A female deputy and the town sheriff left for their night shift patrol in 1985 to follow up on a routine lead, but they never returned to the station, sparking one of Texas’s longestr running missing person’s cases.

Then 16 years later, hikers stumble upon an abandoned outhouse in the mountains and peer inside.

What they see at the bottom of the pit reveals investigators had been chasing the wrong theory all along.

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the weathered buildings of Prescidio, Texas, a remote border town where the vast Chihuahuan desert stretched endlessly toward Mexico.

In 2001, the town’s population barely reached 3,000 souls, making it the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else’s business and where secrets had a way of festering in the heat.

Detective Simon Reyes sat hunched over his desk in the small police station reviewing witness statements from a recent missing person case.

A 17-year-old girl had vanished 3 days ago, and the trail was already growing cold.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as he made notes in the margins, his concentration so complete that he didn’t hear the footsteps rushing down the hallway until Officer Martinez burst through his door.

Detective Martinez panted, his uniform damp with sweat despite the air conditioning.

We just got a call from a park ranger up in the Chinati Mountains.

Some hikers found a body.

Simon looked up sharply.

Another missing girl.

No, sir.

It’s It’s a law enforcement officer in uniform.

The ranger says the body’s been there a long time, but it’s well preserved.

Found in an old outhouse.

Simon rose immediately, his chair scraping against the lenolium floor.

His mind raced through the possibilities.

Get me the case file on the 1985 disappearance of Sheriff Ray Hullbrook and Deputy Laya Ortega.

That’s the only case we have with missing officers.

This could be connected.

Martinez’s eyes widened with recognition.

Everyone in the department knew about that case.

It was Prescidio’s most infamous cold case.

Right away, detective.

As Martinez rushed out, Simon grabbed his jacket and headed downstairs.

The station was already buzzing with activity, officers moving with purpose as word spread.

He spotted Detective Cara Dupont by the coffee machine and called out to her, “Cara, we’ve got a body in the mountains, possibly connected to the Hullbrook Ortega case.

I need you with me.

DuPont, a sharp-eyed woman in her 40s, immediately set down her coffee.

I’ll grab my gear.

Simon then turned to two female deputies who were checking equipment near the armory.

Deputy Carr.

Deputy Marorrow, you’re coming, too.

Deputy Debbie Carr, a blonde woman in her mid-30s, looked up with surprise.

Deputy Trish Marorrow, slightly younger with auburn hair pulled back in a tight bun, exchanged a glance with her colleague.

Simon noticed something pass between them, a flicker of unease, perhaps even fear.

He remembered now.

16 years ago, when Sheriff Hullbrook and Deputy Ortega had vanished, Debbie and Trish had been young officers who came forward with troubling testimonies.

They’d claimed that Sheriff Hullbrook had been inappropriate with them, making unwanted advances and creating a hostile work environment.

They hadn’t spoken up at the time, too scared of retaliation.

But after the sheriff disappeared along with Deputy Ortega, they’d finally given their statements.

The prevailing theory had been that Hullbrook had kidnapped Ortega, possibly assaulted or killed her, then fled, but neither had ever been found.

The group moved quickly to their vehicles.

Martinez reappeared with a thick manila folder, the cold case file.

Here, detective.

Everything we have on the 1985 disappearance.

Get in, Simon told him.

Brief me on the way.

They climbed into two patrol cars, Simon and Martinez in the lead vehicle with the case file spread across Martinez’s lap.

As they pulled out of the station parking lot and headed toward the mountains, the younger officer began reading.

Sheriff Ray Hullbrook, aged 42 at time of disappearance.

Deputy Laya Ortega, age 25.

They were working the night shift on October 15th, 1985.

Last seen leaving the station at 8:47 p.m.

for routine patrol.

When they didn’t report in by morning, search teams were deployed.

Their patrol car was found abandoned on Highway 67.

Keys still in the ignition.

No signs of struggle.

Simon navigated through the sparse traffic, his mind already working through scenarios.

What about the investigation? Extensive searches of the surrounding desert turned up nothing.

The FBI was brought in briefly, suspected connection to drug cartels operating in the area.

Interviews with locals revealed Hullbrook and Ortega had been investigating rumors of missing girls, possible human trafficking connected to crossber operations.

The night they vanished, they’d reportedly planned to check out a bar called the Dusty Spur Saloon, known hangout for truckers and smugglers.

The landscape changed as they climbed into the Chinati Mountains.

Desert scrub giving way to rocky terrain dotted with juniper and pinon pine.

Simon reached for his phone and dialed a number he’d kept saved for 16 years.

Mrs.Ortega, this is Detective Simon Reyes with the Prescidio Police Department.

The voice that answered was frailer than he remembered, aged by 16 years of uncertainty.

Ma’am, I’m calling about your daughter’s case.

We found evidence that might be connected.

Can you come to the Chinati Mountains? I’ll send officers to escort you.

Mary Sol Ortega’s voice cracked with emotion.

Evidence after all this time.

Is it Is it Laya? We’re not certain yet, ma’am, but I wanted you to know immediately.

The officers will explain everything.

After ending the call, they followed the coordinates the park ranger had provided, turning onto an unmaintained dirt road that wound higher into the mountains.

The terrain became increasingly rugged, their vehicles bouncing over rocks and washouts.

Finally, they spotted a park service truck and two figures waiting by a trail head.

The park ranger who greeted them was a weathered man in his 50s.

Detective Reyes.

I’m Bill Hutchkins.

The hikers are just up this trail with my partner.

It’s about a/4 mile hike to the outhouse.

They gathered their equipment and followed Hutchkins up a narrow path that seemed barely used.

The trail was overgrown in places with loose rocks that made footing treacherous.

After 10 minutes of climbing, they reached a small clearing where another park ranger stood with an elderly couple.

The wooden outhouse stood at the edge of the clearing, its weathered boards gray with age.

The door hung open, revealing the dark interior.

The elderly woman, wearing expensive hiking gear, looked pale but composed.

Her husband, a fit man in his 70s, had his arm around her shoulders.

“I’m Detective Reyes,” Simon said.

“You found the body.

” The woman nodded.

“I’m Ruth Donnelly, and this is my husband, Carl.

We were hiking, trying a new route, more challenging terrain.

You know how it is when you reach our age? You want to prove you’ve still got it?” She managed a weak smile.

I needed to use the facilities after our long climb.

That’s when I I dropped my glasses.

Prescription bif focals, Carl added.

$600.

Ruth called me to help retrieve them.

Ruth continued.

Carl used a stick to try to fish them out.

The pit was deep, completely dark.

Then he saw something that looked like leather.

Carl pulled out his keyring, showing a small LED flashlight attached.

I always carry this old habit from my engineering days.

When I shined it down there, I could see it was a boot with a foot still in it.

We immediately went to find the rangers, Ruth said.

We didn’t touch anything else.

Ranger Hutchkins stepped forward.

When I arrived, we carefully removed the toilet seat to get a better view.

That’s when we saw the uniform, the badge, and what appears to be a service weapon.

We haven’t disturbed the scene beyond that initial examination.

Simon approached the outhouse with DuPont, both pulling on latex gloves.

The structure was typical of remote facilities, a simple wooden box with a bench seat over a deep pit.

But as they peered into the darkness below, Simon’s flashlight illuminated something that made him catch his breath.

The body was partially visible among layers of desiccated waste.

The dry mountain conditions had mummified portions of the remains, preserving details that should have been lost to time.

A sheriff’s uniform was clearly visible along with a tarnished badge and the butt of a revolver protruding from a leather holster.

“We need to get the body out,” Simon said.

“Call for a forensics team and some workers with proper equipment.

We’ll need to dismantle part of the structure.

As they waited for additional personnel, Simon questioned the rangers about the outhouse’s history.

This trail was officially abandoned in 1992, Hutchkins explained.

Unstable rock formations, risk of landslides.

We stopped maintaining it, including this facility.

Honestly, I’m surprised these folks made it up here.

The trail markers were removed years ago.

We saw it on an old topographic map, Carl admitted.

thought it would be an adventure.

The forensics team arrived within an hour along with workers carrying tools and protective equipment.

They carefully dismantled the wooden flooring around the toilet seat, creating a larger opening.

The process was slow and meticulous.

Each board removed with care to preserve any potential evidence.

When they finally extracted the body, the forensics team was amazed at its condition.

Dr.Patricia Chen, the medical examiner, crouched beside the remains.

The aid conditions up here, combined with the anorobic environment in a sealed pit, created perfect conditions for partial mummification.

The waste layers settled and composted over the years, actually helping to preserve certain tissues.

She carefully examined the badge using a soft brush to clear away debris.

The number is still legible.

She read it aloud and Simon felt his stomach drop as Martinez checked it against the case file.

“That’s that’s Sheriff Hullbrook’s badge number,” Martinez said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The implications hit everyone simultaneously.

“If this was Sheriff Hullbrook, then everything they’d believed about the case was wrong.

” Simon noticed Deputy’s Carr and Marorrow standing apart from the group, both visibly shaken.

Tears ran down Debbie’s face, and Trish had her arms wrapped around herself as if cold, despite the warm afternoon.

The sound of another vehicle arriving drew Simon’s attention.

Marisol Ortega emerged from a patrol car, supported by a young officer.

16 years of hoping and fearing had aged her, but her eyes were still sharp, still searching.

Simon met her before she could approach the scene.

Mrs.Zortega, I need to prepare you.

We found a body, but it’s not Laya.

Hope and despair war in her expression.

Not Laya? Then who? It appears to be Sheriff Hullbrook.

He’s been here in this outhouse probably since the night they disappeared.

Marisol’s legs gave out, and Simon helped her to a boulder where she could sit.

If this happened to Ry, then what happened to my baby? Oh god, what could have happened to her? This changes everything about the case, Simon said gently.

We don’t know who did this.

It could have been someone else entirely, or it could have been, he hesitated, not wanting to voice the possibility that Laya might have been involved.

No, Marisol said firmly, reading his thoughts.

My daughter was a good officer.

She had a kind heart and believed in justice.

If anything, she’s another victim.

Someone did this to both of them.

Simon turned to the park rangers.

How many outhouses like this are scattered through these mountains? Hutchkins thought for a moment.

On abandoned trails, maybe a dozen within a 5m radius.

More if you count the ones on active trails.

I want search teams checking every single one, Simon ordered.

If someone dumped a body here, they might have used other sites.

This person or group knew the area, knew this outhouse was abandoned and rarely accessed.

They were desperate enough to use this method instead of burying the body properly.

He studied the scene again.

Maybe they thought the pit would be serviced and moved the next day.

the body would disappear into the waste management system, but the trail was abandoned, so it never happened.

The forensics team carefully bagged evidence, taking samples despite the contamination.

Simon noticed deputies car and Marorrow still standing apart, holding each other and crying.

“Excuse me,” he told Marisol, then approached the two deputies.

“Are you all right?” Debbie wiped her eyes.

It’s just seeing him like this, even after what he did to us, how inappropriate he was.

Nobody deserves this.

It’s a shock,” Trish added, her voice shaky.

“Brings back all those memories.

” Simon studied them carefully.

Something felt off about their reaction, but he couldn’t pinpoint what.

“Why don’t you two head home? Take a few days to process this.

I’ll contact you if we need anything.

They nodded gratefully and headed down the trail with another officer.

Simon returned to Marisol’s side.

We’re searching the area thoroughly, he assured her.

We won’t stop looking for Laya.

Marisol stood slowly, aged beyond her years.

After what I’ve seen today, I think I need to prepare myself.

16 years of not knowing.

Maybe it’s time to let go.

If something similar happened to Laya, I don’t know if I want to see her like that.

I want to remember her as she was.

I understand, Simon said.

Let me drive you home personally.

Detective Dupont can handle things here.

DuPont nodded.

I’ve got this, Simon.

Take your time.

Simon gathered the case file and evidence bags, gave final instructions to the search teams, then helped Marasol down the treacherous trail.

Behind them, the abandoned outhouse stood as a grim monument to secrets buried but not forgotten, and the mountains kept their silence about what other horrors they might conceal.

After dropping Marisol Ortega at her modest home on the south side of Prescidio, Detective Simon Reyes drove back to the station through empty streets.

The town seemed even quieter than usual, as if the discovery in the mountains had cast a paw over everything.

The dashboard clock read 7:23 p.m.

when he pulled into the station parking lot.

Inside, the evening shift had taken over, but the day’s energy lingered in the form of coffee stained reports and notes scattered across desks.

Simon settled back at his desk with the Wholebrook Ortega case file, spreading 16 years of accumulated documents across the surface.

Under the harsh fluorescent lights, he began to review everything with fresh eyes.

The discovery of Hullbrook’s body changed the entire narrative.

What if Laya Ortega hadn’t been a victim? What if she had been involved in the sheriff’s death? But she would have needed help.

A young deputy couldn’t have acted alone, especially not against a man of Hullbrook’s size and experience.

Simon traced his finger across the timeline they’d constructed.

In 1985, Sheriff Hullbrook and Deputy Ortega had been investigating rumors of missing girls for weeks before their disappearance.

Three young women from Prescidio County had vanished over the summer of 1985, all believed to be connected to cartel operations along the border.

The investigation notes showed increasing urgency in the weeks before the disappearance.

He found the witness statements from the Dusty Spur Saloon.

On the night of October 15th, 1985, Hullbrook and Ortega had arrived at approximately 9:30 p.m.

The bartender at the time, a Miguel Vasquez, had served them drinks and remembered them asking questions about the truckers who frequented the establishment.

No one reported seeing any confrontation or suspicious behavior.

The last confirmed sighting was at 11:15 p.m.

when they paid their tab and left.

Simon rubbed his tired eyes.

In 1985, there had been no security cameras to verify movements, no cell phone records to track.

The investigation had relied entirely on witness testimonies, and now he wondered how reliable those had been.

The surrounding motel had been canvased, but no one reported seeing the sheriff and deputy check in anywhere.

No signs of ambush on the highway where their patrol car was found.

It was as if they had simply vanished into the desert night.

The sound of footsteps made him look up.

Detective Cara Dupont stood in his doorway, fatigue evident in her posture.

The rangers finished checking the other outhouses, she reported, dropping into a chair across from his desk.

Nothing.

If there are other bodies out there, they’re not in the abandoned facilities.

Simon leaned back, his chair creaking.

16 years.

Cara Hullbrook’s been in that pit for 16 years while we’ve been looking for him in all the wrong places.

The forensics team is still processing the scene.

They’ll be at it most of the night.

Dupant glanced at her watch.

Speaking of which, it’s past 8.

You should head home, get some rest.

We can attack this fresh in the morning.

I’ll stay a bit longer, Simon said, gesturing at the files.

I feel like I’m missing something.

Dupant stood stretching.

Don’t stay too late.

This case has waited 16 years.

It can wait one more night.

After she left, Simon continued reading, but the words began to blur together.

His stomach growled, reminding him he’d skipped lunch in the rush to the mountains.

The station had grown quiet, just the night dispatcher and a couple of patrol officers remaining.

He finally admitted defeat, closing the files and locking them in his desk drawer.

He walked down to the forensics lab where technicians were still cataloging evidence from the scene.

“I’m heading out to grab some dinner,” he told them.

“Call me if you find anything significant.

” Outside, the October evening had cooled considerably.

“Simon sat in his car for a moment, considering his options.

he could go to his usual place, Murphy’s Diner, or his gaze drifted toward the east side of town, where the Dusty Spur Saloon still operated after all these years.

Curiosity won.

He started the engine and drove through the quiet streets, past closed shops and dimly lit houses, until he reached the bar.

The parking lot held a collection of semi-truckss and pickups, busy but not packed.

The neon sign flickered sporadically, casting red and blue shadows across the gravel.

Inside, the atmosphere hadn’t changed much since his last visit years ago.

Country music played from an old jukebox, and the air smelled of beer and fried food.

Truckers occupied most of the tables, maps, and paperwork spread between beer bottles.

Simon took a seat at the bar, noting how conversations quieted slightly at his entrance.

His detective’s uniform made him conspicuous, but he ignored the attention.

The bartender who approached him was young, maybe mid-20s, with sllicked back hair and nervous eyes.

Not the Miguel Vasquez from the case files.

What can I get you, officer? Detective, Simon corrected.

Bourbon, neat, and a burger if the kitchen’s still open.

Sure thing.

As the bartender poured his drink, Simon asked casually, “How long have you been working here?” “About 3 years.

” “Why?” “Just curious.

I was wondering about the previous bartender, Miguel Vasquez.

” The file says he was here in the 80s.

The young man’s hand paused for just a moment.

“Miguel? He quit about 10 years ago.

Just up and left one day.

” Know where he went? Nobody knows.

He moved out of his place on Elm Street.

Didn’t leave a forwarding address.

The owner tried to track him down for his last paycheck, but it was like he vanished.

The bartender slid the bourbon across.

I’ll get that burger going for you.

Simon sipped his drink and surveyed the room.

Most of the truckers looked like long haul drivers, the kind who crossed the border regularly.

When the bartender returned, Simon asked, “These guys mostly coming from Mexico.

” The bartender’s answer was evasive.

“Some from Mexico, some from around here.

We get trucks from the produce companies, manufacturing plants, that sort of thing.

” But Simon noticed how the man’s eyes darted toward a table in the corner where four men sat hunched over their beers.

He also noticed how more patrons kept glancing his way, especially the ones who had arrived after him.

The weight of their stairs made the hair on his neck prickle.

Simon finished his meal, left cash on the bar, and headed for the door.

As he pushed it open, he glanced back and saw the bartender still in hushed conversation with the men at the corner table, all of them watching him leave.

In his car, Simon sat for a moment, processing what he’d observed.

The dusty spur was more than just a trucker bar.

It was a nexus for something, and his presence had clearly disturbed whatever delicate ecosystem existed there.

He started the engine, feeling unsettled as he pulled out of the parking lot, already planning to return with backup to ask more pointed questions.

Inside his car, Simon flipped on the dome light and reached for the case file he’d brought with him.

He thumbmed through the witness statements until he found what he was looking for.

Miguel Vasquez’s old address from 1985.

The bartender had lived at 59 Cedar Avenue on the east side of town, not far from the bar.

Tomorrow he’d check it out with DuPont, see if any neighbors remembered him or knew where he’d gone.

Right now, though, exhaustion was setting in.

The adrenaline from the mountain discovery had worn off, leaving him feeling drained.

Simon pulled out of the dusty Spurs parking lot and turned west toward home.

The streets were nearly empty at this hour, just the occasional pickup truck or late night delivery van.

He’d driven about 2 mi when he noticed the headlights in his rearview mirror.

A dark sedan, maybe a Ford or Chevy, keeping pace about three car lengths back.

Nothing unusual about that.

It was a main road through town.

But when Simon turned left onto Mosquet Street, the sedan turned two, another left onto Third Avenue, and again the car followed.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel.

Three turns could be coincidence.

He made a sudden right onto Desert View Road without signaling.

The sedan’s turn signal blinked and it followed.

Simon’s pulse quickened.

20 years of police work had taught him to trust his instincts.

And right now, every instinct screamed that he was being tailed.

He could call for backup, but what would he report? A car happening to take the same route? He needed to be sure.

The Chevron station on Palm Street was still open, its harsh white lights creating an island of brightness in the dark.

Simon turned sharply into the lot without indicating, pulling up to a pump as if he needed gas.

He watched his mirrors carefully.

The sedan slowed as it approached the station, then continued past without turning in.

Simon caught a glimpse of the driver, a Hispanic male, baseball cap pulled low, face obscured.

The car was a dark blue Chevrolet Malibu late ’90s model.

He couldn’t make out the license plate in the dark.

Simon sat at the pump for 5 minutes, pretending to check his phone while watching the road.

When the Malibu didn’t circle back, he finally relaxed slightly.

Paranoia from the bar, probably.

The way those truckers had stared at him had set him on edge.

He pulled back onto Palm Street and continued toward home, taking his usual route now.

But 10 minutes later, as he turned onto his own street, his breath caught.

There it was, the same dark blue Malibu parked three houses down from his own home.

The lights were off, engine silent.

Simon slowed his patrol car, studying the house where the sedan was parked.

Number 47 Cedar Avenue.

All the windows were dark.

No porch light, no signs of life.

He rolled his window halfway down, listening to the night sounds, crickets, a distant dog barking, the hum of air conditioners.

Then, cutting through the quiet, came the sharp sound of glass breaking, followed by a muffled shout.

It seemed to come from inside the darkened house.

Simon grabbed his radio.

Unit 23 to dispatch.

I’m at 47 Cedar Avenue.

Heard sounds of breaking glass and shouting from inside the residence.

Conducting wellness check.

Copy.

Unit 23.

Backup available if needed.

Standing by, Simon replied, though he knew the nearest patrol unit was probably 15 minutes away.

He approached the front door, hand resting on his service weapon, but not drawing it.

The doorbell produced no response, so he knocked firmly.

Police.

Everything okay in there? Footsteps approached from inside, and the door opened to reveal a man in his 40s, Hispanic, wearing jeans and a white undershirt.

Simon didn’t recognize him, but that wasn’t unusual.

Prescidio had grown some in recent years.

Evening, officer, the man said, his voice calm, but his eyes weary.

Everything’s fine here.

I heard glass breaking and someone shouting, Simon said.

Mind if I ask what happened? The man’s shoulders relaxed slightly.

Oh, that I knocked over my wife’s vase, the one her mother gave her.

She was pretty upset about it.

You know how women are about their things.

Is your wife home? I’d like to speak with her.

make sure everything’s all right.

She’s in the bathroom cleaning up.

She had a bit of a cry about the vase.

It really meant a lot to her.

The man hadn’t moved from the doorway, his body blocking Simon’s view inside.

Simon tried to peer past him into the house.

The interior was dark, but he could make out shapes in what appeared to be the living room.

There on the sofa, was that a person sitting there? The silhouette was motionless, but it definitely looked human.

Sir, who else is in the house with you? Just me and my wife.

Like I said, she’s in the bathroom.

But the figure on the sofa hadn’t moved.

Simon’s instinct screamed at him again, but he was alone, no backup, and technically had no probable cause to force entry.

A broken vase and a marital spat weren’t crimes.

He keyed his radio, keeping his eyes on the man.

Dispatch, unit 23.

Resident reports accidental breakage of a vase.

Domestic situation appears under control.

I’m clearing.

Copy.

Unit 23.

Simon stepped back from the door.

All right, sir.

Sorry to disturb your evening.

You folks have a good night.

You, too, officer, the man said, already closing the door.

Simon walked back to his patrol car.

every nerve on edge.

He sat behind the wheel for a moment, then pulled out his cell phone and called DuPont’s personal number.

“Simon,” her voice was groggy.

“What’s wrong?” “Sorry to wake you, Cara.

I’ve got a situation.

” He quickly explained his visit to the bar, being followed, and the strange encounter at the house.

“Something’s not right.

That figure on the couch, if the wife was in the bathroom, who was that?” DuPont was fully awake.

Now you think this is connected to the Hullbrook case.

The timing is too coincidental.

I show up at the bar where Hullbrook was last seen and suddenly I’m being tailed and this house.

He paused, remembering something.

Wait, the address is 47 Cedar Avenue.

The old bartender lived at 59 Cedar, same street.

Could be a coincidence in this town.

We both know better than that.

Simon started his engine.

Can you meet me? I want to patrol this area tonight.

Keep an eye on things.

Give me 15 minutes.

Where? The Chevron on Palm Street.

I’ll wait for you there.

On my way.

Simon drove the short distance to the gas station, parking where he could watch the road.

The blue Malibu was gone from Cedar Avenue when he’d left, but he had a feeling it would surface again.

Whatever he’d stumbled into at the dusty spur, someone clearly didn’t want him digging deeper.

12 minutes later, DuPont’s personal vehicle pulled into the station.

She was dressed in jeans and a jacket, her service weapon visible in a shoulder holster.

She climbed into his patrol car, bringing the scent of coffee with her.

“Bro, too,” she said, handing him a travel mug.

“Figured we might need the caffeine if we’re pulling an impromptu night shift.

” Simon accepted it.

gratefully.

“Thanks.

Something’s happening, Cara.

I can feel it.

” “Then let’s find out what,” she said, checking her weapon.

“Where do we start?” “Cedar Avenue,” Simon said, putting the car in gear.

“I want another look at that house.

” From the Chevron station, Detective Simon and Dupont drove back through the quiet streets toward Cedar Avenue.

The dashboard clock showed 10:47 p.m.

and most of Prescidio had settled in for the night.

As they approached the house where Simon had conducted the wellness check, he slowed the patrol car.

“That’s strange,” he muttered.

The dark blue Malibu that had been parked outside was gone.

The house at 47 seater stood completely dark and silent as if abandoned.

Simon parked across the street studying the row of houses.

Something nagged at him as he looked at the address numbers.

Cara, the old bartender’s address, was 59 Cedar Avenue.

But look at the houses.

They both scanned the street.

Number 45, 47, 49, 51.

Then a gap where 53 through 57 should be, jumping straight to 61.

There’s no 59, Dupant observed.

That’s not right.

Let’s take a closer look.

They exited the vehicle, flashlights in hand.

The night air was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of creassot from the desert.

Simon approached the house that should have been in the 59th range based on its position.

It was the same dark house where he’d done the wellness check.

Look at this,” Simon said, shining his light on the house number.

The 47 looked newer than the surrounding paint, and when he looked closer, he could see faint outlines where other numbers had once been.

This number’s been changed recently from the looks of it.

DuPont radioed the station.

Dispatch, we need a property records check on Cedar Avenue, specifically what should be 59 Cedar.

Current number shows as 47, but it appears to have been altered.

While waiting for dispatch to respond, they began checking the perimeter of the house.

No lights showed through any windows.

No sounds from within.

The Malibu’s absence suggested whoever had been here had left in a hurry.

“Simon,” Dupont called from the sideyard.

“Over here.

” She was crouched near the terrace, examining something by an empty ceramic pot.

Simon joined her and she pointed with her flashlight.

A small decorative pin lay in the dirt, a silver butterfly with tiny rhinestones.

They both pulled on latex gloves.

Dupont picked up the pin carefully, turning it in the light.

I’ve seen Deputy Debbie wear this.

She has a whole collection of these butterfly pins.

Wears a different one each day.

You’re sure? Simon asked, though he already felt a cold certainty settling in his stomach.

Positive.

She showed them to me once, said her grandmother started the collection for her.

Dupont’s face was grim.

What would Debbie be doing here? Simon sealed the pin in an evidence bag.

Let’s not jump to conclusions.

Try calling her.

Dupont pulled out her phone and dialed.

After a moment, she shook her head.

Straight to voicemail.

Try Trish.

Same result.

Voicemail.

Dispatch crackled through their radios.

Unit 23.

Records show 59 Cedar Avenue was last registered to Miguel Vasquez in 1985.

Property records after 1991 become unclear, possibly due to a filing error.

Current resident at the address now showing as 47 is listed as Juan Delgado.

Moved in three months ago.

Three months ago.

Recent enough to be suspicious, especially given the changed house number.

Cara, we need to check on Trish and Debbie.

Simon decided.

Trish lives closer about six blocks from here on Sage Street.

They hurried back to the patrol car.

The drive took only minutes, but Simon’s unease grew with each passing block.

When they turned onto Sage Street, he could see Trish Morrow’s small adobe house halfway down.

The porch light was on, but something was wrong with the front door.

“Doors a jar,” Dupont noted.

They parked and approached carefully, hands on their weapons.

The front door was indeed open about 6 in, swaying slightly in the night breeze.

Simon could see darkness beyond.

“Deput Marorrow,” he called out.

Trish, it’s Detective Reyes.

Everything okay? No response.

They exchanged glances.

Then Simon pushed the door wider with his flashlight.

The beam immediately caught dark stains on the tile floor of the entryway.

Blood.

Dispatch, we have a possible crime scene at 312 Sage Street.

Simon radioed.

Blood evidence visible.

Requesting backup and forensics.

Copy.

Units on route.

They entered carefully, weapons drawn now.

The blood trail led from the entryway down the hallway, droplets and smears suggesting someone had been dragged.

The house was silent except for the tick of a clock somewhere in the darkness.

Following the trail, they cleared each room methodically.

Living room empty, but a lamp was overturned.

Kitchen, dishes in the sink, no sign of struggle.

The blood trail led to the master bedroom.

The bedroom had clearly seen violence.

The bedding was twisted and pulled partially off the mattress.

More blood on the carpet and the sliding glass door to the small backyard stood open.

But no body, no Trish.

She fought, DuPont observed, noting the disturbed furniture.

Didn’t go quietly.

Simon holstered his weapon and tried calling both deputies again.

Still nothing but voicemail.

The arriving backup units began securing the scene while forensics started processing the blood evidence.

This is connected to this morning, Simon said, pacing the living room while crime scene texts worked.

We find Hullbrook’s body and the same night both deputies who testified against him 16 years ago disappear.

The bartender, Dupont said suddenly.

You said he was talking to truckers when you left.

Simon’s mind raced.

He was whispering with a group at a corner table, pointing at me and those truckers.

He grabbed his radio.

Dispatch Detective Reyes.

I need an immediate bolo and road closure at all exits from town.

No trucks, repeat, no trucks, commercial or otherwise, are to leave Prescidio until further notice.

That’s a big ask, detective, dispatch responded.

We’ll need We have two missing officers and a potential connection to organized trafficking.

Simon cut in.

Make it happen.

Set up checkpoints on 670 and every farm road leading out.

Nothing moves without inspection.

Copy, detective.

Implementing now.

Simon turned to DuPont.

Those truckers at the bar know something.

And if they’re trying to leave town with Debbie and Trish, then we need to move fast.

Dupont finished.

The Dusty Spur.

The Dusty Spur, Simon confirmed.

They left the crime scene in the hands of the other officers and raced back to their patrol car.

Time was running out, and somewhere in the night, two of their own were in danger.

The connection between the morning’s discovery and tonight’s events was becoming clearer, but Simon feared they were already too late.

The Dusty Spurs parking lot was still half full.

When Simon and Dupont arrived, their patrol cars lights cutting through the darkness.

Through the bar’s grimy windows, they could see patrons turning to look, conversations dying mid-sentence.

The arrival of police at this hour meant trouble.

Simon pushed through the door first, DuPont right behind him.

The jukebox was playing some old Willie Nelson tune, but the atmosphere had changed completely from his earlier visit.

Truckers hunched over their beers, avoiding eye contact.

Several men near the back exit shifted nervously.

The young bartender was wiping down glasses, trying to appear busy and unconcerned.

His hands trembled slightly when he saw Simon approaching.

“We need to talk,” Simon said, his voice cutting through the barroom noise.

“Now?” “I don’t know anything,” the bartender said quickly.

“Too quickly.

You can’t just come in here and accuse.

Nobody’s accusing you of anything yet, DuPont interrupted.

But two officers are missing, and you were the last person seen talking to truckers who left right after Detective Reyes.

So, we can do this here in front of everyone, or we can talk privately.

The bartender’s eyes darted around the room, perhaps looking for support or escape routes.

Finding neither, his shoulders slumped.

There’s an office in the back.

They followed him through a narrow hallway past the restrooms to a cramped office that smelled of stale cigarettes and spilled beer.

Metal filing cabinets lined one wall and a desk overflowing with receipts and invoices occupied most of the floor space.

Simon closed the door while DuPont positioned herself where she could watch both the bartender and the entrance.

What’s your name? Simon began.

Carlos.

Carlos Mendoza.

All right, Carlos.

Here’s where we are.

Simon leaned against the desk, his tone conversational but firm.

We’ve been investigating disappearances of young women in Prescidio County.

These cases appear connected to trafficking operations, possibly drugrelated.

Now, in a town this size, if truckers are moving anything illegal across the border, someone at their favorite watering hole would know about it.

Carlos shook his head.

I just serve drinks, man.

I don’t ask questions.

See, that’s where you’re wrong.

Dupant said, “Not asking questions when you know crimes are being committed, that makes you an accessory.

But helping us right now, that makes you a witness.

Big difference in how the DA sees things.

” Simon watched Carlos wrestle with his options.

Sweat beated on the young man’s forehead despite the cool night.

“You can be on the right side of this,” Simon pressed.

or when we connect you to these trafficking rings, and we will, you’ll go down with everyone else.

Your choice.

Carlos’s resistance finally crumbled.

Okay.

Okay.

Look, I don’t know everything.

My job, they pay me extra to watch for cops.

DEA, anyone official who comes in.

When someone like you shows up, I’m supposed to let certain people know.

Which people? Simon asked.

There’s this group, truckers, but not regular truckers.

They come up from Ojanaga.

Carlos wiped his face with a bar towel.

I signal them if there’s heat.

They pass it along.

Ojanaga Chihuahua, Dupont clarified.

Just across the border.

What do they call themselves? I heard them use lost transportistas sometimes.

The transporters.

Real original, right? Carlos attempted a weak smile that died quickly.

“They come through maybe twice a week, always different trucks, but the same core group of guys.

” “What are they transporting?” Simon asked, though he suspected he already knew.

Carlos looked at the floor.

“I never asked directly.

You don’t ask those kinds of questions if you want to keep breathing, but there are rumors.

” What kind of rumors? Drugs, obviously.

Everyone knows that.

But sometimes, he paused, seeming to gather courage.

Sometimes I’d see them with young women, not prostitutes, from across the border, American girls.

They’d be in the trucks looking scared or drugged out.

“I tried not to notice,” Simon felt his jaw clench.

“And you never thought to report this to who?” Carlos shot back with sudden energy.

You think you’re the first cops to come through here? There were others who knew who were probably getting paid to look the other way.

How was I supposed to know who to trust? That gave Simon pause.

Debbie and Trisha’s connection was becoming clearer.

Do you keep drugs here? Dupont asked.

No, I swear on my mother’s grave.

No drugs in the bar.

That’s not my thing.

I just I watch and report.

That’s all.

Simon exchanged a look with Dupont.

The bartender was small time, a cog in a larger machine, but he might be their key to finding the missing deputies.

You’re coming to the station,” Simon decided.

“We need a full statement, and you’re going to help us identify these truckers from photos.

” Carlos nodded miserably.

“Am I under arrest?” “That depends on how helpful you are,” Dupant said.

Right now, you’re a witness.

Keep cooperating and you’ll stay that way.

They escorted Carlos out through the main bar.

Several patrons had already left and those remaining studiously avoided looking at them.

Two unformed officers met them at the door to transport Carlos to the station.

Outside, Simon immediately got on his radio, coordinating with multiple agencies.

Border Patrol needed to review their cameras for trucks crossing in the last few hours.

The checkpoint officers needed descriptions of vehicles from Ojanaga.

And most urgently, they needed cooperation from Mexican authorities.

Get me a direct line to the Ojanaga police.

Simon ordered dispatch and patch through to DEA and FBI field offices.

We’ve got potential international trafficking with American citizens in immediate danger.

As they rushed back to their vehicle, Dupant was already on her phone with the border crossing supervisors.

Time was critical.

Every minute that passed took Debbie and Trish farther from reach deeper into a nightmare that had apparently been operating under their noses for years.

“If they crossed before the bolo,” Dupont said as they drove, they could be in Ojanaga already.

Then we follow,” Simon said grimly.

The drive to the border crossing took 15 minutes.

Simon pushing the patrol car to its limits while DuPont coordinated with multiple agencies over radio and phone.

The Prescidio Ojanaga International Bridge loomed ahead, its lights creating an artificial dawn in the desert darkness.

Border security had set up additional screening at Simon’s request.

An agent met them at the checkpoint.

his face grim.

Detective Reyes, we reviewed the footage.

A Freightlininer semi crossed at 11:02 p.m. about 8 minutes before your B went out.

Mexican plates registered to a shipping company in Oshinaga.

That’s our truck, Simon confirmed.

What’s the procedure for pursuit? The agent handed him a tablet showing the crossing footage.

FBI and DEA are already coordinating with their Mexican counterparts.

Since this involves potential kidnapping of American law enforcement officers, you’ll be operating under the bilateral case initiative protocols.

Mexican federal police have jurisdiction, but you can observe and assist.

Within minutes, a convoy had formed.

FBI agents in their black SUVs, DEA vehicles, and several Mexican federal police units that had crossed to escort them.

The paperwork was expedited in 2001.

PostNAFTA cooperation between the agencies was still evolving, but the kidnapping of American officers triggered emergency protocols.

As they crossed the bridge, the Rio Grand, a dark ribbon below, Simon felt the weight of leaving American jurisdiction.

In Mexico, they would be guests dependent on their counterparts cooperation.

The Mexican federal police commander, Captain Roberto Hernandez, met them on the Ojinaga side.

A veteran officer with graying temples.

He spoke excellent English.

Detective Reyes, we’ve been tracking the vehicle.

Our surveillance units followed it to Cay Revol in the Zona Rosa district.

The red light district, Dupant translated unnecessarily.

C.The truck is parked outside Lar Roa de Fuego, the Rose of Fire.

It’s a known establishment with cartel connections.

We’ve been building a case, but hadn’t moved yet.

Hernandez’s expression was stern.

Your missing officers have accelerated our timeline.

The convoy moved through Ojiaga’s streets, a mixture of paved roads and dirt paths.

The city was smaller than Prescidio, but more densely populated with buildings pressed close together and narrow alleys between.

As they entered the Zona Rosa, the character changed.

Neon signs advertised various establishments.

Music spilled from doorways and women in revealing clothing called out to passing men.

Cal Revol was a short, straight street lined with brothel, bars, and massage parlors.

The Freightlininer sat outside a two-story building painted garish pink with a neon rose sign flickering above the entrance.

Several other vehicles were parked nearby, suggesting the place was busy despite the late hour.

Capitan Hernandez coordinated the raid with military precision.

We go in fast.

Secure all exits.

DEA handles any drugs found.

My men process the Mexican nationals.

FBI assists with any Americans.

Detective Reyes, you and your partner focus on finding your officers.

They moved in simultaneously from front and rear entrances.

Simon heard shouts of Policia Federal as they burst through the doors.

The interior was a maze of narrow hallways, small rooms, and a central bar area.

Chaos erupted, men scrambling for exits, women screaming, the crash of furniture being overturned.

Simon and DuPont moved methodically through the building, checking each room.

They found terrified young women, some clearly drugged, others simply resigned to their fate.

DEA agents were already securing packages of what appeared to be heroin from a back office.

Mexican Federal Police had several men face down on the floor, including some Simon recognized from the dusty spur.

“Simon,” Dupont called from the second floor.

“I’ve got them.

” He rushed up the narrow stairs to find DuPont in a small room where deputies Debbie Carr and Trish Marorrow sat on a stained mattress.

They were still in their uniforms, though wrinkled and dirty.

Both women looked shocked, tears streaming down their faces.

“Thank God,” Trish whispered.

“We thought we thought no one would find us.

” “Get them out of here,” Simon told Dupont.

“I’ll keep searching for other Americans.

” He continued down the hallway, checking each room.

Most were empty now, their occupants having fled or been detained downstairs.

In the last room at the end of the hall, he found her.

The woman sat on the edge of the bed wearing a cheap silk robe.

She was in her early 40s, her once youthful face lined with years of hard living.

But even after 16 years, even in this place, Simon recognized Deputy Laya Ortega.

A man was trying to climb out the window, abandoning his customer at the first sign of police.

Laya sat perfectly still, staring at Simon with a mixture of shock and something else.

Shame, resignation, ma’am.

Simon began carefully in English, then switched to Spanish.

Seora.

Soy detective Simon Reyes depart policio.

I speak English, Laya said, her voice flat.

What are American police doing here? Simon stepped into the room, keeping his movements slow and non-threatening.

I’m Detective Reyes.

I’ve been working your missing person case.

You’re Deputy Laya Ortega, aren’t you? Something flickered in her eyes, surprised that anyone still remembered her name.

Perhaps.

You’re too late.

16 years too late.

It’s never too late, Simon said gently.

He radioed Dupont to continue securing Debbie and Trish, then closed the door to give Laya privacy.

I know this isn’t how you imagined being found, but you were a respected officer, and you still deserve dignity and respect.

Laya laughed bitterly, gesturing at the dingy room.

Dignity? Look what I’ve become.

Look at this place.

I’m exactly the kind of person we used to arrest.

You’re a victim, Simon corrected firmly.

What happened to you wasn’t your choice, and this morning we found Sheriff Hullbrook.

We know you didn’t leave willingly.

At Hullbrook’s name, Laya’s composure cracked.

Rey? You found Rey? in an outhouse in the Chinat mountains.

He’s been there all along.

Simon watched her process this information.

Your mother never stopped looking for you.

She never gave up hope.

That broke her completely.

Laya buried her face in her hands, sobbing.

Mama.

Oh, God.

I thought about her every day, but how can I face her like this? How can I go home after what I’ve been what I’ve done? Simon sat carefully on a wooden chair across from her, maintaining professional distance while showing compassion.

You survived.

That’s what matters.

And your mother wants you home no matter what.

The door opened and DuPont peered in.

Debbie and Trish are secured.

Medical team is checking them.

Other American women are being processed, too.

Simon nodded, then turned back to Laya.

We should get you out of here.

get you checked by medical staff.

Then we can arrange for you to see your mother.

Prescidio is only 30 minutes away.

She could be here within the hour.

Laya wiped her eyes, looking lost.

She’s probably sleeping.

It’s so late.

I don’t think she’s had a good night’s sleep in 16 years, Simon said gently.

Would you like me to call her? Laya stared at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

Yes, please.

I I need my mother.

They helped her gather what few possessions she had, mostly just some worn clothing.

The scene downstairs was controlled chaos.

Mexican authorities processing the brothel workers and patrons.

DEA agents cataloging drugs, FBI interviewing potential trafficking victims.

Through it all, Simon kept Laya close, shielding her from stairs, and maintaining her dignity.

Outside, medical teams had set up a triage area.

They checked Laya first, confirming she was stable despite years of abuse.

Debbie and Trish were also cleared for transport, though all three women would need comprehensive medical exams later.

Simon stepped away to make the call to Marisol Ortega, knowing he was about to deliver news that would change her life.

Behind him, in the neon lit night of Ojinaga’s darkest district, three women who’d been lost to different kinds of darkness were finally found.

The investigation was far from over, but for now at least, they were safe.

The Ojanaga Federal Police Station was a modest concrete building that smelled of strong coffee and disinfectant.

Given the international nature of the operation, Capitan Hernandez had arranged for the initial interviews to be conducted here before the American citizens were transported back to Prescidio.

Simon led Laya to a small interview room while DuPont took Debbie and Trish to another.

The room contained only a metal table and three chairs.

Laya sat across from Simon, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee someone had brought her.

She’d changed into a clean shirt and pants provided by the Mexican Red Cross, but she still looked fragile, as if she might shatter at any moment.

“I want to start by saying that you’re not under arrest,” Simon began, setting a recorder on the table.

“You’re a victim here, but I need to understand what happened 16 years ago and everything since.

” “Can you do that?” Laya nodded, her voice barely above a whisper.

Where do you want me to start? The beginning.

October 15th, 1985.

Your relationship with Sheriff Hullbrook.

The investigation you were conducting.

Laya took a shaky breath.

Ray and I were investigating rumors about missing girls.

Three young women from Prescidio County had vanished that summer, all suspected to be connected to trafficking operations.

We’d been following leads for weeks, getting closer to something big.

What was your relationship with Hullbrook? Professional.

He was my training officer when I first joined the force.

Despite what Debbie and Trish said later, Rey was a good man.

Tough, maybe old-fashioned, but he never crossed any lines with me or anyone else that I saw.

She paused, sipping her coffee.

That night, after our shift ended, we decided to check out the Dusty Spurs saloon.

Our informant said the truckers there might know something about the missing girls.

Simon leaned forward.

Walk me through what happened at the bar.

We arrived around 9:30.

The place was busy, lots of truckers.

Ray and I split up to ask questions, trying to seem casual.

I was talking to some drivers near the pool table when Ry called me over to the bar.

He’d ordered us both beers, said we needed to blend in.

Her face darkened with the memory.

I didn’t think anything of it.

We’d barely touched our drinks when I started feeling dizzy.

Ray, too.

I saw him gripping the bar, trying to stay upright.

You were drugged.

Rohypnol probably or something similar.

By the time we realized what was happening, it was too late.

We stumbled outside trying to get to our patrol car, but they were waiting for us.

Who was waiting? Four men.

I recognized one, Raul Espininoza, went by El Lobo.

He ran the trafficking operations between Prescidio and Ohinaga.

The others were his muscle.

Leela’s hands trembled around her coffee cup.

Ray tried to fight, even drugged.

He managed to pull his weapon, but he was outnumbered, uncoordinated from the drugs.

They beat him with tire irons.

When he still wouldn’t stop fighting, El Lobo shot him twice in the chest.

Simon made notes, his expression neutral despite the horror of what he was hearing.

What happened next? They were panicking.

Someone inside the bar had heard the gunshots and called it in.

I was barely conscious, but I heard them arguing about what to do.

They threw me in a van, and I saw them loading Ray’s body into a truck.

That’s when another patrol car arrived.

Debbie and Trish.

Laya nodded.

They were responding to the shots fired call, but instead of arresting anyone, I saw El Lobo talking to them, even drugged.

I could hear pieces of the conversation.

Extra money, protection, blame the sheriff.

They were making a deal.

Simon felt the pieces clicking into place.

So Debbie and Trish were already involved with the cartel.

I don’t think so.

Not before that night.

But Elobo was smart.

He knew they were desperate for money.

Everyone at the station knew about Debbie’s gambling debts and Trisha’s son’s medical bills.

He made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.

They helped cover up the murder.

They gave El Lobo’s men time to clean up the scene and get away.

Later, they must have helped dump Ray’s body in that outhouse, thinking it would be serviced and the body would disappear.

Then they came up with the story about Rey harassing them, making him look like the bad guy who’d probably run off with me.

Simon absorbed this information.

It matched what Dupont was likely hearing from Debbie and Trish in the other room.

What happened to you after that night? Laya’s composure finally cracked.

They took me to Odinaga, burned my ID, kept me sedated for weeks.

The things they did, she couldn’t continue for a moment.

They broke me, detective, physically, mentally, sexually.

By the time the drugs wore off and I understood where I was, I was too traumatized to fight.

They renamed me Lucia.

Put me to work in their brothel.

In 16 years, you never tried to escape.

How? Laya’s voice was bitter.

I had no identification, no money, no way to prove who I was.

The brothel was guarded constantly.

Other girls who tried to run were beaten or killed as examples.

And after a while, after years of that life, you start to believe you deserve it, that this is who you are now.

Your photo was never widely circulated.

Simon noted, “The scandal around Hullbrook’s supposed harassment overshadowed everything else.

” Elobo bragged about that once, how perfectly it had worked out.

Everyone was so focused on the sheriff being a predator that no one looked too hard for either of us.

A knock on the door interrupted them.

Dupont entered with a folder, her expression grim.

She handed it to Simon, who read quickly.

Debbie Carr had confessed to everything, the gambling debts that had spiraled out of control, the deal with El Lobo, helping to dispose of Hullbrook’s body.

Trish Marorrow’s statement was similar, driven by desperation to pay for her son’s leukemia treatments.

“They convinced themselves Hullbrook deserved it,” Simon read aloud from Trish’s statement.

“Either you help us or you vanish like the others.

That’s what Elbo told them.

This morning, when you found Ray’s body, they knew it was over.

” Laya said, “They must have tried to back out of their deal with the cartel and got grabbed for their trouble.

” Simon confirmed.

The cartel couldn’t risk them talking.

Another knock.

A Mexican officer informing them in Spanish that Laya’s mother had arrived.

Simon saw Leela’s face go pale.

She’s here.

But how did she get across so quickly? Border agents expedited her crossing.

She’s been waiting 16 years for this moment.

Simon stood.

Before we go out there, the medical team should check you properly.

Then we’ll arrange protective custody for both of you.

Safe house placement while we build the case against El Lobo and his organization.

They walked out of the interview room into the main station area.

Across the room, Simon saw Debbie and Trish being processed by Mexican authorities before their transport back to Prescidio for formal booking.

Both women kept their heads down, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

Then Simon saw her, Marisol Ortega, standing near the entrance, clutching a small purse.

16 years of grief and hope had aged her, but her eyes were still sharp, still searching.

When she saw Laya, her hand flew to her mouth.

Mika Aris 2, my daughter, is it you? Laya took a halting step forward.

Mama, I’m so sorry.

I’m so dirty, so broken.

I don’t deserve to be a law enforcement officer.

I couldn’t even protect myself.

How could I protect anyone else? I’ve done terrible things, become the kind of person we used to arrest.

But Marasol was already moving, crossing the room in quick steps to pull her daughter into her arms.

No, no, Miam.

Nothing that happened was your fault.

You’re my daughter, and I love you no matter what.

We can start over.

There are people who will help us.

They clung to each other.

16 years of separation dissolving in tears.

Around them, hardened police officers turned away to give them privacy.

More than one wiping at their eyes.

Simon approached them gently.

Mrs.Ortega, we’ve rescued dozens of women tonight from that brothel.

The DEA and Mexican authorities are raiding cartel warehouses as we speak.

Your daughter’s survival is going to help us shut down an entire trafficking network.

Marisol held Laya tighter.

She survived.

That’s all that matters.

We need to get Laya to a hospital for a full medical evaluation.

Simon continued.

You can ride with her, of course.

We’ll have security with you at all times, and then we’ll move you both to a safe house until the trials are over.

Both women nodded, still holding each other.

As they walked toward the waiting police vehicles, Laya turned back to Simon.

Detective, thank you for not giving up, for still seeing me as a person, not just what I became.

You were always Deputy Laya Ortega, Simon said firmly.

A good officer who was betrayed by the people who should have protected her.

Nothing that happened changes that.

As they stepped out into the pre-dawn darkness, the city of Ojanaga still slept, unaware that a 16-year nightmare had finally ended.

The police car pulled away from the station, carrying a mother and daughter toward healing, while behind them, the machinery of justice began to turn.

In the end, Simon reflected, the truth had been buried in the darkest of places, in an abandoned outhouse, in a border brothel, in the corrupted hearts of those sworn to protect and serve.

But truth, like hope, had a way of surviving even the deepest darkness.

And sometimes, against all odds, the lost, could still be found.