Chapter 11 - The Walk Back
The walk back from the treeline was the longest mile of Mark’s life. The sky had begun to spit fine, freezing sleet that stung his face and plastered his dark hair to his forehead. He walked behind Detective Miller’s truck, his boots dragging heavily through the slush, every step feeling like he was wading through liquid lead.
Elena sat in the passenger seat of the truck, her face pressed against the cold glass, staring blankly out at the dark, empty road.
When they arrived back at the house, the porch light flickered and died, plunging the entrance into deep shadow. Detective Miller killed the engine and stepped out of the truck, her breath pluming in the freezing air.
"I’m leaving the file on the front step, Mr. Vance," Detective Miller said, her voice softer now, stripped of its professional sharpness. "You have until sunrise to sign the confession and surrender your passports. After that, I won't be the one coming back here."
Mark didn't answer. He walked past her up the wooden steps, his legs shaking so badly he had to catch himself on the railing. He pushed the front door open and stepped into the dark foyer, leaving the door wide open behind him to let the freezing wind scour the house clean.
He climbed the stairs, each step groaning under his weight, echoing the ghosts of the past three years.
When he reached the top hallway, the bright overhead light was no longer on. Instead, the corridor was illuminated by a soft, warm amber glow spilling out from the open door of the linen closet.
Mark walked toward it, his heart beating a slow, heavy rhythm against his ribs. He didn't feel rage anymore. He didn't feel denial. He felt only an immense, crushing emptiness.
He reached the threshold of the closet and looked inside.
The space was no longer filled with old towels and spare sheets. It was a child’s bedroom, perfectly preserved in time. Pink wallpaper with tiny white daisies, a small white wooden bed with a neatly tucked quilt, and a row of picture books stacked neatly on a wooden shelf.
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Sitting on the edge of the small bed was Lily, wearing her pristine white dress, her braided hair neat and clean. She was holding out a small porcelain plate with a half-eaten sandwich on it, looking up at him with quiet, expectant eyes.
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