In the summer of 2007, two little girls vanished from their lemonade stand in Visalia, California, while their mother folded laundry in the front yard.
No screams, no struggle, just two empty plastic chairs and a picture of lemonade still sweating in the heat.
The quarters were still scattered in the grass when police arrived.
5 years later, a water leak in the abandoned house next door forced a repair worker to crawl into the attic.
and what he found hidden behind rotted insulation made him drop his flashlight and dial 911 before he could catch his breath.
Dominic Cruz’s knee buckled against the attic joist as murky water seeped through his work gloves.
The smell hit him first, not just mold, but something deeper.
Something that made his stomach clench and his throat close up like he’d swallowed a fist.
He’d been crawling through this cramped space for 20 minutes.
flashlight beam cutting through dust and cobwebs thick as cotton.
The homeowners downstairs, some couple from Phoenix who’d bought the foreclosed house site unseen, kept hollering up through the access hole about water damage and insurance claims.
“Just find the leak, fix it cheap,” the husband had said, counting 20s from a roll in his pocket.
“Easy money, except nothing about this felt easy.
The insulation squished under his palms, black with rot and something else.
Something that made his skin crawl.
He’d done enough water damage jobs to know what mold looked like, what burst pipes smelled like.
This wasn’t that.
Dominic pushed deeper into the far corner, following the wet trail.
His flashlight beam swept across warped plywood and rusted nails until it caught something that made him freeze.
pink wood splintered, stacked like broken ribs against the far wall.
He crawled closer, breath shallow.
The pink paint was faded, but still visible, cheerful, kid-friendly, like something from a playground or a His light found the lettering, hand painted in crooked yellow letters across a broken board.
Lemonade 25 cents.
Dominic’s chest went tight.
His hands shook as the beam swept lower.
A plastic pitcher cracked down the middle.
Two small plastic cups, one pink, one purple.
A coffee can stuffed with quarters and dimes, green with tarnish, and underneath it all, small clothes, a yellow tank top, tiny denim shorts, socks with little flowers on them.
The flashlight slipped from his fingers, clattering against the beams.
In the sudden darkness, he heard his own breathing, fast and shallow.
Those girls, the ones from 5 years ago, the lemonade stand kids who vanished right here on this street.
He’d been working construction then, living two blocks over, remembered the police cars, the search parties, the mother’s screams echoing through the neighborhood for weeks.
Dominic scrambled backward, knees scraping against nails and splinters.
His hand found his phone, fingers numb as he punched 911.
This is Dominic Cruz, he whispered into the dark.
I’m at 847 Crosswind Lane.
I found Jesus Christ.
I found them.
Not the girls, but everything they had left behind.
Everything someone had dragged up here and hidden like a sick trophy collection.
The dispatcher’s voice crackled through the speaker, but Dominic wasn’t listening anymore.
He was staring at one last thing his flashlight had caught before it fell.
A notebook.
spiralbound, pages yellowed, open to a page covered in careful handwriting.
Even in the shadows, he could make out the first line.
Day one.
They stopped crying when I told them about the lemonade.
Dominic’s stomach lurched.
He dropped the phone and crawled toward the access hole as fast as his shaking limbs would carry him.
Behind him, in the dark, the notebook lay open like a confession waiting to be read.
Cole Harwick was replacing the brake pads on his pickup when his phone buzzed against the concrete garage floor.
He ignored it.
Third time this morning, someone had called about urgent business or time-sensitive opportunities.
Telemarketers didn’t understand that some men just wanted to work with their hands and forget the world existed.
The phone buzzed again, then again.
Cole wiped grease from his knuckles with a rag that had seen better decades.
Five years of this.
Five years of people calling with tips about his daughter’s sightings that led nowhere.
Psychics who promised closure for three easy payments.
He’d stopped answering unknown numbers after the first year, but this one kept ringing.
Cole Harwick, he grunted into the speaker.
Mr.
Harwick, this is Detective Ashley Vance with Visalia PD.
I need you to come down to the station.
We’ve we found some things.
Cole’s wrench slipped from his fingers, clanging against the oil pan.
The sound echoed through the garage like a gunshot.
What kind of things? Sir, I’d rather discuss this in person.
Can you be here in 20 minutes? Cole’s chest went tight.
5 years of dead ends and false hopes had taught him not to expect miracles.
But something in the detective’s voice, steady, careful, like she was handling live ammunition, made his pulse kick.
I’ll be there in 10.
The police station smelled like burnt coffee and industrial disinfectant.
Same smell from 5 years ago when he’d spent three days straight in these halls demanding answers nobody had.
Detective Vance met him at the front desk.
Mid30s, sharp eyes, the kind of cop who looked like she’d seen enough [ __ ] to spot it from space.
Mr.
Harwick, thank you for coming in.
She led him down a hallway.
he remembered too well past the same faded bulletin boards and flickering fluorescent lights.
But instead of the interview room where he’d given his statement a hundred times, she stopped at an evidence room.
Before we go in, she said, hand on the door handle.
I need to prepare you.
We found these items in an attic about six blocks from your old house.
The house belongs to someone who moved away shortly after after the incident.
Cole’s jaw clenched.
Whose house? Glenn Mastersonson.
He was your neighbor.
The name hit Cole like a punch to the solar plexus.
Glenn.
Friendly Glenn who’d helped him install the fence.
Glenn who’d brought beer over for Sunday football.
Glenn who’d hugged Jenna at the girl’s birthday party and slipped them extra dollar bills when their parents weren’t looking.
Glenn who’d helped search for them the night they disappeared.
That’s impossible, Cole said, voice flat.
Detective Vance pushed the door open.
I wish it was.
The evidence table was covered with clear plastic bags.
Cole’s eyes swept across them, his brain struggling to process what he was seeing.
The lemonade stand broken into pieces, but unmistakably theirs.
Avery had painted those yellow letters herself, tongue poking out in concentration while Sloan held the board steady.
Their clothes, the yellow tank top Sloan had begged to wear that morning.
Avery’s shorts with the little heart-shaped pocket, and in the center of the table, a spiral notebook opened to a page covered in careful handwriting.
Cole stepped closer, his hands clenched into fists.
The words swam in front of his eyes, but he forced himself to read.
Day one, they stopped crying when I told them about the lemonade.
Told them we were going to play a game.
Avery believed me first.
Sloan is smarter, more suspicious.
We’ll need different approach.
Cole’s vision tunnneled.
The room felt like it was tilting sideways.
Day three.
Sloan tried to untie the rope again.
Had to move them to the smaller space.
They asked for their mother, told the mother was busy.
Avery wet herself, had to clean it up.
Detective Vance’s voice seemed to come from very far away.
Mr.
Harwick, are you all right? Cole wasn’t all right.
Cole was reading about his daughter’s final days written in the careful handwriting of a man he’d trusted, a man he’d invited into his home, a man he’d let babysit his girls.
Where is he? Cole’s voice came out as a growl.
That’s what we’re trying to determine.
Glenn Mastersonson sold his house 3 weeks after your daughters disappeared, moved out of state.
We’re tracking his current location now.
Cole turned to face her and Detective Vance took an unconscious step backward.
Something in his eyes, something cold and military and dangerous made her remember he’d been special forces before he became a father.
I want his address.
Cole said, “Mr.
Harwick, I understand your anger, but we need to let the proper authorities I want his [ __ ] address.
Detective Vance studied his face for a long moment.
Then she pulled out a business card and scribbled something on the back.
This is what we have so far, she said, sliding it across the table.
But Cole, whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t.
Let us handle this.
Cole pocketed the card without looking at it.
His eyes were still fixed on the notebook on the clinical descriptions of his daughter’s terror written in careful block letters.
Mr.
Harwick.
Cole looked up.
I heard you.
But they both knew he hadn’t really heard anything except the roar of blood in his ears and the sound of a mission being born.
Cole sat in his truck outside the police station for 23 minutes staring at the business card.
The address was written in Detective Vance’s careful handwriting.
G.
Mills, 1247 Pine Ridge Road, Beckley, WV.
West Virginia.
Glenn had run to the mountains.
Probably figured the distance would keep him safe.
Probably thought 5 years was long enough for people to forget.
Cole flipped the card over and over between his fingers until the edges went soft.
His phone had buzzed six times.
Jenna calling, probably wondering where he was.
He told her he was running errands.
Didn’t say which kind.
He couldn’t tell her.
Not yet.
Not until he knew for sure.
The drive home took 12 minutes.
Cole pulled into the driveway and sat there, engine ticking as it cooled.
Through the kitchen window, he could see Jenna moving around, probably making dinner.
Same routine they’d fallen into after the girls disappeared.
quiet meals, careful conversations, the TV always on to fill the silence.
She’d ask about his day.
He’d lie.
They’d eat in front of the news and pretend they weren’t both listening for the sound of little feet on the stairs.
Cole walked into the garage instead of the house, pulled down the ladder to the storage loft, and climbed up into the dusty space above.
It was all still there, the gear he’d promised Jenna he’d gotten rid of years ago.
tactical vest, night vision goggles, the Glock 19 he’d carried in Afghanistan, cleaned and maintained but never fired since he came home.
Maps, GPS units, zip ties, everything a soldier needed to complete a mission.
Cole ran his fingers over the familiar weight of the pistol.
In Kandahar, missions had been simple.
Find the target, neutralize the threat, bring everyone home alive.
This felt the same, except the stakes were higher.
His phone buzzed again.
Jenna.
Hey, he said, phone pressed to his ear while he loaded magazines.
Where are you? Dinner’s ready.
Just finishing up in the garage.
Be right in.
Cole, you sound different.
What’s wrong? 5 years of marriage before the girls disappeared.
3 years since.
Jenna knew his voices.
The one he used for broken appliances.
The one for bad news.
the one for when the nightmares came back.
This was a new voice, the one he’d used right before raids.
Nothing’s wrong, he lied.
Just tired.
Cole, I’ll be right in, Jen.
He hung up and stared at the phone for a moment.
Then he typed out a text message and saved it in drafts.
Found him.
Going to get our girls back.
Don’t call the police.
I love you.
He wouldn’t send it until he was already on the road.
Cole loaded the tactical gear into a duffel bag, same way he’d packed for deployment.
Methodical, efficient, no wasted motion.
The notebook pages were burned into his memory.
Day 1 through day 15, each entry more detailed than the last.
Glenn documenting his crime like a scientist recording an experiment.
Day eight, Avery asked if we could call her daddy.
Told her daddy was far away.
She cried for 2 hours.
Sloan held her hand through the rope.
Day 12.
Moved them again.
Neighbors getting suspicious about sounds from attic.
Need quieter location.
Day 15.
Final entry.
Problem solved.
New location secured.
They understand the rules now.
Final entry.
But what did that mean? Cole zipped the duffel bag shut and climbed down from the loft.
Through the garage window, he could see Jenna setting the table, moving with the careful precision of someone who’d learned not to hope for too much.
He walked into the kitchen.
She looked up and smiled, the same smile she’d given him everyday for 8 years, even when it cost her everything.
“Smells good,” he said, kissing her forehead.
“Meatloaf, the girl’s favorite.
” They still talked about Avery and Sloan in present tense, as if they might walk through the door any moment.
grass stains on their knees and quarters clutched in their fists.
Cole sat down across from her and tried to eat.
The food tasted like cardboard, but he forced it down.
Fuel for the mission ahead.
I have to go out of town tomorrow, he said.
Work thing might be a few days.
Jenna’s fork paused halfway to her mouth.
What kind of work thing? Security consultation.
Guy in West Virginia wants me to look at his property.
The lie came easily.
Too easily.
Jenna studied his face.
Since when do you do security consultations? Since we need the money.
That part wasn’t a lie.
The search for their daughters had cost them everything.
Private investigators, reward money, time off work that turned into no work at all.
Jenna nodded slowly.
Okay, just be careful.
All right, I can’t lose you, too.
Cole reached across the table and took her hand.
Her wedding ring was loose now.
She’d lost weight over the years, like grief had hollowed her out from the inside.
You won’t lose me, he said.
Another lie.
Because Cole Harwick, the husband who ate quiet dinners and fixed broken appliances, was already gone.
What was sitting at this table was someone else.
Someone with a mission and the tools to complete it.
Someone who wouldn’t be coming home until he found his daughters.
Dead or alive.
Cole left at 4:47 a.
m.
while Jenna was still asleep.
He’d lain beside her for 3 hours, listening to her breathe, memorizing the sound.
When she stirred around midnight, he’d pulled her close and whispered, “I love you,” into her hair.
She’d mumbled something back, still dreaming.
The duffel bag was already in his truck.
He’d loaded it the night before along with a cooler full of water and protein bars.
Enough supplies for 3 days if he had to wait.
Enough ammunition for whatever he found.
The drive to West Virginia would take 14 hours.
Cole had mapped three different routes, memorized them all.
Primary route through Pennsylvania, secondary through Maryland if he hit complications, tertiary through Virginia if things went sideways.
Old habits.
In the army, you always had contingencies.
He pulled out of the driveway without turning on his headlights, coasting down the street until he was past the neighbors houses.
No sense waking anyone.
No sense leaving witnesses who might remember which direction he went.
The freeway was empty except for long haul truckers and insomniacs.
Cole set the cruise control at exactly the speed limit and settled in for the long haul.
He had 14 hours to think, to plan, to prepare himself for what he might find.
Glenn Mastersonson.
Glenn who’ taught Avery how to whistle.
Glenn who’d helped Sloan with her math homework.
Glenn who’d stood in Cole’s backyard during the search, eyes red with fake tears, asking what else he could do to help.
Anything, he’d said, “Just tell me what you need.
” Cole’s hands tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles went white.
Around hour six, somewhere outside Pittsburgh, his phone rang.
Jenna.
Cole let it go to voicemail, then played the message back three times.
Hey, it’s me.
I know you’re probably driving, but I just I woke up and you were gone and something felt wrong.
Call me when you get this, okay? I love you.
Her voice was small, uncertain.
She knew.
Maybe not the details, but she knew this wasn’t about work.
Cole typed out a text.
On the road, signals spotty.
Talk tonight.
Another lie to add to the pile.
He stopped for gas outside Charleston, West Virginia.
Paid cash, kept his head down, avoided the security cameras.
The attendant was barely awake, didn’t even look up from his magazine.
2 hours to Beckley, 2 hours to Pineeridge Road, 2 hours to whatever was waiting at 12:47.
Cole bought a cup of coffee he didn’t want and got back on the road.
The GPS led him through winding mountain roads that got narrower with each turn.
Pine Ridge Road wasn’t really a road at all, more like a dirt track that had been beaten into submission by years of pickup trucks and ATVs.
1,247 was at the end of a/4 mile driveway, hidden behind a wall of pine trees that blocked it from the main road.
Cole parked a half mile back and approached on foot, moving through the trees with the silent precision he’d learned in Kandahar.
The house was small, singlestory, probably built in the 70s and left to rot ever since.
Paint peeling off the siding like dead skin.
Windows covered with aluminum foil from the inside.
But there was a car in the driveway, a blue Honda Civic with Pennsylvania plates.
Glenn was home.
Cole circled the property, noting exits and entry points.
Front door, back door.
Two windows on each side, all covered.
A small shed out back that looked like it hadn’t been opened in years.
No signs of life except for the car and a thin column of smoke rising from the chimney.
Cole settled into position behind a fallen log about 50 yards from the house.
Perfect line of sight to the front door and driveway.
He pulled out his binoculars and began to watch.
3:42 No movement.
4:15.
Curtain twitched in the front window.
Someone was home but staying hidden.
4:33.
Front door opened.
A man stepped out thinner than Cole remembered.
hair gone gray, but unmistakably Glenn Mastersonson.
Glenn walked to the mailbox, collected a handful of envelopes, and hurried back inside.
The whole trip took less than 30 seconds, but it was enough.
Cole had found his target.
Now he had to decide what to do with him.
In Afghanistan, the answer would have been simple.
Neutralize the threat, secure the area, call for extraction.
But this wasn’t Afghanistan.
This was personal, and somewhere in that house might be information about what really happened to his daughters.
Cole checked his watch.
4:45 p.
m.
He’d wait until dark, then move closer.
See if he could hear anything, see anything through the covered windows.
If Glenn had hurt his girls, Cole would make him pay.
If Glenn knew where they were, Cole would make him talk.
And if Glenn had disposed of evidence, Cole would find it.
But as he watched the house settle into evening shadows, Cole found himself thinking about the notebook.
Day 15.
Final entry.
Problem solved.
What kind of problem required solving? And what kind of solution left Glenn running to the mountains with aluminum foil over his windows? Cole settled deeper into position and waited for darkness to give him his answers.
Darkness came slowly to the mountains, shadows creeping through the pine trees like spilled ink.
Cole had been motionless for 3 hours, watching the house through his binoculars.
Military training kicked in.
Ignore the mosquitoes.
Ignore the cramp in his left leg.
Ignore everything except the target.
Glenn had appeared twice more.
Once to bring in firewood from a stack beside the shed.
Once to dump something in a trash can by the back door.
Both times quick, nervous movements, eyes scanning the treeine like he expected someone to be watching.
Smart man.
Someone was.
At 8:17 p.
m.
, lights came on inside the house.
Warm yellow glow seeping around the edges of the aluminum foil.
Cole could see Glenn’s silhouette moving from room to room, but couldn’t make out details.
Cole waited another hour, then began to move.
He’d done this before.
Night reconnaissance in hostile territory.
The trick was to become part of the landscape.
Slow movements, weight distributed carefully, breathing controlled.
The trees provided perfect cover.
The back of the house had two windows and a door with a screen that hung crooked on its hinges.
Cole pressed himself against the siding and listened.
TV.
Some kind of game show.
Volume turned low.
A refrigerator humming.
the occasional creek of floorboards and something else.
A sound that made Cole’s blood freeze in his veins.
Thump, thump, thump, rhythmic, coming from below the house, like someone was knocking on wood or like someone was trying to get out.
Cole closed his eyes and listened harder.
The sound came in patterns.
Three quick thumps, pause, three more pause.
Not random, deliberate.
Someone was down there.
Someone alive.
Cole’s hand moved instinctively to the pistol tucked in his waistband.
Every instinct screamed at him to kick down that door, to tear the house apart until he found whoever was making that sound.
But he forced himself to stay calm, to think like a soldier instead of a father.
If someone was being held in that house, going in loud would be the worst possible move.
Glenn might panic, might hurt whoever was down there, might run.
Cole needed information first.
He crept along the back wall until he reached the corner window.
The aluminum foil had pulled away slightly at the bottom, leaving a gap about an inch wide.
Cole pressed his eye to the opening.
The room was a kitchen, small, cluttered, dishes piled in the sink.
Glenn sat at a wooden table eating something from a can, beans maybe, or soup.
And beside his plate was a small stack of photographs.
Cole adjusted his angle, trying to see the pictures.
Glenn picked one up, studied it for a moment, then set it back down.
Even from his limited view, Cole could see the photo showed a young girl, blonde hair, bright smile.
Glenn picked up another photo.
This one showed two girls together, one blonde, one brunette, arms around each other’s shoulders.
Cole’s chest went tight.
He knew those faces.
He’d looked at them everyday for 5 years.
Avery and Sloan.
Glenn was sitting in his kitchen eating dinner and looking at pictures of Cole’s missing daughters like they were old vacation photos.
The thumping sound came again from below.
Three quick knocks.
Pause.
Three more.
Glenn’s head tilted toward the floor.
He listened for a moment, then picked up a wooden spoon and wrapped it three times against the table leg.
The sound from below stopped.
Then came three more knocks, but different this time, weaker, like whoever was down there was getting tired.
Glenn smiled, a small, satisfied expression that made Cole want to put a bullet through the window right then and there.
Instead, Cole pulled back from the gap and continued his reconnaissance.
He needed to find a way into that basement, needed to find out who was down there and what Glenn had done to them.
The crawl space entrance was on the north side of the house, hidden behind a rusted metal grate.
Cole tested it carefully.
Old hinges, but they moved without noise.
Beyond the great was darkness and the smell of damp earth.
And somewhere in that darkness, someone was alive.
Cole checked his watch.
9:34 p.
m.
Glenn would probably go to bed soon.
Rural folks kept early hours, especially ones hiding in the mountains.
Cole would wait, and when Glenn was asleep, he’d find out what secrets were buried under this house.
The thumping came again, fainter now.
Three knocks, barely audible.
Cole closed his eyes and counted to 10, forcing down the rage that threatened to overwhelm his tactical thinking.
Whoever was down there had been knocking for God knows how long.
They could wait a little longer, but not much longer.
Cole lay flat on his belly in the crawl space, breathing through his mouth to avoid the stench.
It was worse than any battlefield he’d encountered, the smell of human waste, stale fear, and something else, something sweet and rotten that made his stomach clench.
He’d waited until 11:43 p.
m.
to make his move.
The house had gone dark at 11:15, and he’d given Glenn another half hour to fall asleep.
Now he was underneath the floorboards, following the beam of his red filtered flashlight through a maze of support posts and duct work.
The crawl space was maybe 3 ft high, forcing him to commando crawl across dirt that felt damp and soft in places he didn’t want to think about.
Overhead, Glenn’s footsteps had stopped moving 20 minutes ago.
Cole followed the sound.
The knocking was getting weaker, but more desperate.
Three quick knocks, pause, three more.
like someone trying to get attention, trying to signal that they were still alive down there.
Cole moved faster, ignoring the scrape of rough wood against his back.
The sound was coming from the far corner of the house underneath what looked like a reinforced section of flooring.
His flashlight beam found it, a crude wooden box built between the floor joists, maybe 6 ft long, 4t wide, just big enough for someone to lie down if they curled up tight.
There was a padlock on a metal hasp.
New hardware.
Glenn had built this recently.
The knocking stopped.
In the sudden silence, Cole could hear breathing.
Fast, shallow, terrified.
“Hey,” Cole whispered, barely audible.
“Can you hear me?” The breathing stopped entirely.
Cole tried again, softer.
“I’m here to help.
Are you hurt?” A small voice came through the wood.
female, young, so quiet he almost missed it.
Please don’t hurt us anymore.
Cole’s blood turned to ice water.
How many of you are there? Silence.
Then, so faint he had to press his ear to the wood.
Two.
Cole closed his eyes and fought to keep his voice steady.
What are your names? The pause stretched so long he thought she wasn’t going to answer.
Then I’m not supposed to say.
He gets angry when we say it’s okay.
I’m not him.
I’m here to get you out.
Another pause, then in a voice that sounded like it hadn’t been used in years.
Avery.
My name is Avery.
The world tilted sideways.
Cole pressed his forehead against the wood, his whole body shaking.
Avery Harwick.
A gasp from inside the box.
Then how do you know my name? Are you Are you my daddy? Cole bit down on his fist to keep from making noise when he could trust his voice again.
Yeah, baby.
It’s Daddy.
I found you.
The sound that came from inside the box was part sobb, part prayer.
Then another voice, older, more cautious.
Avery, don’t.
It might be a trick.
He does tricks.
Sloan, his older daughter, still protecting her little sister after 5 years in hell.
Sloan, it’s me, Cole whispered.
It’s really me.
I’m going to get you out of there.
Prove it, Sloan said.
Her voice was harder now, suspicious.
5 years had taught her not to trust.
Cole thought fast.
When you were four, you broke Mom’s favorite vase trying to catch a butterfly that got in the house.
You told me it was the cat’s fault.
Silence.
Then we don’t have a cat.
No, Cole whispered.
We don’t.
But you were four and you thought I might believe you anyway.
A sobb from inside the box.
Then Sloan’s voice cracking.
Daddy.
I’m here, sweetheart.
Both of you.
I’m here.
Cole examined the lock with his flashlight.
Heavy duty but standard.
He could pick it, but that would take time.
He could shoot it, but the noise would wake Glenn, or he could cut through the wood itself.
Cole pulled a folding knife from his pocket and began to work on the corner of the box where the wood looked softest.
The blade bit into the grain, peeling away thin shavings.
“What’s that sound?” Avery whispered.
“I’m cutting you out.
It’s going to take a few minutes.
Just stay quiet, okay?” He worked in silence, every scrape of the blade seeming loud as gunshots in the confined space.
Above them, the house creaked and settled.
Glenn’s snoring drifted down through the floorboards.
The wood was old, soft.
After 10 minutes, Cole had carved a hole big enough to reach through.
His fingers found warm skin, small hands that grabbed onto him like lifelines.
“We’re going to crawl out of here very quietly,” Cole whispered.
Then we’re going to leave this place and never come back.
Can you do that? Is mommy here too? Avery asked.
Cole’s throat closed up.
Mommy’s at home.
She’s waiting for us.
He helped them out one at a time.
Avery first.
She was so thin he could lift her with one arm.
Then Sloan, who moved like an old woman despite being only 13.
In the red glow of his flashlight, they looked like ghosts, pale, skeletal, dressed in clothes that hung off their frames like burial shrouds.
But they were alive.
They were breathing.
They were his.
“Can you crawl?” Cole asked.
Both girls nodded.
“Stay right behind me.
Don’t make any noise.
We’re going home.
” Cole led them toward the crawl space entrance, moving as quietly as he could.
Behind him, his daughters followed like shadows.
Five years of captivity, having taught them how to move without sound.
They were almost to the great when the floorboards above them creaked.
Footsteps.
Glenn was awake.
Cole froze, listening to Glenn’s footsteps move across the kitchen floor directly above them.
The girls pressed against him in the darkness, their breathing barely audible.
5 years of hiding had taught them how to disappear when danger came near.
The footsteps paused.
Cole could picture Glenn standing there, head tilted, listening for whatever had woken him.
Maybe he’d heard the wood creaking.
Maybe he just had the paranoid instincts of a man with too many secrets.
A cabinet door opened overhead, the sound of glass clinking.
Glenn was getting a drink of water, maybe checking the house before going back to bed.
Cole put his lips close to Sloan’s ear.
Don’t move.
Don’t breathe loud.
She nodded against his shoulder.
Beside her, Avery was so still she might have been carved from stone.
The footsteps moved toward the front of the house.
A door opened, probably Glenn checking the front lock, then back toward the kitchen.
Another pause.
Cole heard something that made his blood freeze.
Glenn was humming a children’s song.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
The same song Cole used to sing to his daughters at bedtime.
The humming stopped.
Glenn’s footsteps moved to a different part of the house.
A door creaked open, probably the basement access Cole hadn’t found yet.
Light flooded down through cracks in the floorboards.
Glenn was coming downstairs.
“He’s checking on us,” Sloan whispered.
so quiet Cole could barely hear her.
He does that sometimes when he has bad dreams.
Cole’s mind raced.
If Glenn came down here and found the broken box, found his captives missing, he’d tear the house apart.
And Cole was trapped in a crawl space with two malnourished children who couldn’t run fast.
But Glenn wasn’t heading toward their corner.
The light was moving toward the opposite end of the basement.
Cole heard wooden steps creaking as Glenn descended.
“There’s another room,” Avery breathed in Cole’s ear.
“He keeps things there.
Things he took from other kids.
” “Other kids? Jesus Christ.
” Glenn’s voice drifted through the basement, talking to himself.
“Still sleeping.
Good girls.
Quiet girls.
” He thought they were still locked up.
He was just checking, making sure his prisoners were secure before going back to bed.
Cole heard Glenn moving around below, the scrape of something heavy being dragged across concrete, then his footsteps on the stairs again, heading back up.
“We have to go now,” Cole whispered.
“While he thinks you’re still asleep, they crawled toward the great as quietly as possible.
” Cole’s knees found every sharp rock, every piece of broken glass in the dirt, but he didn’t make a sound.
Behind him, the girls moved like ghosts.
The grate was still open just as he’d left it.
Cole slipped through first, then helped Avery out.
She was so light it was like lifting a bundle of sticks.
Sloan came next, moving carefully despite her obvious weakness.
When she stood up in the night air, she swayed on her feet.
“I’m dizzy,” she whispered.
Cole caught her, held her steady.
“When’s the last time you ate?” “Yesterday.
” He brought soup.
one bowl of soup to share between two growing girls.
Cole’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth achd.
“We’re going to get you food,” he said.
“Real food.
As much as you want.
” They moved through the trees toward Cole’s truck, him supporting both girls when they stumbled.
Every step took them further from the house, further from Glenn, further from the nightmare that had swallowed 5 years of their lives.
But they weren’t safe yet.
Glenn would check on them again, probably in the morning.
When he found them gone, he’d know someone had taken them.
He’d run, or worse, he’d come hunting.
Cole needed to end this tonight.
“I want you two to wait in the truck,” he said when they reached the vehicle.
“Lock the doors.
If anyone comes except me, you drive away.
” “Can you drive, Sloan?” She nodded.
He made me learn.
Said I might need to to help him move things.
Cole felt sick, but he pushed it down.
“Goods are in the ignition.
You drive straight to the police station in town.
Tell them who you are.
Tell them your father is Cole Harwick, and he sent you.
” “Where are you going?” Avery asked, clinging to his shirt.
Cole looked back toward the house where Glenn Mastersonson was probably settling back into bed, confident his secrets were still safe.
“I’m going to make sure he never hurts anyone again.
” Sloan grabbed his arm.
Don’t leave us, please, Daddy.
What if he finds us? Cole knelt down so he was eye level with both girls.
In the moonlight, they looked fragile as broken birds.
“He’s not going to find you,” Cole said.
“I promise, but I need to finish this.
He has things in that house, things that belong to other families, evidence that he took other children.
” “Will you come back?” Avery whispered.
Cole kissed her forehead, tasting salt and dirt and 5 years of fear.
I’ll always come back for you, he said.
Always.
He helped them into the truck, made sure they knew how to work the radio, showed Sloan the route back to town on his map.
Then he walked back toward the house where Glenn Mastersonson was sleeping peacefully, unaware that his world was about to end.
Cole stood outside Glenn’s front door at 2:47 a.
m.
, tactical gear strapped tight, every sense heightened to combat alertness.
He’d given the girls 20 minutes to reach town, long enough to get clear, not long enough for Glenn to wake up and realize what had happened.
The element of surprise was everything now.
The front door was locked, but locks were just suggestions to someone with Cole’s training.
30 seconds with a pick set and he was inside moving through Glenn’s living room like a shadow.
The house smelled wrong.
Not just the mustiness of an old building, but something underneath.
The stench of secrets that had been buried too long.
Cole swept each room methodically.
Kitchen empty, bathroom empty.
Glenn’s bedroom at the end of the hall door cracked open.
Through the gap, Cole could see Glenn’s sleeping form under a thin blanket.
Gray hair on the pillow, mouth open, snoring softly.
The man who’d stolen 5 years from Cole’s family, sleeping like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Cole could have ended it right there.
One shot, center mass.
Glenn would never wake up, but Cole needed answers first.
Needed to know if there were other children, other families still searching.
He slipped into the bedroom, moving with the silent precision of a hunter.
Glenn didn’t stir when Cole pressed the barrel of his pistol against his temple.
“Wake up!” Glenn’s eyes snapped open.
For a moment, confusion clouded his features.
Then recognition hit and his face went pale as paper.
“Cole! Jesus Christ! How did you shut up!” Cole’s voice was flat, controlled, military calm.
Sit up slowly, hands where I can see them.
Glenn struggled to a sitting position, hands raised, eyes never leaving the gun.
Look, I can explain.
I said, “Shut up.
” Cole stepped back, keeping the weapon trained on Glenn’s chest.
“My daughters are safe.
They’re with the police by now.
This is just you and me.
” Glenn’s facade cracked.
The friendly neighbor mask fell away, revealing something cold and calculating underneath.
They won’t remember much, Glenn said, his voice taking on a weedling tone.
Kids that young, trauma affects their memory.
You could tell them it was all a bad dream.
Cole’s finger tightened on the trigger.
How many others? What? How many other children, Glenn? How many other families are still searching? Glenn’s eyes darted toward the bedroom door like he was calculating the distance.
Cole stepped sideways, blocking his path.
I’m not going anywhere, Cole said.
And neither are you until you start talking.
Glenn licked his lips.
I want to make a deal.
You’re not in a position to make deals.
I have information, things the police will want to know.
Other names, other locations.
I can give you everything.
Cole studied Glenn’s face.
Even now, even with a gun pointed at his heart, the man was trying to negotiate, trying to find an angle that would keep him breathing.
Start talking.
Glenn shifted on the bed, suddenly animated.
There’s a network.
People like me, but organized, professional.
I was just I was small time compared to them.
Names.
I need guarantees first.
Protection.
Witness protection.
Cole leaned forward, pressing the gun barrel against Glenn’s forehead.
You took my seven-year-old daughter.
You kept her locked in a box for 5 years.
You don’t get to negotiate.
Glenn’s composure finally broke.
They’re alive, aren’t they? Your girls? I kept them alive when the others wanted to.
When they said it was too risky.
The others? Cole’s blood went cold.
Who are the others? I can’t.
If they find out I talked, they’ll kill me.
I’ll kill you if you don’t.
Glenn stared into Cole’s eyes and saw his own death looking back.
His shoulders sagged in defeat.
There’s a man in Pennsylvania, goes by Marcus.
He runs the whole operation, finds families, scouts locations, arranges, acquisitions.
Cole forced himself to stay calm.
What’s his real name? I don’t know.
Nobody uses real names, but he has a place outside Pittsburgh warehouse district.
That’s where they where they process things.
Process things.
Like children were inventory.
How many kids are there, Glenn? Glenn’s voice dropped to a whisper.
Dozens, maybe more.
They moved them around.
Keep them in different locations.
Your girls were supposed to be transferred last year, but I I couldn’t give them up.
Cole felt sick.
Glenn was talking about his daughters like they were pets he’d gotten attached to.
Where’s the warehouse? Glenn gave him an address, detailed directions, everything he knew about the operation.
As he talked, Cole realized this was bigger than just one sick man stealing children.
This was organized, professional, a business.
And somewhere in Pennsylvania, dozens of children were still trapped in the darkness.
That’s everything, Glenn said when he finished.
That’s all I know.
Cole lowered his weapon slightly.
One more question.
Glenn looked hopeful like maybe this nightmare was almost over.
Why my girls? Glenn’s face twisted into something that might have been a smile.
Because they trusted me.
Because you invited me into your home.
Because when opportunity knocked, I answered.
Cole raised the gun.
Wait.
Glenn scrambled backward on the bed.
You said you needed information.
I gave you everything.
I lied.
The shot was muffled by the pillow Glenn had grabbed, trying to shield himself.
It didn’t help.
Cole stood over the body for a moment, feeling nothing, no satisfaction, no regret, just the cold clarity of a mission completed.
He had information now, names, locations, details about a network that was still operating.
But first, he needed to get back to his daughters.
They’d been alone long enough.
Cole found his daughters in the Beckley Police Station wrapped in oversized sweatshirts and clutching paper cups of hot chocolate like lifelines.
They looked smaller under the fluorescent lights, more fragile than they had in the darkness outside Glenn’s house.
Avery was curled in a plastic chair, knees drawn up to her chest.
Sloan sat beside her, one protective arm around her sister’s shoulders.
A female officer was talking to them in soft tones, asking gentle questions they weren’t ready to answer.
When she saw Cole walk through the door, she stood up quickly.
“Mr.
Harwick?” Cole nodded, his eyes never leaving his daughters.
They looked up at the sound of his name.
And for a moment, nobody moved.
Then Avery launched herself from the chair and crashed into his legs, holding on like she might never let go.
Sloan followed a second later, more cautious, but just as desperate.
Cole knelt down and pulled them both against his chest, breathing in the smell of their hair, feeling their heartbeats against his ribs.
They were real.
They were alive.
They were his.
I told you I’d come back, he whispered.
Is he gone? Avery asked, her voice muffled against his shoulder.
Cole thought about Glenn’s body cooling in a bedroom 40 m away.
He’s gone.
He’ll never hurt anyone again.
Officer Martinez, the name plate on her uniform read, cleared her throat.
Mr.
Harwick, we need to talk.
Your daughters have been through significant trauma.
They need medical attention, psychological evaluation.
They need to go home, Cole said, standing up but keeping his hands on the girl’s shoulders.
Sir, I understand, but there are procedures.
Social services has been contacted.
And no.
Cole’s voice carried the weight of command, the tone that had sent soldiers into combat.
These are my daughters.
They’ve been missing for 5 years, and now they’re found.
They’re coming home with me.
Officer Martinez looked uncomfortable.
Mr.
Harwick, where is Glenn Mastersonson? We sent units to the address you provided, but he won’t be a problem anymore.
The officer’s eyes narrowed.
What does that mean exactly? Cole met her stare without flinching.
It means my daughters are safe.
That’s all that matters.
A detective emerged from an office down the hall.
Older man, gray mustache, tired eyes that had seen too much.
Detective Carson, according to his badge.
Mr.
Harwick, I’m the one who called your wife.
She’s driving down from California.
Should be here by morning.
Cole’s chest tightened.
Jenna was coming.
She’d have to see what 5 years had done to their daughters.
See how thin they were, how they flinched at sudden movements.
Daddy.
Sloan’s voice was small, uncertain.
Are we really going home? Cole knelt down again, looking both girls in the eyes.
Yeah, sweetheart.
We’re really going home.
What about the other kids? Avery asked.
The ones he talked about.
The ones in the dark place? Cole’s jaw clenched.
Glenn had mentioned the warehouse, the network, dozens of children still trapped.
The mission wasn’t over.
It was just beginning.
But that was a problem for tomorrow.
Tonight his daughters needed him.
We’ll help them, Cole said.
But first, we take care of us.
Detective Carson pulled Cole aside while the girls finished their hot chocolate.
Mr.
Harwick, I need to ask you directly.
Glenn Mastersonson is missing from his residence.
There are signs of forced entry.
We found blood.
Cole didn’t blink.
That’s unfortunate, Mr.
Harwick.
detective.
My daughters were held captive for 5 years by a man I trusted.
A man who kept them locked in a box under his house.
A man who was part of a larger network that’s still out there taking children from their families.
Cole pulled out a folded piece of paper.
The notes he’d taken while Glenn confessed.
Names, addresses, details about the operation in Pennsylvania.
This is everything Glenn told me before he died.
I suggest you pass it along to the FBI.
There are a lot of families still waiting for their children to come home.
Detective Carson took the paper, scanned it quickly.
His face went pale.
Jesus Christ.
This is This is huge.
It’s bigger than Glenn.
He was just one piece.
The detective looked up.
And you’re sure he’s dead? I’m sure he’ll never hurt another child.
Carson nodded slowly.
I’ll pretend we didn’t have this conversation, at least for tonight.
I appreciate that.
Cole walked back to his daughters who were watching him with eyes that had learned not to trust promises from adults.
“Are we in trouble?” Sloan asked.
Cole sat down beside them.
“No, baby.
You’re not in trouble.
You’re safe.
And tomorrow, when mom gets here, we’re all going home together.
” Avery leaned against his side.
Will it be the same our house? Cole thought about their empty bedrooms preserved exactly as they’d left them.
Thought about Jenna setting the table for four every night, even when only two people came to dinner.
It’ll be exactly the same, he said.
Like you never left.
But even as he said it, Cole knew that wasn’t true.
Nothing would ever be the same again.
His daughters had been changed by 5 years of captivity.
He’d been changed by 5 years of searching and by what he’d done to Glenn Mastersonson.
And somewhere in Pennsylvania, a warehouse full of stolen children, was waiting for someone to find them.
The old Cole Harwick, the one who fixed appliances and ate quiet dinners, was gone forever.
What remained was a father who would burn the world down to keep his family safe, and a soldier with a new mission.
6 months later, Cole stood in the kitchen of their Visalia home watching Jenna make pancakes while Avery and Sloan sat at the table arguing over who got the last piece of bacon.
It looked normal.
It almost felt normal, but Cole knew better.
Sloan still checked the locks on every door before bed.
Avery refused to sleep without a light on.
Jenna cried in the shower when she thought no one could hear.
and Cole.
Cole kept a go bag in his truck and a secure phone in his jacket pocket because the mission wasn’t over.
The FBI task force had raided the Pennsylvania warehouse 3 weeks after Glenn’s death.
They’d found 17 children, some as young as five, some who’d been missing for over a decade.
The media called it the largest child trafficking bust in decades.
But Cole knew it was just one facility.
Glenn’s information had led to others.
A network that stretched across state lines involving people in positions of trust.
Teachers, coaches, family, friends, people who smiled at community barbecues and volunteered at school fundraisers.
People like Glenn Mastersonson.
Dad.
Sloan’s voice pulled him back to the present.
You’re doing it again.
Cole blinked.
Doing what? Staring at nothing.
Mom says you do that when you’re thinking about the bad people.
Jenna shot him a look across the kitchen.
They’d had this conversation before.
The therapist said the girls needed stability, normaly.
They needed their father to be present, not planning his next hunt.
But how could he be normal when he knew what was still out there? Sorry, sweetheart, Cole said, sitting down at the table.
Just thinking about work.
Avery giggled.
you don’t have work anymore.
You quit, remember?” She was right.
Cole had walked away from his job at the security company, cashed out his retirement, liquidated everything they owned.
Officially, they were living on savings while he figured things out.
Unofficially, Cole was funded by anonymous donors, families whose children had been recovered because of the information Glenn provided.
Families who understood that some work couldn’t be done by official channels.
His phone buzzed.
Text message from a number he didn’t recognize.
Possible lead in Oregon.
Girl missing three days.
Neighbor with prior contact.
Interested? Cole deleted the message without responding.
He’d learned to wait until the girls were asleep until Jenna was occupied before checking these communications.
Earth to daddy, Avery said, waving a piece of bacon at him.
Mom asked if you want coffee.
Please, Cole said, accepting the mug Jenna handed him.
Their fingers brushed and she held on a moment longer than necessary.
“You okay?” she asked quietly.
Cole nodded.
“I’m here.
” “No,” Jenna said.
“You’re physically here, but you’re not really here.
” She was right, and they both knew it.
Part of Cole would always be hunting, always be listening for the sound of children calling for help.
The therapist called it hypervigilance, a trauma response.
Cole called it being prepared.
After breakfast, Sloan helped clear the dishes while Avery played with the new cat.
They’d adopted, a orange tabby she’d named Pancake, because he was the same color as breakfast.
Normal family moments, the kind Cole had dreamed about during 5 years of searching.
So why did he feel like he was holding his breath, waiting for the next emergency call? His secure phone buzzed again.
This time it was Detective Vance.
Marcus Patterson arrested in Pittsburgh, singing like a canary.
We got names, locations, everything.
Your information broke this wide open.
Cole smiled slightly.
Marcus, the man Glenn had called the head of the operation.
Another piece removed from the board.
What’s that? Sloan asked, noticing his expression.
Good news, Cole said.
Some bad people got arrested.
Sloan nodded seriously.
She understood the concept of bad people better than any 13-year-old should.
“Will you have to go away again?” Avery asked, looking up from where she was scratching Pancake’s ears.
Cole’s chest tightened.
He’d been gone for 3 days last month, following up on a lead in Nevada.
The girls had barely spoken to him when he returned, afraid he might disappear like they had.
No more trips, Cole said.
I’m staying right here.
It was a lie, and he suspected Jenna knew it.
But some lies were necessary.
That evening, after the girls were asleep, and Jenna was grading papers in the bedroom, Cole sat in his garage with a map spread across his workbench.
Red pins marked recovered children.
Blue pins marked active investigations.
Black pins marked the ones they’d found too late.
There were too many black pins.
His phone rang.
Detective Carson from West Virginia.
Cole, we got a development on the Masterson case.
Cole tensed.
What kind of development? Officially, we’re closing the file.
No body, no evidence of foul play.
Glenn Mastersonson is listed as a missing person.
Probably fled the jurisdiction.
And unofficially, Carson’s voice dropped.
Unofficially, I want to buy you a beer sometime.
That information you provided led to 43 arrests and 31 children returned to their families.
Cole closed his eyes.
Any word on the others? The ones still missing? Task force is working around the clock.
They’ll find them.
After Carson hung up, Cole sat in the silence of his garage, surrounded by the tools of his old life.
socket wrenches and oil stains and the comfortable chaos of a man who fixed things with his hands.
But some things couldn’t be fixed.
Some things could only be stopped.
Through the window that connected the garage to the kitchen, Cole could see his family.
Jenna at the table, red pen moving across student essays.
The girls bedroom doors both cracked open so they could call out if they had nightmares.
This was what he’d fought for.
This quiet evening, this ordinary moment, this chance for his daughters to grow up safe, and he’d kill anyone who tried to take it away.
Cole folded the map, locked his phones in the toolbox, and went inside to kiss his daughters good night.
Tomorrow, there would be more missing children, more families destroyed, more monsters hiding behind friendly smiles.
But tonight his girls were home and that was enough for Now,
