They Locked the Beach House From the Inside Then Disappeared — 28 Years Later, This Was Under Floor

In the summer of 1997, newlyweds Emily Brennan and Marcus Dalton checked into an oceanfront rental on Hallow Point Island for their honeymoon.

7 days later, their suitcases were found neatly packed by the door, breakfast dishes washed and stacked in the drying rack, and the beach house locked from the inside.

But Emily and Marcus were gone, vanished without a trace.

For 28 years, their disappearance remained one of the Pacific Northwest’s most haunting, unsolved mysteries.

Then, in March 2025, a construction crew demolishing the old beach house made a discovery that would finally reveal the horrifying truth about what happened during those seven days in Paradise.

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The house stood alone at the northern tip of Hallowoint Island, where the beach gave way to jagged rocks and the Pacific Ocean crashed against the shore with relentless fury.

Emily Dalton, Nay Brennan, stood on the deck, watching the sunset paint the water in shades of crimson and gold.

She pulled her sweater tighter against the evening chill, inhaling the salt air deeply.

“It’s beautiful here,” she called over her shoulder.

Marcus emerged from the sliding glass door, carrying two wine glasses, his smile warm in the fading light.

“Not as beautiful as you, Mrs.Dalton.

” He handed her a glass and they clinkedked them together softly.

They had been married for exactly one week, and the beach house had seemed like the perfect honeymoon destination, isolated enough for privacy, but close enough to the small town of Hallow Point that they could walk to restaurants and shops when they wanted.

The rental listing had shown a charming cedar-shaped cottage with floor to-seeiling windows overlooking the ocean, a stone fireplace, and a wraparound deck.

What the listing hadn’t mentioned was how the wind made the house groan at night, or how the nearest neighbor was almost a mile down the beach, or how the property owner, Mr.Garrett, watched them with an intensity that made Emily uncomfortable.

“Did you notice how he stared at us when we checked in?” Emily asked, taking a sip of wine.

Marcus shrugged.

“He’s probably just protective of his property.

Some owners are like that.

” Emily wanted to believe him, but something about the way Mr.

Garrett had lingered in the doorway, his eyes following her movements as she unpacked, had sent a chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the ocean breeze.

I’m probably being paranoid,” she said, forcing a smile.

“This place is perfect.

We’re going to have an amazing week.

” Marcus pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“We already are.

” As the sun disappeared below the horizon, neither of them noticed the figure standing in the dunes beyond the property line, watching the house with patient predatory focus.

The last light of day faded to black, and the ocean continued its eternal rhythm against the shore, indifferent to the darkness gathering around the isolated beach house.

The demolition crew arrived at the Hollow Point Beach House on a gray March morning in 2025.

The structure had stood vacant for nearly three decades, slowly deteriorating under the assault of salt air and Pacific storms.

The cedar shakes had turned black with rot.

Several windows were shattered and the deck had partially collapsed years ago.

Frank Morrison, the sight foreman, stood in his hard hat, surveying the property with a mixture of professional assessment and personal unease.

He had lived on Hallow Point Island his entire life, and everyone who had grown up here knew the story of the vanished honeymooners.

As a teenager in 1997, he had been part of the civilian search party that combed the beaches and woods for weeks after Emily and Marcus disappeared.

“All right, let’s get started,” Frank called to his crew.

“Remember, this structure is unstable.

No one goes inside until we’ve secured the supports.

” The excavator rumbled to life, its bucket arm extending toward the rear of the house where the foundation had shifted, creating a dangerous lean.

Frank watched as the machine began carefully pulling away the rotted deck boards, working methodically to avoid a sudden collapse.

2 hours into the demolition, one of the younger crew members, a man named Tyler, shouted from near the foundation, “Frank, you need to see this.

” Frank made his way across the debris strewn property, his boots crunching on broken glass and weathered wood.

Tyler stood frozen, his face pale, staring down into a gap that had opened in the crawl space beneath the house.

“What is it?” Frank asked, though something in his gut already knew.

Tyler pointed with a shaking hand.

“I think I think there’s someone down there.

” Frank knelt at the edge of the opening, pulling a flashlight from his tool belt.

He aimed the beam into the darkness beneath the house and his breath caught in his throat.

In the narrow crawl space barely 3 ft high, two shapes lay side by side.

Even after 28 years, the remains were unmistakable.

Two human skeletons still clothed in rotted fabric.

Beside them, a rusted metal toolbox and what appeared to be a camera.

Its lens cracked but intact.

“Dear God,” Frank whispered.

He stood abruptly, pulling out his cell phone.

“Everyone, stop working.

Nobody touches anything.

” Tyler, keep people away from this area.

His hands trembled slightly as he dialed 911.

The operator answered on the second ring.

“This is Frank Morrison at the old Garrett property on Northshore Road,” he said.

his voice steady despite the hammering of his heart.

We’ve found human remains.

Two bodies.

I think I think we just found Emily and Marcus Dalton.

Within an hour, the beach house property swarmed with law enforcement.

Police cruisers lined the narrow access road, their lights flashing against the gray sky.

Crime scene tape cordined off the entire lot.

and investigators in white protective suits carefully documented every detail of the scene.

Detective Sarah Chen, no, I need to avoid that name.

Let me use different names.

Detective Laura Vance stood outside the perimeter watching the forensic team work.

She had been with the Hollowpoint Police Department for 15 years, but the Dalton case predated her tenure.

Still, she knew the story.

Everyone in the Pacific Northwest knew the story.

The young couple who vanished from their honeymoon.

The locked beach house with no signs of struggle.

The massive search that yielded nothing.

The conspiracy theories that ranged from voluntary disappearance to alien abduction.

And now, after 28 years, they had been here all along, hidden in the crawl space of the very house they had rented.

Detective Vance.

A forensic technician approached carefully holding an evidence bag.

We found this with the remains.

Thought you should see it right away.

Laura took the bag, examining its contents.

A camera, old and water damaged, but potentially still containing images from 1997.

If the film inside had survived, it might finally answer the questions that had haunted this community for nearly three decades.

Get this to the lab immediately, Laura instructed.

Priority processing, and I want to know the moment we have anything from it.

The technician nodded and hurried away.

Laura turned her attention back to the scene, watching as the forensic team carefully extracted the remains from beneath the house.

The positioning of the bodies struck her as significant.

They were lying side by side almost peacefully as if they had been arranged rather than fallen or been thrown there.

Detective.

Another officer approached.

We’ve located the property owner, Reginald Garrett.

He’s been living in Portland for the past 20 years, but we’ve got his contact information.

Laura’s pulse quickened.

Reginald Garrett had been questioned extensively after the disappearance in 1997, but nothing had tied him to the couple’s vanishing.

He had an alibi, witnesses who placed him in Portland during the critical time period.

The investigation had eventually shifted away from him, focusing instead on theories of the couple wandering into the ocean or getting lost in the dense coastal forest.

“Bring him in for questioning,” Laura said.

I don’t care if we have to fly him back from Portland.

I want to talk to him today.

As she spoke, her phone buzzed.

The caller ID showed a Seattle area code.

Laura answered, stepping away from the noise of the scene.

Detective Vance, this is Sarah Brennan, a woman’s voice said tight with emotion.

I’m Emily Dalton’s sister.

I just saw the news.

Is it true? Did you find them? Laura closed her eyes briefly.

This was always the hardest part, speaking with the families.

Miss Brennan, we’ve discovered human remains at the property where your sister and brother-in-law stayed in 1997.

We’re still in the process of identification, but the circumstances suggest it could be them.

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, broken only by the sound of Sarah Brennan’s ragged breathing.

When she finally spoke, her voice was steady, but laced with steel.

I’m coming there to Hollow Point.

I need to know what happened to my sister.

Ms.

Brennan, I understand, but the investigation is just beginning.

It might be better to wait until Detective Vance, I’ve waited 28 years.

I’m not waiting another day.

I’ll be there tomorrow morning.

The line went dead.

Laura lowered her phone, looking back at the beach house.

The structure seemed to lean toward her as if it had been holding this secret for decades and was finally ready to confess.

Thunder rumbled in the distance as storm clouds gathered over the Pacific.

The forensic team continued their meticulous work photographing, measuring, and documenting the scene where Emily and Marcus Dalton had spent the last 28 years hidden in darkness just feet below where they had walked, laughed, and planned their future together.

Laura pulled her jacket tighter against the rising wind.

Somewhere in this scene was the truth about what happened in the summer of 1997, and she was determined to find it, no matter how deeply it had been buried.

Sarah Brennan stood at the window of her Seattle apartment, staring out at the city lights without really seeing them.

In her hand, she held a photograph creased from years of handling.

Emily on her wedding day, radiant in white, her arm linked with Marcus’, both of them glowing with happiness and hope.

That had been June 14th, 1997.

One week later, they were gone.

Sarah had been 23 years old, then, finishing her master’s degree in psychology.

Emily had been 26, a marine biologist working for the Seattle Aquarium, passionate about ocean conservation.

Marcus had been 28, an architect with a promising career ahead of him.

They had seemed to have everything.

Now Sarah was 51, her hair touched with gray, her life defined in many ways by the absence of her sister.

She had never married, never had children.

How could she bring new life into a world that could make people simply vanish? She set the photograph down carefully and picked up her phone, dialing a number she knew by heart.

“Mom, it’s me,” she said when her mother answered.

“Did you see the news?” Catherine Brennan’s voice was thick with tears.

“They found her, Sarah.

After all these years, they found our Emily.

” “I’m driving to Hallow Point tomorrow morning.

Do you want to come with me?” There was a long pause.

I can’t, Catherine finally said, her voice breaking.

I can’t see her like that.

Not after all this time.

But you go, sweetheart.

You find out what happened.

Emily would want you to know the truth.

After they hung up, Sarah moved through her apartment mechanically packing a bag for the trip.

She had been to Hollow Point Island twice before.

once right after the disappearance when she had joined the search parties and once 5 years later on the anniversary hoping somehow for a sign, a clue, anything.

The island was a small community accessible only by ferry about 2 hours from Seattle.

In 1997, it had been a quiet tourist destination known for its pristine beaches and charming bed and breakfasts.

The Dalton case had changed that, casting a shadow over the island that never quite lifted.

Sarah remembered the beach house.

She had gone there during that first visit, standing outside the locked door, trying to understand what could have happened.

The rental agency had let her inside briefly, and she had walked through the rooms, touching Emily’s things, searching for answers in the careful way her sister had organized her clothes.

The romance novel left face down on the nightstand, the half-used tube of sunscreen in the bathroom.

Everything had suggested they were coming back.

Everything except the fact that they never did.

Sarah arrived at Hollow Point Island the next morning after a restless night.

The ferry crossing was choppy, the water dark and agitated under a gray sky.

She stood on the deck, watching the island grow larger as they approached, its forested hills rising above the rocky shoreline.

The town of Hallow Point was much as she remembered it, a collection of weathered buildings clustered around a small harbor.

She drove her rental car through the quiet streets, past the grocery store where Emily and Marcus had presumably bought food, past the ice cream shop they might have visited, past all the ordinary places that had become extraordinary simply because they were the last places her sister had been seen.

The police station was a modest singlestory building on the edge of town.

Sarah parked and sat for a moment, gathering her courage.

She had spent 28 years preparing for this moment, but now that it was here, she felt unsteady, unsure if she really wanted to know the truth.

Finally, she stepped out of the car and walked into the station.

The officer at the front desk looked up with practiced sympathy.

“Sarah Brennan,” she said.

“I’m here to see Detective Vance.

” “Of course, Miss Brennan, she’s expecting you.

Please have a seat.

” Sarah sat in one of the plastic chairs in the small waiting area, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

She didn’t have to wait long.

A woman in her early 40s appeared, tall and athletic with sharp, intelligent eyes.

Ms.

Brennan, I’m Detective Laura Vance.

Thank you for coming.

I know this must be incredibly difficult.

Sarah stood, shaking the detective’s offered hand.

Please call me Sarah, and I need to know everything.

Whatever you found, I can handle it.

Detective Vance led her to a small conference room.

On the table was a folder unopened and a laptop.

Sarah’s heart hammered as she took a seat.

First, I need to confirm, Detective Vance said gently.

We’ve made a preliminary identification based on dental records.

The remains we found are those of Emily Dalton and Marcus Dalton.

I’m very sorry for your loss.

Sarah nodded slowly.

Some part of her had known from the moment she heard the news, but hearing it confirmed made it real in a way that 28 years of uncertainty never had.

How did they die? The medical examiner is still conducting the autopsy, but initial findings suggest they died from asphyxiation.

There’s no evidence of gunshot wounds or stabbing.

We’re also examining toxicology, though after this much time, that may be inconclusive.

They suffocated.

Sarah’s mind raced trying to understand how the crawl space.

We believe they may have been trapped down there.

Detective Vance said carefully.

The entrance to the crawl space was covered and sealed.

If someone locked them inside with the limited air supply, they would have lost consciousness within hours.

The horror of it washed over Sarah.

Emily, trapped in darkness, unable to breathe, unable to escape.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting nausea.

“There’s something else,” Detective Vance continued.

“We found a camera with the remains.

The film inside was damaged, but our lab technicians are working to recover any images that might have survived.

We should know something in the next day or two.

” Sarah looked up sharply.

“A camera?” Emily had her camera with her.

It appears so.

If we can recover the photos, they might show us what happened during those seven days.

who they interacted with, where they went.

Anything unusual they might have noticed.

What about the property owner? Sarah asked.

Reginald Garrett.

He was questioned back in 1997, wasn’t he? Detective Vance nodded.

Extensively, but he had an alibi.

Multiple witnesses placed him in Portland during the time your sister and Marcus were at the house.

We’re bringing him in again for questioning, but after this much time, memories may not be reliable.

Can I see the house? Sarah asked abruptly.

Detective Vance hesitated.

The scene is still being processed.

It’s not a good idea.

Please, Sarah said, her voice firm.

I need to see where she was, where she spent her last days.

I need to understand.

After a long moment, Detective Vance nodded.

All right, but you have to stay outside the perimeter and you have to prepare yourself, Sarah.

It’s not going to be easy.

20 minutes later, Sarah stood behind the crime scene tape, staring at what remained of the beach house.

The demolition had been halted, but significant damage had already been done.

Part of the rear wall had collapsed, and she could see into what had been the kitchen.

The windows were dark, empty eyes staring out at the ocean.

This is where the crawlspace entrance was located, Detective Vance said, pointing to the rear of the structure, beneath the deck, accessible only from outside.

Someone would have had to deliberately trap them there.

Sarah wrapped her arms around herself, though the day wasn’t particularly cold.

She tried to imagine Emily here, tried to picture her sister’s final moments, the terror, the desperation, the slow realization that they weren’t getting out.

Who would do this?” she whispered.

“Why?” “That’s what we’re going to find out,” Detective Vance promised.

As they stood there, Sarah noticed something that made her breath catch.

On one of the remaining deck posts, barely visible, someone had carved initials into the wood.

EB plus MD, Emily Brennan, and Marcus Dalton.

They had been so happy, so in love, ready to start their life together.

and someone had taken all of that away, sealing them in darkness to die slowly beneath the house where they should have been beginning there forever.

Sarah reached out, her fingers hovering just above the carved initials, unable to actually touch them across the crime scene tape.

A tear slid down her cheek, then another.

I’ll find who did this to you, she said quietly, speaking to her sister across the gulf of 28 years.

I promise, m I’ll find out the truth.

Detective Laura Vance sat in the interview room across from Reginald Garrett, studying the man who had owned the beach house where Emily and Marcus Dalton died.

At 73, Garrett was gaunt and frail, his hands trembling slightly as they rested on the table.

His attorney, a sharp-eyed woman named Patricia Holmes, sat beside him, watchful and protective.

“Mr.

Garrett, Laura began, her voice measured and calm.

I appreciate you coming all the way from Portland to speak with us.

I didn’t have much choice, did I? Garrett replied, his voice carrying a weeze that spoke of years of cigarette smoking.

But I’ll tell you the same thing I told the police in 1997.

I had nothing to do with those kids disappearing.

Laura opened the file in front of her, though she had already memorized its contents.

You rented the property to Emily Brennan and Marcus Dalton for one week from June 21st through June 28th, 1997.

That’s correct.

And you were in Portland during that entire period, correct? Garrett nodded.

I was settling my mother’s estate.

She had just passed away the week before.

I had lawyers, real estate agents, family members who can all verify I was there.

Laura had already checked.

His alibi was solid, documented in multiple sources.

But something about the case had always bothered the investigators back in 1997, and it bothered her now.

Who else had access to the property, Mr.

Garrett? He shifted in his seat.

The rental agency handled everything.

Beach Haven Properties.

They had a key for cleaning and maintenance.

Anyone else? Garrett hesitated, and Laura saw it.

a flicker of something in his eyes.

There and gone.

There was there was a maintenance man I used occasionally.

Helped with repairs, groundskeeping, that sort of thing.

Laura leaned forward slightly.

And his name Vincent Tully, but he’s dead now.

Died in 2003, I think, maybe 2004.

How did he die? Patricia Holmes interjected smoothly.

Detective, is this relevant to your investigation? My client has been cooperative, but it’s fine, Patricia, Garrett said, waving a dismissive hand.

Heart attack.

Vincent was a heavy drinker, overweight.

His ticker just gave out one day.

Laura made a note.

Did Vincent Tully have access to the beach house in June of 1997? He might have.

I mean, I gave him a key for emergencies, but I can’t say for certain whether he went out there during that week.

Garrett’s trembling increased, and he reached for the water glass on the table.

Look, I’ve thought about this for almost 30 years.

Those kids died in my house.

You think that doesn’t haunt me? But I don’t know what happened to them.

I wish to God I did.

Laura watched him carefully.

Either he was telling the truth or he was an exceptional liar.

Did you ever notice anything unusual about the property? The crawl space where they were found.

The crawl space was just for storage and accessing the plumbing.

It wasn’t meant for people to be in.

The entrance was around back covered by a piece of plywood.

He paused, his face paling.

Is it true what they’re saying that someone trapped them down there? The investigation is ongoing, Laura replied neutrally.

Mr.

Garrett, did Vincent Tully ever make you uncomfortable? Did he ever say or do anything that seemed off? Garrett considered this for a long moment.

Vincent was intense.

He had strong opinions about things, especially about people.

He didn’t like tourists much.

Thought they were ruining the island.

But I never thought he was dangerous.

Just set in his ways.

After the interview concluded and Garrett and his attorney had left, Laura’s partner, Detective James Ortega, entered the room.

He was younger than Laura by a decade, ambitious and thorough with a background in forensic psychology.

“What do you think?” James asked, settling into the chair Garrett had vacated.

“I think he’s telling the truth about his alibi,” Laura said.

“But this Vincent Tully angle is interesting.

We need to pull everything we can find on him.

” “Already on it,” James said, pulling out his tablet.

Vincent Robert Tully, born 1951, died August 2003.

Never married, lived alone in a trailer on the south end of the island.

Worked odd jobs, mostly maintenance and handyman work.

No criminal record beyond a couple of drunk and disorderly charges in the ‘9s.

Family: none living.

Parents died in the 80s.

No siblings.

But here’s something interesting.

James turned the tablet toward Laura.

Tully’s trailer was cleared out after his death by the county.

His belongings were either sold or thrown away, but I found a notation in the estate file.

Among his possessions were several cameras and what the inventory listed as numerous photographs of island locations and residents.

Laura’s pulse quickened.

Where are those photographs now? That’s the problem.

The inventory says they were disposed of, thrown in the dump, but there might be someone who knows more.

The county worker who handled the estate clearance still lives on the island, guy named Harold Pine, set up a meeting with him.

Laura instructed, “Today if possible.

” While Laura was interviewing Garrett, Sarah Brennan sat in a small cafe in downtown Hallow Point, nursing a cup of coffee and watching the locals come and go.

She had always been good at reading people, at picking up on the undercurrents in social situations.

It was part of what made her a successful psychologist.

The cafe was called the Driftwood, and it appeared to be the central gathering place for island residents.

An older woman behind the counter served coffee and pastries with practiced efficiency, greeting most customers by name.

Sarah had introduced herself when she arrived, and the woman whose name tag read Marlene had given her a look of deep sympathy.

“You are Emily’s sister,” Marleene had said quietly.

“I remember when she was here.

” “Sweet girl, so in love.

I’m so sorry about what happened.

” Now, as Sarah sat by the window, she noticed the conversations around her seemed to dip in volume whenever anyone glanced her way.

The island knew who she was, and they were watching.

A woman approached her table, 60ish, with weathered skin and kind eyes.

“Excuse me, you’re Sarah Brennan, aren’t you?” Sarah nodded.

“I am.

I’m Carol Fletcher.

I lived next door to the beach house about a mile down the shore.

I was one of the last people to see your sister alive.

Sarah’s breath caught.

Please sit down.

Carol settled into the chair across from her, wrapping her hands around her own coffee cup.

I’ve thought about Emily and Marcus so many times over the years.

I wish I had paid more attention, noticed something wrong.

What did you see? Sarah asked gently.

They came to my house on their third day here.

They were walking the beach and stopped to ask about the tides, whether it was safe to explore the tide pools at the point.

They seemed happy, excited.

Emily was taking pictures of everything.

Carol’s eyes grew distant with memory.

But there was something else.

They mentioned that someone had been watching the house at night.

Sarah leaned forward.

Watching? Did they say who? They didn’t know.

Emily said she had seen a figure in the dunes several times after dark just standing there.

Marcus tried to reassure her it was probably just another beachgoer, but she seemed genuinely unsettled by it.

Did they report it to anyone? Carol shook her head.

I told them they should mention it to the rental agency or even the police, but Marcus didn’t want to make a fuss.

He said they were leaving in a few days anyway.

She paused, her voice dropping.

That was June 24th, 3 days before they disappeared.

Did you see anyone around the property? Anyone who seemed suspicious? There was Vincent Tully, the maintenance man.

He was out there a lot that summer more than usual.

I saw his truck parked near the house several times.

Carol hesitated.

Vincent always made me uncomfortable.

The way he looked at women, especially young women, and he was possessive about that beach house, acted like it belonged to him rather than Garrett.

Sarah pulled out her phone, typing notes.

Is Vincent Tully still alive? Can I talk to him? He died years ago, but his property is still there, abandoned.

The county took it over for unpaid taxes, but nobody’s done anything with it.

Carol reached across the table and touched Sarah’s hand.

Be careful.

I don’t know what happened to your sister, but this island has secrets.

People here don’t like them disturbed.

After Carol left, Sarah sat alone with her thoughts.

A figure watching the house at night.

A maintenance man who was overly interested in the property.

A couple trapped and left to die beneath the floor.

The pieces were there, scattered across 28 years.

She just needed to fit them together.

She pulled out her phone and called Detective Vance.

I need to see Vincent Tully’s property,” she said when the detective answered.

“I think there might be something there.

” The film development lab called Detective Vance at 4:30 that afternoon.

She was in her car with James on the way to meet Harold Pine, the county worker who had cleared out Vincent Tully’s trailer in 2003.

Detective Vance, this is Brian Yoshida from the forensic lab.

We’ve recovered images from the camera you sent us.

Laura put the call on speaker so James could hear.

How many images? 12 that are viewable, though some are heavily degraded.

But detective, you need to see these.

There’s something in several of the photos that’s disturbing.

We’re 20 minutes out.

Can you send them to my email? Already done, but I’m warning you.

The last few images are going to raise questions.

Laura thanked him and disconnected, then pulled over into a parking lot.

She opened her laptop and pulled up her email.

James leaned over from the passenger seat as the images loaded.

The first photograph showed Emily and Marcus on the deck of the beach house, both smiling, the ocean sparkling behind them.

Emily wore a sundress, her dark hair lifted by the breeze.

Marcus had his arm around her, his expression one of complete contentment.

The next several images were typical vacation photos.

The couple at the beach collecting shells, walking along the waterline, sitting on a blanket watching the sunset.

Emily had clearly been the primary photographer as most shots featured Marcus, though a few showed both of them, presumably taken by passers by or with the camera’s self-timer.

But the eighth photograph changed everything.

It showed the view from the beach house deck at dusk.

In the foreground was the railing and beyond it the beach and dunes.

But there, partially hidden behind a clump of seaggrass, was a figure, a man standing motionless, watching the house.

The image was slightly blurry, taken in low light, but the posture was clear.

He wasn’t walking past.

He was observing.

That’s what Carol Fletcher told Sarah about.

Laura murmured.

Someone watching the house.

The next image was similar, taken from a different angle, perhaps through a window.

The same figure, closer now, standing at the edge of the property.

The shadows made it impossible to identify facial features, but the build suggested a larger man, broadshouldered.

The 10th photograph made Laura’s stomach tighten.

It showed the interior of the beach house at night, the flash creating harsh shadows.

In the frame was the sliding glass door leading to the deck, and pressed against the glass looking in was a face.

The flash had caught it perfectly, freezing the moment.

A man older with a heavy brow and thick beard.

His expression was intense, predatory.

“Jesus,” James whispered.

The 11th image was even more disturbing.

It appeared to have been taken hastily, the composition offc center and blurred by motion.

It showed a section of the beach house floor and in the corner of the frame, a pair of boots.

Someone was inside the house with them.

The final photograph was the worst.

It was dark, chaotic, clearly taken in panic.

The image showed a hand reaching toward the camera, fingers spled.

In the murky background were wooden beams and darkness.

The crawl space.

Emily had taken this photo from inside the crawl space.

Laura sat back, her mind racing.

They knew they were being watched.

They documented it and they still ended up trapped.

The question is, who is the man in these photos? James said.

Could it be Vincent Tully? We need a photograph of Tully to compare, Laura replied, closing the laptop.

Let’s hope Harold Pine has something useful.

They found Harold Pine at his small house on the outskirts of town, a tidy property with a well-maintained garden.

Pine was in his late 60s, a compact man with sharp eyes and a firm handshake.

“Come in, detectives,” he said, leading them to a cluttered living room.

“I heard you wanted to ask about Vincent Tully.

Hell of a thing finding those kids after all this time.

” Mr.

Pine, you handled the clearance of Vincent Tully’s property after his death in 2003.

Is that correct? Laura asked.

That’s right.

County hired me to do estate clearances for properties that went unclaimed.

Vincent had no family, no will.

Place was a disaster, too.

He was a hoarder.

Kept everything.

The inventory mentioned cameras and photographs, James said.

Do you remember those? Pine nodded slowly.

Yeah, I remember.

Vincent had three or four old cameras and boxes of photographs.

Thousands of them.

Most were just landscapes, beach scenes, that kind of thing.

But some were, he trailed off, his expression troubled.

Some were what, Laura prompted.

Some were of people, young women, mostly.

Tourists, I think, based on the clothing and the way they were posed.

But they didn’t look like they knew they were being photographed.

Candid shots taken from a distance or through windows.

Laura and James exchanged glances.

What happened to those photographs? I was supposed to dispose of everything, but I didn’t feel right about it.

Those photos seemed wrong, you know.

So, I kept a box of them, thinking maybe I should report it to the police.

But Vincent was dead, and I didn’t know if the women in the photos were in any danger.

And I just I put it off.

He stood abruptly.

“Wait here.

” He left the room and returned a few minutes later, carrying a cardboard box, aged and dusty.

I kept meaning to go through these properly, but I never did.

Maybe I didn’t want to know what I’d find.

Laura opened the box carefully.

Inside were hundreds of photographs, many showing young couples on the beach, at restaurants, walking through town.

All appeared to have been taken without the subject’s knowledge.

James pulled out a photograph and held it up.

Laura, look at this.

The image showed a young couple on the deck of a beach house.

The woman wore a sundress, her dark hair lifted by the breeze.

The man had his arm around her, Emily and Marcus Dalton.

Laura’s hands weren’t quite steady as she took the photograph.

It was taken from ground level, shot through the deck railing from the beach.

Vincent Tully had been photographing them during their honeymoon.

“There’s more,” Pine said quietly, reaching into the box.

He pulled out a small stack of photos and spread them on the coffee table.

All showed Emily and Marcus on the beach through the windows of the beach house, even sleeping on the deck in the sun.

Someone had been documenting their every move, watching them constantly.

“We need to take this box as evidence,” Laura said.

All of it.

Pine nodded.

There’s something else you should know.

When I was clearing out Vincent’s trailer, I found a journal.

I threw it away with most of the other papers, but I remember some of what it said because it stuck with me.

He wrote about the tourists, about how they didn’t belong on the island, how they violated the sanctity of the place.

He paused, his face grave.

He called them invaders, and he wrote about teaching them lessons.

Laura felt a chill run down her spine.

Do you remember if he mentioned anyone specifically? He didn’t use names, just descriptions.

The bride in the white dress, the couple in the yellow car, that kind of thing.

Pine met her eyes.

There was one entry near the end of the journal dated late June 1997.

It said, “The honeymooners are learning.

They watch for me now, but they don’t understand.

This island takes what it wants, and I am its instrument.

I remember it because it gave me nightmares.

James was already on his phone calling the station.

We need to get a forensic team to Tully’s old property.

If he kept journals, there might be more evidence there.

Laura stood carefully, gathering the box of photographs.

Mr.

Pine, thank you for keeping these.

You may have just given us the break we needed.

As they loaded the box into their car, Laura’s phone rang.

Sarah Brennan’s name appeared on the screen.

Sarah, I was just about to call you.

We’ve had some developments.

I’m at Vincent Tully’s property, Sarah said, her voice tight with tension.

Detective, you need to get here now.

I found something in the trailer.

There’s a false panel in the floor, and underneath it there are things, personal items, women’s jewelry, identification cards, more cameras.

Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper.

Detective, I don’t think Emily and Marcus were the only ones.

I think there were others.

Laura was already starting the car.

James calling for backup beside her.

Sarah, get out of that trailer now.

Do not touch anything else.

We’re on our way.

As they raced toward Tully’s abandoned property, Laura’s mind churned with horrifying possibilities.

If Sarah was right, if there had been other victims, then the beach house wasn’t just the sight of a double murder.

It was the end point of a pattern, the final act of a predator who had been hunting on Hallow Point Island for years.

And they were only just beginning to uncover the truth.

Vincent Tully’s former property sat on 3 acres of overgrown land at the southern tip of Hollow Point Island, where the road turned to gravel, and civilization seemed to fade away.

The trailer itself was a rusted hulk, its white paint long since surrendered to weather and neglect.

Blackberry vines had claimed the sides, and the windows were dark, some broken, others simply obscured by grime.

Sarah stood outside the trailer, her heart hammering, waiting for Detective Vance to arrive.

She knew she should have called before entering the property, should have waited for the police.

But something had compelled her forward, some need to find answers that had been denied for 28 years.

The false panel in the floor had been well hidden, covered by a piece of torn lenolum, and disguised by the general decay of the trailer’s interior.

She had only found it because she had stepped on it and felt it give slightly beneath her weight.

When she pulled up the lenolium, she discovered a section of plywood that lifted away to reveal a shallow space beneath.

Inside that space lay the remnants of lives interrupted.

A woman’s earring distinctive with a turquoise stone, a student ID card from 1989 showing a smiling blonde girl named Jennifer Hartley.

a man’s watch with an inscription on the back too worn to read completely, a driver’s license for someone named David Chen from 1992, and cameras, three of them, older models that predated digital photography.

Sarah had backed away then, her hands shaking, and called Detective Vance.

Now she waited, her mind assembling a picture she didn’t want to see.

Vincent Tully hadn’t just been a voyer, he had been taking trophies.

Detective Vance’s car roared up the gravel drive within 15 minutes, followed closely by two patrol cars and a forensic van.

Laura emerged from her vehicle, her expression grim.

“Sarah, are you all right?” “I’m fine,” Sarah said, though her voice was unsteady.

“I’m sorry I didn’t wait.

I just show me what you found.

” Sarah led Laura and the forensic team into the trailer.

The interior was worse than the exterior, filled with the detritus of a solitary life.

Empty bottles, stacks of mouldering newspapers, broken furniture.

The air was thick with the smell of decay and mildew.

Here, Sarah said, pointing to the exposed compartment in the floor.

Laura knelt beside it, carefully examining the contents without touching them.

Get photos of everything in sichu, she instructed the forensic team.

Then bag each item separately.

I want every piece of identification run through missing person’s databases.

James Ortega appeared in the doorway, backlit by the afternoon sun.

Laura, there’s more.

We found a shed out back.

It’s locked, but there’s something inside.

We can hear it.

Laura stood quickly.

What do you mean you can hear it? Like a humming sound.

Electrical.

And there’s a generator running.

They made their way through the overgrown yard to a weathered shed about 20 ft from the trailer.

It was larger than expected, perhaps 15 by 20 ft with no windows and a heavy padlock on the door.

A thick power cable ran from a small generator to the shed.

“Why would a generator be running in a shed on an abandoned property?” James asked.

Laura approached the shed carefully, pressing her ear against the wooden wall.

The humming was distinct now, and beneath it, she could hear the unmistakable sound of a refrigeration unit.

“Get bolt cutters,” she ordered.

“Now,” within minutes, the padlock was removed and the door swung open.

The interior of the shed was dark, except for a faint glow from a series of small lights.

As Laura’s eyes adjusted, she saw that the space had been converted into a dark room and storage area.

Clothes lines stretched across the ceiling.

Chemical baths sat on a workbench.

And against the far wall stood three old refrigerators, all running, their doors closed.

“What the hell?” James whispered.

Laura moved to the first refrigerator, her hand hesitating on the handle.

She had spent 15 years in law enforcement, had seen terrible things, but something about this moment filled her with dread.

She pulled the door open.

Inside, carefully organized on glass shelves, were dozens of film canisters, each labeled with dates and brief descriptions.

Laura pulled out one canister at random.

The label read July 1991.

Couple from California beach house.

There must be hundreds of them, James said, looking into the other refrigerators.

He documented everything.

Sarah had followed them into the shed.

She stood frozen, staring at the canisters.

How many people? She asked quietly.

How many did he watch? Laura began carefully removing canisters, reading the labels.

Some dated back to the early 1980s, others as recent as 2002, a year before Tully’s death.

Most were labeled with simple descriptions, couples, families, young women.

But some had more disturbing notations.

June 1997.

Honeymooners.

Final lesson.

Laura held up the canister so Sarah could see it.

The younger woman’s face went pale.

“That’s them,” Sarah whispered.

“That’s Emily and Marcus.

” “We need to develop all of these,” Laura said.

“Every single one.

If there are other victims, if Tully did more than just watch, we need to know.

” By evening, the forensic team had cataloged over 300 film canisters from the refrigerators along with dozens of personal items from the hidden compartment in the trailer.

The items were photographed, documented, and carefully packed for transport to the forensic laboratory.

Laura stood outside the shed as the sun set, watching the team work.

Her phone rang and she saw it was the chief of police, Robert Manning.

Vance, what the hell is going on out there? I’m getting calls from the mayor, from concerned citizens.

People are saying we have a serial killer.

We might, Chief, Laura said honestly.

We’ve found evidence that Vincent Tully was surveilling tourists and visitors for years, possibly decades.

We’ve recovered identification from at least six individuals, and we have hundreds of rolls of film that need to be developed and analyzed.

Jesus Christ,” Manning breathed.

“Do we know if any of these people are actually missing or did he just steal their IDs? We’re running the names through databases now, but Chief, the Dalton couple, weren’t just watched, they were murdered.

” And Tully’s journal entry from June 1997 suggests he considered their deaths a lesson.

We have to assume the worst until we know otherwise.

I’m authorizing overtime for your entire team.

Whatever resources you need, you’ve got them.

But Laura, we need answers and we need them fast.

This island survives on tourism.

If word gets out that we had a killer praying on visitors for years.

I understand, Chief.

We’re working as fast as we can.

After the call ended, Laura walked back to the trailer where Sarah was sitting on the steps, her arms wrapped around her knees.

The older woman looked exhausted, hollowed out by the day’s discoveries.

“You should go back to your hotel,” Laura said gently.

“Get some rest.

This is going to be a long investigation.

” “I can’t rest,” Sarah replied, not knowing that there might be other families out there, other sisters and brothers and parents who don’t know what happened to their loved ones.

She looked up at Laura.

“How could one person do this? How could he watch people terrorize them and no one noticed? He was careful.

He chose victims who were transient, people who were just passing through.

And he had the perfect cover, working as a maintenance man, having legitimate reasons to be near the properties.

Laura sat down beside Sarah on the steps, but he made mistakes, too.

He kept trophies.

He documented his activities.

And now, finally, we can piece together what he did.

Sarah was quiet for a moment, then said, “I want to see the photos from Emily’s camera again, the ones showing him watching them.

I need to understand what they were going through.

” Laura pulled out her tablet and opened the forensic files.

She scrolled through the images until she reached the photographs recovered from Emily’s camera.

Together, they studied the pictures of the man standing in the dunes, pressing his face against the window, the final desperate image from inside the crawl space.

“They knew something was wrong,” Sarah said, her voice thick with emotion.

“They knew they were in danger, but they didn’t know how to escape it.

” “Look at this,” Laura said, zooming in on one of the images, the one of him at the window.

“What’s that in his hand?” Sarah leaned closer.

In the photograph, the man’s right hand was visible, and in it he held something small and rectangular.

“Is that a key?” “I think so,” Laura said.

He was showing them that he had a key, that he could get in anytime he wanted.

She zoomed in further, trying to make out details of the man’s face.

The beard was thick and unckempt, the eyes shadowed, but intense.

We need a confirmed photograph of Vincent Tully to compare to this.

Something from his driver’s license or work records.

James appeared from around the trailer.

Laura, we’ve got a hit on one of the IDs from the hidden compartment.

Jennifer Hartley, the student ID from 1989.

She was reported missing by her parents in August of that year.

She had been vacationing on Hallow Point Island with friends.

Her body was never found.

Laura stood slowly, a cold weight settling in her chest.

Get everything we have on the Hartley case, and start cross-referencing the other IDs against missing person’s reports from the Pacific Northwest.

If Jennifer Hartley disappeared after being here, others might have, too.

There’s more,” James continued, his expression troubled.

“The watch we found had an inscription.

We were able to clean it enough to read.

It says to David Love always Michelle June 1992.

David Chen’s driver’s license was dated 1992.

Find out if David Chen was ever reported missing, Laura ordered.

And if there was a Michelle in his life as James walked away to make calls, Sarah stood beside Laura, looking out at the darkening property.

The generator continued its steady hum, powering the refrigerators that held Vincent Tully’s archive of obsession.

“How many?” Sarah asked quietly.

“How many people did he hurt?” “We don’t know yet,” Laura replied.

“But we’re going to find out.

Every single one.

” In the distance, the lights of Hallow Point Town glimmered against the gathering night.

A quiet island community that had harbored a monster for decades, never knowing that the man who fixed their porches and mowed their lawns was documenting their visitors with predatory intent, and perhaps doing far worse than simply watching.

The investigation had only just begun, but Laura knew with certainty that before it was over, they would uncover secrets that had been buried for a generation.

and the truth when it finally emerged would change Hallowoint Island forever.

The forensic laboratory worked through the night processing the film canisters recovered from Vincent Tully’s shed.

By morning, the first batch of developed photographs lay spread across multiple tables in the conference room at Hallow Point Police Department, a chronological gallery of surveillance and obsession.

Laura arrived at 7:00 a.

after only 3 hours of sleep.

She found James already there, dark circles under his eyes, studying the photographs with a magnifying glass.

“How long have you been here?” she asked.

“Never left,” he admitted.

“Laura, you need to see this.

We’ve identified at least 15 different couples or individuals who appear to have been photographed without their knowledge between 1983 and 2002.

” The photographs told a disturbing story.

Vincent Tully had developed a pattern over the years, starting with simple surveillance shots, distant images of people on the beach or walking through town.

But as time progressed, the photographs became more invasive.

Pictures taken through windows, images of people sleeping, couples in intimate moments, all captured without consent.

Here’s the progression, James said, organizing several series of photos.

He would start photographing them from a distance.

Then he’d move closer, get inside their rental property somehow, and in several cases, the final photos show signs of confrontation.

He pointed to a series from 1989.

The images showed a young blonde woman and her companion, matching the description of Jennifer Hartley and her vacation group.

Early photos showed them on the beach laughing, enjoying the sun.

Later, images were taken through windows, showing them inside what appeared to be a beach cottage.

The final photographs in the series showed the woman alone, looking frightened, apparently aware she was being watched.

There are no more photos after that, James said quietly.

Nothing to show what happened next.

Laura examined the photos carefully.

In one of them, Jennifer Hartley was looking directly at the camera, her expression one of terror.

He wanted them to know he was watching.

The fear was part of it for him.

We’ve confirmed five missing persons cases that correlate with dates on Tully’s film canisters, James continued.

Jennifer Hartley in 1989, David Chen and Michelle Reeves in 1992, a couple named Thomas and Angela Price in 1995, and Emily and Marcus Dalton in 1997.

“What about the others?” Laura asked, looking at the photographs of people whose names they didn’t yet know.

“We’re working on it.

Some of them might have left the island without incident.

But some,” he trailed off, the implication clear.

Laura’s phone buzzed with a text from the medical examiner.

She read it quickly, then looked up at James.

The ME has finished the preliminary autopsy on Emily and Marcus Dalton.

Cause of death was esphyxiation, as we suspected.

But there’s more.

They found evidence of sedatives in the bone marrow analysis.

Tully drugged them before trapping them in the crawl space.

James ran a hand through his hair.

“So they were unconscious when he put them down there.

They might not have even known what was happening until they woke up.

” “Or maybe that was worse,” Laura said quietly, waking up in the dark, unable to escape, slowly running out of air.

A knock on the conference room door interrupted them.

Officer Rachel Kim entered, carrying a folder.

Detectives, we’ve located Vincent Tully’s service records from when he worked for various property owners on the island.

You’re going to want to see this.

She spread the documents on the table.

They showed a list of properties where Tully had worked between 1980 and 2003 performing maintenance, repairs, and seasonal preparations.

“Notice anything?” Rachel asked.

Laura scanned the list and her blood ran cold.

Every property where one of the identified missing persons had stayed was on the list.

Tully had legitimate access to all of them.

He chose his hunting grounds carefully, James said.

Only places where he already had keys where he could come and go without raising suspicion.

Which means there could be more victims we haven’t identified yet, Laura added.

Anyone who stayed at one of these properties during the years Tully worked there could potentially have been targeted.

Sarah Brennan spent the morning at the Hollow Point Island Historical Society, a small museum housed in a converted church building.

She had slept poorly, haunted by images of Emily trapped in darkness, and had decided that more research might help her understand the island’s history and Vincent Tully’s place in it.

The historical society was run by an elderly woman named Margaret Sutton, who had lived on the island her entire 87 years.

She greeted Sarah with warm sympathy.

“I remember when your sister disappeared,” Margaret said, leading Sarah through the cluttered museum.

“The whole island searched for weeks.

We all hoped she and her husband had just gotten lost, that they’d turn up somewhere safe.

” “Mrs.

Sutton, what can you tell me about Vincent Tully?” Sarah asked.

Margaret’s expression darkened.

Vincent was a troubled soul.

His parents were harsh people, very strict.

His father was a fisherman who drank too much and his mother was religious to the point of fanaticism.

Vincent grew up isolated, didn’t have friends, didn’t really know how to interact with people normally.

She led Sarah to a series of old photographs on the wall, island life from decades past.

In one image from 1965, Sarah saw a group of school children.

Margaret pointed to a boy standing apart from the others, heavy set and unsmiling.

That’s Vincent, about 14 years old.

Even then, he was different.

He used to watch people, study them like they were specimens.

Some of the other kids found dead animals he’d hidden, arranged in strange ways.

Nothing was ever proven, but people talked.

“Did anyone ever suspect he might be dangerous to people?” Sarah asked.

Margaret hesitated.

There were rumors over the years, young women who felt uncomfortable around him, tourists who complained about feeling watched, but Vincent was always careful.

He never did anything that could be proven, never crossed a line publicly, and he did good work, was reliable and cheap.

So, people hired him despite their misgivings.

Sarah moved to another photograph.

This one from the early 1990s, showing the island’s small business district.

“Were there any other disappearances before my sister? Anyone who might have been forgotten?” “There were people who went missing over the years,” Margaret admitted.

“But this is a coastal area with strong currents and rocky cliffs.

Accidents happen.

People assume drowning, falls, that sort of thing.

It never occurred to us that someone might be deliberately hurting visitors.

She led Sarah to a filing cabinet and pulled out a folder.

I keep records of significant events on the island.

Here are the incidents I remember from the 80s and ‘9s.

Sarah opened the folder and found newspaper clippings, handwritten notes, and memorial notices.

As she read through them, a pattern emerged that made her stomach churn.

In 1983, a young couple from Portland had disappeared while hiking.

In 1987, a solo female traveler vanished after checking into a beach cottage.

In 1989, Jennifer Hartley.

In 1992, David Chen and Michelle Reeves.

The list continued.

Mrs.

Sutton.

Were all of these investigated? Some were.

The local police did what they could, but resources were limited, and without bodies or evidence of foul play, most were classified as accidents or voluntary disappearances.

Margaret’s eyes were sad.

I think we all wanted to believe our island was safe, that these were just tragic coincidences.

Sarah pulled out her phone and photographed each page in the folder.

Thank you for this.

It might help the police understand the full scope of what Tully did.

As she was leaving the historical society, her phone rang.

Detective Vance’s name appeared on the screen.

Sarah, we’ve made a connection.

We found evidence that Vincent Tully had a partner.

Sarah stopped walking.

What? In the photographs we’ve developed, there are several where the angle and positioning suggest they were taken by someone else.

And we found receipts in Tully’s trailer for purchases of equipment that required two people to operate.

We think he had help at least sometimes.

Who, Sarah demanded.

Who would help someone do this? We don’t know yet, but there’s a name that keeps appearing in Tully’s records.

Someone he referred to in notes as RG.

We’re trying to identify them now.

After the call ended, Sarah stood on the sidewalk trying to process this new information.

One predator was horrifying enough, but the thought that someone had assisted him had enabled his crimes made it even worse.

She walked back toward her hotel, lost in thought, barely noticing the quaint shops and galleries she passed.

Hallow Point looked like a postcard, a charming island getaway.

But beneath that pleasant surface lay decades of secrets and pain.

A man stepped out of a coffee shop ahead of her, and Sarah nearly collided with him.

She looked up to apologize and found herself face to face with a man in his 70s, well-dressed with silver hair and sharp blue eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

“I wasn’t watching where I was going.

” The man studied her with an intensity that made her uncomfortable.

You’re Emily Brennan’s sister, he said.

It wasn’t a question.

Yes.

How did you? You look like her.

The same eyes, the same way of standing.

He extended his hand.

Richard Garrett.

I’m Reginald Garrett’s younger brother.

I live here on the island.

Sarah shook his hand reflexively, her mind racing.

Your brother owned the house where my sister died.

I’m aware, Richard said, his expression unreadable.

I want you to know that Reginald had nothing to do with what happened.

He’s a good man who rented a property to your sister in good faith.

The police seem to agree, Sarah said carefully.

His alibi is solid.

Yes, well, Vincent Tully is a different matter entirely.

Richard’s face darkened.

That man was poison.

I told Reginald not to hire him, but Vincent worked cheap and did good work.

We all enabled him in our way by turning a blind eye to his strangeness.

Did you know him well? Well enough to dislike him.

He made me uncomfortable.

The way he looked at people, especially women.

Richard paused.

There’s something you should know.

Vincent had a friend, another odd character named Robert Grimes.

They were thick as thieves, always working together on projects.

Robert left the island years ago.

But if you’re looking for someone who might have helped Vincent with his activities, Robert would be my guess.

Sarah’s pulse quickened.

Robert Grimes.

RG.

Where can I find Robert Grimes now? I have no idea.

He left in 2003, right around the time Vincent died, sold his property, and vanished.

Some people said he couldn’t stand to be here without Vincent.

That they were closer than friends, if you understand my meaning.

Sarah thanked Richard Garrett and immediately called Detective Vance with this new information.

As she relayed what she had learned, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the investigation was about to crack open in ways none of them had anticipated.

Vincent Tully was dead beyond the reach of justice.

But if Robert Grimes was alive, if he had participated in Tully’s crimes, then perhaps there was still a chance for accountability.

and perhaps Grimes could answer the questions that Tully never would.

Detective Laura Vance stood in front of the whiteboard in the conference room, adding Robert Grimes’s name to the growing web of connections.

Beside her, James was on the phone with the state police database trying to track down any current information on Grimes.

We have a 2003 address for Robert Grimes in Tacoma, Washington, James reported.

But he moved from there in 2007.

After that, the trail goes cold.

No tax records, no employment history, no driver’s license renewals.

People don’t just disappear, Laura said.

Either he’s using a different name or something happened to him.

Sarah had joined them at the station, unable to stay away from the investigation.

She studied the photographs of Vincent Tully that had been pulled from old driver’s license records, comparing them to the images from Emily’s camera.

“It’s him,” she confirmed.

“The man watching the house, the one at the window.

That’s Vincent Tully.

” Laura nodded.

She had already been certain, but the confirmation was important.

Sarah, you said Richard Garrett suggested Tully and Grimes were close.

Did he elaborate on what he meant? He implied they might have been romantically involved, or at least that there was an intense emotional connection between them.

James pulled up a file on his laptop.

I found something interesting.

Robert Grimes filed a missing person’s report in August 2003, claiming Vincent Tully had disappeared, but we know Tully died of a heart attack in his trailer that month.

His body was found by a postal worker after neighbors complained about the smell.

So, why would Grimes file a missing person’s report? Laura asked.

Unless he didn’t know Tully was dead, Sarah suggested.

Or he was creating an alibi for himself, making it look like he was concerned and had no idea what happened.

Laura’s phone rang.

The medical examiner’s office.

She answered, listening intently, her expression growing more grave with each passing second.

Thank you, doctor.

Send me the full report.

She ended the call and turned to James and Sarah.

They finished analyzing the remains from the crawl space.

Emily and Marcus weren’t just sedated.

They were bound.

Fragments of rope were found mixed with the remains.

Tully didn’t just trap them down there.

He tied them up first.

Sarah’s face went white.

She sat down heavily in one of the chairs, her hands trembling.

They were helpless.

Completely helpless.

There’s more,” Laura continued, her voice gentle but firm.

The me found evidence of older injuries on both skeletons, bruising patterns on the bones consistent with being struck repeatedly before death.

They were tortured.

The room fell silent.

The horror of what Emily and Marcus had endured in their final hours was almost incomprehensible.

James broke the silence.

Laura, we just got the analysis back on the other personal items from Tully’s trailer.

The jewelry, the watches, all of it.

Seven separate individuals have been identified through DNA comparisons with missing persons databases.

Seven people who came to this island and never left.

Emily and Marcus make nine, Sarah whispered.

That we know of, Laura added grimly.

There could be more bodies we haven’t found.

people who were never reported missing.

By afternoon, the investigation had expanded to include FBI involvement.

The scope of Tully’s crimes spanning two decades and potentially crossing state lines warranted federal resources.

Special Agent Monica Rivera arrived from Seattle, bringing with her a team of forensic specialists and database experts.

We are treating this as a serial murder investigation, Agent Rivera explained in a briefing with Laura’s team.

Vincent Tully fits the profile of an organized, methodical killer who selected victims based on opportunity and specific criteria.

The fact that he kept trophies and photographic records is consistent with someone who derived psychological satisfaction from reliving his crimes.

What about Robert Grimes? Laura asked.

We’re making him a person of interest.

If he assisted Tully, he could be charged as an accomplice to murder.

But first, we need to find him.

Rivera pulled up a photograph on the screen, a driver’s license photo from 1999, showing a thin man with dark hair and intense eyes.

This is the most recent photo we have of Robert Grimes.

He would be 71 now.

We’ve issued a bolo and we’re checking with social security to see if he’s collecting benefits under his real name.

Sarah stared at the photograph of Robert Grimes.

There was something familiar about him, though she couldn’t place it.

Can I get a copy of this photo? I’d like to show it around the island.

See if anyone has seen him recently.

That’s not advisable, Agent Rivera began.

But Laura interrupted.

Sarah has been helpful to this investigation and she has a personal stake in finding answers.

Let her help.

Rivera considered this then nodded reluctantly.

Fine, but if you find anything, you contact us immediately.

Do not approach Grimes if you locate him.

He may be dangerous.

Sarah took several printed copies of Grimes’s photograph and left the police station.

She walked through downtown Hallow Point, stopping at shops and restaurants, showing the photo to anyone who would look.

Most people shook their heads, unable to place the face.

But at a small hardware store on the edge of town, an elderly clerk studied the photograph with narrowed eyes.

“I know him,” the clerk said slowly.

“I knew someone who looked like him, but that’s not the name he used.

” Sarah’s heart raced.

When did you see him? What name did he use? He came in here about 6 months ago.

Bought some tools and supplies.

Said his name was Robert Gaines.

Paid cash.

The clerk tapped the photo.

But it’s the same man.

I’m sure of it.

He’s older now, thinner, but those eyes don’t change.

Did he say where he was staying? He mentioned he was renting a place on the south end of the island.

didn’t say exactly where, but he asked about the best route to Southshore Road.

Sarah thanked him and immediately called Detective Vance.

He’s here.

Robert Grimes is on the island using the name Robert Gaines.

Within an hour, every available law enforcement officer was searching the south end of Hallow Point Island.

The area was sparssely populated, mostly vacation rentals and a few yearround residents living in isolated properties.

Laura and James worked with local property managers to identify recent rentals to anyone matching Grimes’s description.

They found three possibilities, all rented within the last year to men who paid cash and kept to themselves.

This one, James said, pointing to an address on the map.

Rented eight months ago to a Robert Gaines.

The property manager says he’s barely seen him, just collects the cash rent each month, and leaves.

The property was a small cabin set back from the road, surrounded by dense forest.

As the tactical team prepared to approach, Laura felt a familiar tension building in her chest.

This was the moment when cases either broke open or fell apart.

They approached the cabin carefully, weapons drawn.

The windows were dark, no vehicle visible in the driveway.

The tactical team leader signaled his unit forward, and they positioned themselves around the structure.

Robert Grimes, this is the police.

Come out with your hands visible, silence.

No movement from inside the cabin.

The team breached the door, moving through the small structure with practice efficiency.

Within seconds, they emerged.

It’s clear no one’s here, but detective, you need to see this.

Laura entered the cabin, her eyes adjusting to the dim interior.

The walls were covered with photographs, hundreds of them, creating a nightmarish collage.

All showed the same subject, Vincent Tully.

Pictures of Tully at different ages, candid shots, posed portraits.

Some photographs were old and faded, others more recent, all arranged in a shrine-like display.

But it was the back room that made Laura’s blood run cold.

The small bedroom had been converted into a workspace with a large table covered in documents, maps, and more photographs.

These weren’t pictures of Tully.

They were surveillance photos of current Hollow Point Island residents and visitors taken recently.

He’s continuing the pattern, James said from behind her.

Even with Tully dead, Grimes is still watching people.

On the table was a journal open to a recent entry.

Laura read it aloud.

June 15th, 2024.

The anniversary approaches.

27 years since Vincent showed me the truth about the honeymooners.

They thought they could come here, pollute this sacred place with their happiness.

Vincent taught them humility.

He taught them that the island takes what it wants.

And I am the island’s memory.

I am the keeper of Vincent’s legacy.

Laura turned the pages, her horror growing with each entry.

Grimes had been on the island for months, documenting visitors, following the same patterns Tully had established, but there was no evidence he had acted on his surveillance.

Not yet.

Look at this, James said, pointing to a calendar on the wall.

June 21st, 2025 was circled in red ink.

Tomorrow’s date written beside it.

New honeymooners arrive.

Vincent would have approved.

Laura’s mind raced.

Get on the phone to every rental agency on this island.

I want to know if any newly married couples are checking in today or tomorrow.

James was already dialing.

After several calls, he looked up, his face pale.

There’s a couple arriving this afternoon.

Newlyweds.

They’re renting a beach house on Northshore Road.

Laura felt ice in her veins.

Northshore Road near where the old Garrett property had stood.

What’s the address? James read it from his notes, and Laura’s worst fears were confirmed.

The house was less than half a mile from where Emily and Marcus Dalton had died.

Get units to that property now, Laura ordered.

And find Robert Grimes before he gets there first.

The beach house on Northshore Road was a modern structure, all glass and natural wood, built 5 years earlier on a lot adjacent to where the old Garrett property had stood.

The newlyweds who had rented it, Andrea and Kyle Brener, were scheduled to arrive at 300 p.

Laura and James, reached the property at 2:15 ahead of the couple’s arrival.

Additional officers were positioned on the access road and in the surrounding area, all searching for Robert Grimes.

Sarah had insisted on coming despite Laura’s objections and now sat in one of the police vehicles watching the scene unfold.

We need to intercept the Breners before they get here.

Laura said, “James, call them and tell them there’s been a problem with the rental.

Send them to a hotel in town instead.

” James nodded and made the call.

After several minutes, he hung up, looking frustrated.

“They’re not answering.

It’s going straight to voicemail.

Keep trying and get someone to the ferry terminal.

If they’re on the afternoon ferry, we can stop them there.

” As they spoke, Laura’s attention was drawn to movement in the treeine beyond the house.

A figure stood there, partially obscured by shadows.

Even from a distance, she recognized the thin build and intense posture from the photographs of Robert Grimes.

There, she said quietly to James, in the trees.

The tactical team moved quickly, circling around to approach from multiple angles, but Grimes saw them coming.

He turned and disappeared into the forest, moving with surprising speed for a man in his 70s.

All units, suspect is fleeing into the woods on the south side of the property.

Pursue and contain, but use caution.

Consider him potentially armed and dangerous.

Laura and James followed the tactical team into the forest.

The undergrowth was dense, the ground uneven with exposed roots and mosscovered stones.

Laura could hear crashing ahead of them as Grimes pushed through the vegetation.

The pursuit led them deeper into the woods farther from the road.

Laura’s radio crackled with updates from other units trying to cut off potential escape routes.

The forest was crisscrossed with hiking trails and old logging roads offering multiple paths for someone who knew the area well.

After 20 minutes of pursuit, they emerged into a small clearing.

And there, standing at the far edge, was Robert Grimes.

He held no weapon, just stood watching them with an expression of strange calm.

“Robert Grimes,” Laura called out, her weapon trained on him.

“Put your hands where I can see them.

” “GS slowly raised his hands, but made no move to run.

” “You’re too late,” he said, his voice carrying clearly across the clearing.

“The cycle is complete.

” What do you mean? Laura asked, moving closer carefully.

Vincent and I, we protected this island.

We kept it pure.

The tourists, they come here and they take, they consume.

They corrupt.

We showed them that some places are sacred, that some prices must be paid.

James circled around to the side, ready to move if Grimes ran.

You helped Vincent Tully murder nine people.

nine that you know of,” Grimes said with a slight smile.

Vincent was thorough.

He understood that the island demanded tribute.

Laura’s stomach turned.

“How many? How many people did you help him kill?” “I didn’t kill anyone,” Grimes said, his voice taking on a defensive tone.

“I watched, I documented.

I helped Vincent prepare, but I never touched them.

That was Vincent’s work.

I was merely the witness, the recorder of justice.

Where are the others? Laura demanded.

Where are the bodies? Grimes gestured vaguely toward the forest around them.

The island keeps its secrets.

Vincent knew special places, hidden places, caves along the shore, deep pools in the forest, places where the earth itself seemed hungry.

“Show us,” Laura said.

“Take us to these places.

” For a moment Grimes seemed to consider it.

Then he shook his head.

No, Vincent’s work is sacred.

I won’t desecrate it by revealing everything.

Let the island keep some of its mysteries.

Before Laura could respond, Grimes moved with sudden violence, but instead of running toward escape, he threw himself backward off the edge of the clearing.

Laura rushed forward and looked down in horror.

The clearing ended at a cliff edge, dropping 50 ft to jagged rocks below.

Grimes’s body lay motionless on the stones, waves beginning to wash over it as the tide came in.

Sarah stood at the edge of the beach as the recovery team worked to retrieve Robert Grimes’s body from the rocks.

She felt numb, disconnected from the scene playing out before her.

They had found the man who helped kill her sister, and now he was dead, taking his secrets with him.

Detective Vance approached, her expression weary.

I’m sorry, Sarah.

I know you wanted answers, wanted him to face justice.

He said there were more victims, Sarah replied quietly.

More people hidden somewhere on this island.

Will you keep looking for them? Yes, we have search teams with ground penetrating radar already mapping the areas around Tully’s property and the beach houses where victims disappeared.

If there are remains to be found, we’ll find them.

Sarah turned to face Laura.

Can I see the house? the new one where Emily and Marcus’ house used to be.

Laura hesitated, then nodded.

Come on.

They walked together down the beach to the modern house on Northshore Road.

Crime scene tape still cordoned off the property, though the immediate investigation had moved elsewhere.

Sarah stood on the sand, looking up at the sleek structure.

“They should have had this,” she said.

They should have had a beautiful home, a life together, children maybe.

Instead, they got a monster who decided they didn’t deserve to be happy.

We contacted the Breners, Laura said.

The couple who rented this house, they understood and cancelled their reservation.

The property owner has agreed to stop renting it until the investigation is complete.

Sarah was quiet for a long moment, listening to the waves crash against the shore.

the same ocean that had been here when Emily died.

Indifferent to human suffering, eternal and unchanging.

“Thank you,” she finally said, “for finding the truth.

For not giving up, even after all these years.

It’s not complete yet,” Laura replied.

“But we’re closer than we’ve ever been.

” As they walked back toward the road, Sarah noticed something glinting in the sand near the property line.

She bent down and picked it up.

A small piece of sea glass worn smooth by decades of tide and time, blue green and translucent.

She closed her hand around it, feeling its cool weight in her palm.

It seemed like a small thing, a fragment of something broken and transformed, but it was also proof of survival, of endurance.

The ocean could destroy, but it could also polish rough edges into something almost beautiful.

Sarah slipped the sealass into her pocket and continued walking.

Behind her, the house stood silent, and below it, in the earth where the old structure had been, lay the crawl space where her sister had taken her final breath.

The island had kept its secrets for 28 years.

Now, finally, some of those secrets were coming to light.

But as Detective Vance had said, the truth was not yet complete, and Sarah knew that even when all the facts were uncovered, all the victims identified, the deeper question would remain.

How could this have happened? How could one man, aided by another, commit such horrors in a place that seemed so peaceful, so normal? The answer, Sarah suspected, was that monsters rarely looked like monsters.

They looked like maintenance men and solitary loners, ordinary people who could smile and make small talk while harboring darkness that most couldn’t imagine.

As the sun began to set over the Pacific, casting the beach in shades of gold and amber, Sarah made a silent promise to her sister.

She would stay until every victim was found, every family notified, every question answered.

Emily deserved nothing less.

And somewhere in the gathering darkness, the island kept its remaining secrets, waiting for someone patient enough to uncover them.

6 months later, Sarah Brennan stood in the small cemetery on Hallow Point Island, looking down at the newly placed gravestone.

The marker was simple but elegant, carved from local granite.

Emily Brennan Dalton 1971 1997 Beloved daughter and Sister and Marcus Anthony Dalton 1969 1997 beloved son and husband together forever.

The investigation had concluded in November after extensive searches of the island had uncovered the remains of four additional victims in locations matching Grimes’s cryptic descriptions.

In total, Vincent Tully and Robert Grimes were confirmed responsible for 13 deaths between 1983 and 1997.

The FBI had classified the case as one of the longestrunn serial murder conspiracies in Pacific Northwest history.

The story had dominated news cycles for months, bringing unwanted attention to Hollow Point Island.

Tourism had plummeted.

Several businesses had closed.

And the community struggled with the knowledge that evil had lived among them for so long undetected.

But there had also been healing.

Families of the victims finally had answers, could finally lay their loved ones to rest.

Support groups had formed, connecting those who had lost someone to Tully’s crimes.

And gradually, slowly, the island was learning to remember its dead.

While moving forward, Sarah had chosen to have Emily and Marcus buried on the island rather than taking her sister’s remains back to Seattle.

It seemed right somehow to let them rest in the place they had chosen for their honeymoon.

The place where they had been happy before everything went wrong.

Detective Laura Vance approached carrying a small bouquet of wild flowers.

“I thought you might want these,” she said, offering them to Sarah.

Sarah took the flowers and arranged them carefully at the base of the gravestone.

“Thank you for everything you did, for never stopping.

I wish we could have found them sooner,” Laura replied.

“I wish a lot of things had been different.

” “Did you recover all the film from Tully’s collection?” Laura nodded.

“Yes, every canister has been developed and cataloged.

Most of it is evidence in the ongoing investigation, but there are some images of Emily and Marcus that aren’t part of the crime scenes.

Happy moments before things went wrong.

If you’d like copies, “I would,” Sarah said quietly.

I’d like to remember her happy the way she was supposed to be.

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the wind move through the trees surrounding the cemetery.

The day was overcast, but not raining.

the air carrying the salt smell of the ocean.

“What will you do now?” Laura asked.

“Will you go back to Seattle?” Sarah considered this.

Over the past 6 months, she had spent more time on Hallow Point Island than anywhere else.

She had gotten to know the place, its rhythms and seasons, its genuine beauty beneath the shadow of tragedy, and she had found something unexpected, a sense of purpose.

I’m thinking of staying, she said, at least for a while.

There’s a practice here in town, a therapist who’s retiring.

She asked if I might be interested in taking over her clients.

The community needs mental health support, especially now.

Laura smiled.

I think that would be good for you and for the island.

As they walked back toward the cemetery entrance, Sarah paused to look back at the gravestone.

She thought of Emily at 26, so full of life and hope, embarking on what should have been the happiest chapter of her story.

She thought of all the years Sarah had wondered.

The not knowing that had been its own kind of torture.

The truth had been terrible, but it had also brought closure.

And closure, Sarah had learned, was its own kind of gift.

I’m going to create a memorial, Sarah said suddenly, for all of Tully’s victims.

A place where people can come to remember, to reflect.

The island shouldn’t forget what happened, but it also shouldn’t be defined only by tragedy.

I think that’s a beautiful idea, Laura said.

As they reached the cemetery gate, Sarah’s phone buzzed with a message.

It was from her mother, Catherine, asking how the gravestone dedication had gone.

Sarah typed a quick response, then looked back one more time at the place where her sister rested.

The wind picked up, rustling the wild flowers and making the trees whisper their ancient song.

Sarah touched the piece of sea glass in her pocket, the one she had found on the beach 6 months ago.

She carried it with her always now, a reminder that even broken things could be transformed, that survival was possible even in the aftermath of horror.

She would stay on Hollow Point Island.

She would help the community heal.

She would make sure that Emily and the others were remembered not just as victims, but as people who had lived, who had loved, who had mattered.

And perhaps in doing so, she would finally begin to heal herself.

As Sarah walked away from the cemetery, the sun broke through the clouds, casting shafts of light across the island.

The Pacific Ocean continued its eternal rhythm against the shore, indifferent as always to human suffering and human hope.

But the people who lived and died and remembered, they were not indifferent.

They were the witnesses.

They were the keepers of memory.

And they would make sure that what happened in the summer of 1997 and in all the summers before would never be forgotten.

The truth had taken 28 years to emerge from darkness, but now it was known, spoken, acknowledged, and in that acknowledgement was the first step toward something that might eventually resemble peace.

Sarah drove back toward town as the afternoon light softened into evening.

Behind her, the cemetery stood quiet, its newest markers still settling into the earth.

And all around the island, in the forests and along the beaches, in the old houses and the new, life continued its complicated dance between remembering and forgetting, between holding on and letting go.

The story of Emily and Marcus Dalton, and of all those who had disappeared into Vincent Tully’s darkness, was over.

But its echoes would ripple through Hallpoint Island for generations to come.

a cautionary tale about the monsters that could hide in plain sight and about the importance of seeing truly seeing what was right in front of you.

Sarah pulled into the parking lot of the Driftwood Cafe, deciding she needed coffee and the comfort of Marlene’s kind presence.

As she walked through the door, the bell jingled cheerfully, and several locals looked up and nodded in greeting.

She was no longer just Emily’s sister, the outsider investigating a tragedy.

She was becoming part of the island’s fabric, woven into its story of survival and remembrance.

And that, Sarah thought, as she settled into a familiar booth by the window, felt like the beginning of something new.

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