhouse.

Walter’s farmhouse.

pictures of animals and over and over pictures of a tall man labeled daddy protecting a small girl from shadowy figures in the background.

“Please,” Grace whispered, not sure if she was pleading with Walter or with God.

“Please, she’s my daughter.

” Walter’s pacing grew more frantic.

The gun shook slightly in his hands.

Grace could only pray that Garrett would wake up, would realize she’d been gone too long, would come looking.

But even if he did, would he know to look here in this hidden room that had concealed her daughter for 3 years? Daddy.

Kora’s voice was small, uncertain.

What’s happening? Why is she crying? Walter’s face twisted.

The careful fantasy he’d built was crumbling, and Grace could see he knew it.

The sound of footsteps above them made Grace’s heart leap.

heavy boots on the barn floor.

And then, “Walter, you in here? Have you seen Grace?” Garrett’s voice.

He’d woken up, realized she was gone.

“Come looking.

” Grace opened her mouth to scream a warning, but Walter moved with shocking speed.

The shotgun barrel pressed hard against her ribs, and his breath was hot against her ear.

“Not a sound,” he whispered.

“You make any noise, try to warn him.

Try to come up and I’ll have to shoot you both.

The girl doesn’t need to see that.

Grace’s eyes darted to Ka, still huddled in the corner, watching with wide, frightened eyes.

Walter was right.

Whatever happened, she couldn’t let her daughter witness more violence.

Stay put, Walter commanded.

Both of you don’t move.

He backed toward the stairs, keeping the gun trained on Grace until the last moment.

Then he was climbing up, pulling the hidden door closed above him.

Grace heard the latch click into place.

Walter? Garrett’s voice came again, muffled now through the floor.

Your truck’s here? Grace said she was coming to ask about the trailer.

Coming? Walter called out, his voice impossibly casual.

Grace heard his footsteps moving across the barn floor above.

Yeah, she was here earlier.

asked about the trailer for the funeral.

I showed her where everything was, then she headed back.

Must have just missed her.

“She’s not at home,” Garrett said.

And Grace could hear the worry in his voice.

“It’s been over half an hour.

” “Probably took the long way back,” Walter suggested.

“You know how it is.

Sometimes you need to walk to clear your head.

Hell of a day you folks have had.

” Grace looked at her daughter, at Cora, who was watching her with terrified confusion.

This might be their only chance.

If Walter convinced Garrett to leave, if he came back down here with that gun, she thought of Nora, of how her baby had died sick and afraid in this man’s captivity.

She thought of three years of not knowing, of the police treating them like suspects while their daughter was right here, just across the fence line.

Gathering every ounce of courage she had, Grace raced for the stairs.

Her hands hit the door hard, fumbling for the latch, found it, burst through.

“Garrett, he has Kora!” she screamed.

“He has our baby.

” The scene in the barn erupted into chaos.

Walter spun around from where he’d been leading Garrett toward the door, his face contorted with rage and desperation.

the shotgun.

He’d propped it against the barn wall while talking to Garrett, trying to appear normal.

Walter lunged for the weapon.

Grace threw herself forward, knowing she had to reach it first or they were all dead.

Her hands closed on the barrel just as Walter grabbed the stock.

They struggled violently, the gun between them.

Walter was stronger.

Years of farmwork, giving him an advantage.

The barrel swung wildly as Grace fought to keep him from gaining control.

Grace.

Garrett’s shocked voice, still processing what she’d screamed.

What? He has Kora? Grace gasped out between struggles.

Downstairs hidden room.

Understanding crashed over Garrett’s face.

He didn’t hesitate, didn’t question.

He launched himself at Walter from the side.

All three of them now tangled in a desperate fight for the weapon.

The gun swung between them.

Walter’s finger dangerously close to the trigger.

Grace felt her grip slipping.

Walter’s superior strength slowly overwhelming her.

Garrett had his hands on the stock now, too.

Four hands fighting for control of one weapon.

A moment of clarity hit Grace.

She couldn’t win this fight, but she could make sure someone survived to save Ka.

She let go.

The sudden release sent Walter stumbling backward with Garrett still grappling him.

Grace didn’t wait to see what happened.

She ran out of the barn into the night, her legs pumping as fast as they could carry her.

Behind her, she could hear the men crashing into equipment, grunting with effort, the clatter of tools being knocked over in their struggle.

The house? She had to reach the house, call for help.

Her lungs burned as she sprinted along the fence line.

Behind her, a cry of pain.

She couldn’t tell whose.

The house lights beckoned ahead.

She crashed through the back door, lungs heaving, hands shaking so badly she could barely dial.

911.

What’s your emergency? This is Grace Whitfield, 4782 County Road 12.

She screamed into the phone.

Walter Brennan has my daughter.

He’s had her for 3 years.

My husband’s fighting him.

He has a gun.

Please send help.

Ma’am, slow down.

You said someone has your daughter? He kidnapped her 3 years ago.

She’s in a hidden room under his barn.

Please, they’re fighting.

He has a shotgun.

Officers are on the way, ma’am.

Stay on the line.

Grace dropped the phone.

Garrett’s backup pistol.

He kept it in the kitchen drawer, her hands closed around the familiar grip.

She’d only fired it once years ago when Garrett insisted on teaching her, but it was loaded and ready.

She ran back out into the night, the weapon heavy in her hands.

Already, she could hear sirens in the distance.

Rural Iowa or not, a kidnapping in progress brought everyone.

By the time she reached Walter’s barn, red and blue lights were painting the sky.

Police cars skidded into the yard, officers jumping out with weapons drawn.

An ambulance followed, then more cars, state police, sheriff’s department, even unmarked vehicles.

Grace burst into the barn to find Garrett standing over Walter, who was writhing on the ground.

Blood seeped between Walter’s fingers where he clutched his leg.

The shotgun lay several feet away.

In the struggle, it had discharged.

“Garrett,” Grace ran to him, checking frantically for injuries.

“Are you hurt?” “I’m okay,” he panted.

Gun went off when we were fighting.

Hit him in the leg.

Grace, did you say is Kora really down here? Grace called to the SWAT officers now swarming the property.

There’s a hidden door.

My daughter’s down there.

She didn’t wait for them to secure the scene.

While EMTs rushed to treat Walter, keeping him restrained even as they worked, Grace ran back to the hidden door.

She yanked it open and flew down the stairs.

Kora was exactly where she’d left her, pressed into the corner, tears streaming down her face.

“Daddy Walter,” she was crying.

“I want Daddy Walter.

” Grace’s heart shattered all over again, but she pushed through the pain.

She gathered her daughter into her arms, holding tight, even as Chorus struggled.

“It’s okay, baby,” Grace whispered.

“It’s okay.

You’re safe now.

I’ve got you.

” Police photographers were already descending the stairs, documenting everything.

The drawings covering the walls, hundreds of them.

The homeschool workbook stacked neatly on the shelf.

The calendar where Walter had marked off 3 years of stolen days with little stars and smiley faces.

Evidence of a life lived in captivity, of a childhood stolen and remade.

Grace carried Kora up the stairs, her daughter’s arms finally tentatively wrapping around her neck.

They emerged into a chaos of flashing lights.

20 emergency vehicles at least, more arriving every moment.

The biggest crime scene Cedar County had ever seen.

Garrett rushed to them immediately, tears streaming down his face as he wrapped both of them in his arms.

Kora,” he whispered, his voice breaking, “my baby girl.

” But Kora stiffened in their embrace, turning her face away from Garrett to look back toward the barn where EMTs were loading Walter onto a stretcher.

“Daddy,” she called out, her voice small and confused.

“What’s happening to Daddy?” A female officer approached them gently, a shock blanket in her hands.

We need to get her to the hospital, she said softly.

Both of you should come, too.

The detectives will need statements, but that can wait.

Your daughter needs medical attention first.

As they moved toward the waiting ambulance, Grace caught sight of Sheriff Daniels, his face a mixture of relief and horror.

He’d been their friend for so many years, had helped search for the girls, never imagining they were right across the property line the entire time.

The weight of that failure was written in every line of his weathered face.

The fluorescent lights of Cedar County Hospital’s surgical wing cast harsh shadows as Detective Morrison sat beside Walter Brennan’s gurnie.

Walter was under police guard.

Two officers stationed outside the recovery room.

His right leg heavily bandaged where the shotgun pellet had torn through muscle and shattered bone.

The anesthesia was wearing off and Morrison had been waiting for this moment, that twilight state where inhibitions were lowered, but the mind was clear enough to speak.

“Walter’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then sharpening as they landed on Morrison’s badge.

” “Mr.

Brennan,” Morrison said quietly, his digital recorder already running.

“I’m Detective Morrison.

You’re in the hospital.

You’ve had surgery on your leg.

Do you understand? Walter nodded slowly, his mouth dry.

A nurse provided water through a straw, then stepped back out of the room at Morrison’s gesture.

“I need to advise you of your rights,” Morrison began.

But Walter interrupted.

“I’ll tell you everything,” he said, his voice, but clear.

“They deserve to know what happened to their girls.

” Morrison kept his expression neutral, despite the chill that ran down his spine.

Start from the beginning.

Walter’s eyes grew distant, looking past Morrison to something only he could see.

I watched them grow up, you know, from across the property line.

Grace would bring them as babies to work in her garden, set up that little play pen under the oak tree.

They took their first steps in that yard.

I watched it all.

His voice took on a wistful quality.

After Daniel died, after Mary left me, those girls became they were like sunlight, the only bright thing I could see from my property.

They’d wave to me when they saw me in my fields, called me Uncle Walter.

The kidnapping, Morrison prompted gently, “Tell me about that day 3 years ago.

” Walter’s hands moved restlessly on the hospital blanket.

It wasn’t spontaneous.

I’d been planning for months.

built that room under the barn first.

Took me nearly a year, working only at night.

Had to be careful about the ventilation, the soundproofing.

Couldn’t have anyone hearing.

Morrison fought to keep his revulsion from showing.

The premeditation was chilling.

“I knew their routine,” Walter continued.

“Knew Grace and Garrett couldn’t see the eggstand from their house.

I’d checked the sightelines carefully.

The girls trusted me completely.

Why wouldn’t they? I’d been Uncle Walter their whole lives.

What happened that day? I drove up to their stand just like any other customer.

Told them I needed two dozen eggs for a church bake sale, but had forgotten my wallet.

Asked if they’d mind riding with me to my farm to get paid.

Walter’s voice cracked slightly.

They climbed right into my truck.

Norah was chattering about school starting soon.

Cora had her favorite doll.

And then I took them to the barn first, told them I wanted to show them the new kittens.

They loved animals, especially Kora.

Once they were down in the room, he paused, swallowing hard.

I told them there had been an accident, that their parents were hurt, and I was going to take care of them until everything was okay.

Morrison made notes, his stomach turning.

What about Nora? Tell me what happened to her.

Walter’s composure finally cracked, tears sliding down his weathered cheeks.

She got sick two years ago, spring of last year.

Started as just a cough, but it got worse.

High fever, trouble breathing.

I think it was pneumonia.

Why didn’t you take her to a doctor? How could I? Walter’s voice rose slightly.

They would have taken Clara away.

I tried everything.

antibiotics from the vet supply, fever reducers, even some old remedies my grandmother used.

Clara begged me to get help for her sister, but I couldn’t risk it.

Morrison had to pause the recording briefly as Walter broke down completely.

When he composed himself, the story continued, each detail more horrific than the last.

She deteriorated over three weeks.

I stayed with her constantly, trying to keep her comfortable.

Clara wouldn’t leave her side.

When she finally Walter couldn’t say the word.

I wrapped her in blankets and put her in the large freezer in my processing shed.

I didn’t know what else to do.

The milk can Morrison prompted, though the detective beside him had to step out of the room.

I remembered seeing them during the Whitfield’s barn sale years back.

Snuck over one night and took one.

Then I Walter’s voice dropped to a whisper.

I had to make her fit.

Used the tools from my processing shed.

Waited for the spring flooding to put it in the creek.

Thought the water would take it far away, or if someone found it, they’d suspect the parents.

The can came from their farm.

After all, Morrison forced himself to continue.

Tell me about Kora.

How did you manage to hide her during all the searches? Walter seemed to strengthen slightly, a disturbing pride entering his voice.

I’d move her between the barn room and the house.

Had a beautiful room set up in the attic.

It used to be Daniel’s room.

Painted it pink.

Bought every toy and book a girl could want.

During the searches, I’d keep her in whichever location they weren’t checking.

The dogs never found the barn room because of the manure pile above it.

And you told her what about her family? That they died in a car accident along with her sister.

That I’d pulled her from the wreck, saved her.

She was young enough that after a few months, she started to believe it.

Called me daddy.

Said her name was Clara.

In the pediatric ward two floors up, Grace sat in an uncomfortable chair beside Kora’s bed, holding her daughter’s hand, even though Ka kept trying to pull away.

Child psychologist Dr.

Elena Marsh was gently working with the girl who clutched a worn teddy bear, one of many toys Walter had provided.

“Clara, can you tell me about your drawings?” Dr.

Marsh asked, holding up one of hundreds they’d recovered from Walter’s property.

“My name is Clara,” Kora insisted, her voice small but firm.

“Daddy says you’re trying to confuse me.

He warned me about bad people who might try to take me away.

” Grace bit her lip to keep from sobbing.

Her daughter was right there, alive, breathing, but might as well have been a stranger.

The drawings spread across the hospital table showed a happy life.

A girl and her daddy reading together, cooking, playing games, and always in the background, shadowy figures labeled bad people that daddy was protecting her from.

“What happened to your sister?” Dr.Marsh asked gently.

Cora’s face crumpled.

She got sick.

Daddy tried to save her, but she died.

It wasn’t his fault.

He did everything he could.

Down in the surgical ward, Walter was still talking, the words pouring out like a confession in a cathedral.

I homeschooled her using online curriculum.

She’s brilliant, reads at a high school level now.

I taught her mathematics, science, history.

We’d have art time every afternoon.

She loves to draw and she never questioned the story about her parents.

She did at first, but children’s memories fade.

I’d show her news articles about car accidents, tell her that’s what happened to her family.

After a year, she stopped asking.

After two, she called me daddy without prompting.

By year three, she was Clara completely.

The lead detective entered the room having composed himself.

Mr.Brennan, our psychiatrists have completed their initial evaluation.

You’ve been diagnosed with severe delusional disorder stemming from your son’s death.

Do you understand what that means?” Walter’s eyes flashed.

I’m not crazy.

I love those girls.

I was a good father to them.

You kidnapped them.

Norah died in your care.

Cora doesn’t even know who she really is anymore.

Clara.

Walter corrected sharply.

Her name is Clara and she’s happy.

She’s been happy.

Back in the pediatric ward, Dr.Marsh was explaining the long road ahead to Grace and Garrett, who’ arrived after giving his own statement to police.

She’s been living in an alternate reality for 3 years, Dr.Marsh said gently.

In her mind, Walter is her father.

You’re strangers who are trying to take her away from the only life she remembers.

It will take months, maybe years, for her to process the truth and readjust.

But she will, Grace asked desperately.

She’ll remember us eventually.

Memory recovery in children is complex.

Some memories may return, others are likely lost forever.

The trauma of having her perceived reality shattered.

It’s going to be a difficult journey.

She’ll need intensive therapy, patience, and time.

Grace looked at her daughter, who was drawing again, always drawing, as if she could make sense of the world through crayons and paper.

We’ll wait as long as it takes.

She’s alive.

That’s all that matters.

But even as she said it, her heart broke for Nora, who died sick and afraid, calling for a mother who couldn’t come.

The child who’d been disposed of like garbage by a man who claimed to love her.

As Walter was prepared for transport to the county jail, he was wheeled past the hospital lobby where Grace and Garrett were filling out paperwork.

He saw them through the glass doors and called out, his voice carrying despite the guard’s attempts to quiet him.

“I loved them both,” he shouted.

“I was a good father to them.

Tell Clara I love her.

Tell her daddy loves her.

” Grace turned away, unable to look at the man who’d stolen three years of their lives, who’d killed one daughter and brainwashed the other.

Garrett’s arm came around her shoulders as the elevator doors closed on Walter’s desperate face, still lost in the delusion that he’d been saving the girls rather than destroying them.