Chapter 8 - The Cold Dig
The cold wind swept through the foyer, carrying the distinct scent of damp earth and decaying leaves that had filled the hallway earlier. Mark stared down at the polaroid resting on his shoes, the image of the white dress under the blue blanket burning into his retinas.
"I’m not signing anything," Mark said, his voice low and dangerous as he looked up at the detective. "If my daughter is out there in those woods, we are going to find her ourselves. Right now."
Detective Miller sighed, sliding the manila folder back into her trench coat. "Mr. Vance, the ground has been frozen solid for weeks. Search and rescue teams combed those acreage three times over. There is nothing left out there except cold dirt and buried pain."
"Try me," Mark snapped, turning toward the coat rack and grabbing his heavy black winter jacket. He slipped his arms into the sleeves with sharp, aggressive movements.
Elena watched him quietly, her hands clasped tightly together in front of her beige blouse. "He’s right, Sarah. We can't pretend anymore. If we don't open that ground ourselves today, the ghosts in this house are never going to let us sleep again."
Detective Miller studied them both for a long moment, reading the desperate, broken resolve in their eyes. She reached into her pocket and tossed a heavy set of iron keys onto the mahogany table. "The precinct gate is locked. Take my truck. I’ll meet you at the north treeline in twenty minutes with the shovels."
Without another word, Detective Miller turned and walked out into the cold night, the heavy door clicking shut behind her.
Mark didn't wait. He grabbed the keys off the table, pulled the front door open, and stepped out into the dark porch with Elena right behind him. The sky above was a vast, starless expanse of heavy grey clouds, threatening snow before morning.
They drove in silence to the edge of the municipal park, the truck’s headlights cutting through the dense fog that clung to the winding asphalt roads. When they arrived, Detective Miller was already standing by the treeline, leaning against the side of a rusted utility shed with two metal shovels resting against the wood.
Mark killed the engine, climbed out of the truck, and grabbed a shovel. The metal bit was ice-cold against his bare hands.
"Here," Detective Miller said, pointing the beam of her heavy flashlight toward a patch of dark soil beneath a towering oak tree, right where the blue blanket in the polaroid had been resting.
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Mark raised the shovel, took a deep, trembling breath, and drove the blade deep into the frozen earth.
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