In the summer of 1997, the Brennan family set out for a three-day hiking adventure in the Cascade Mountains of Washington State. David and Elena Brennan, along with their children—Sophie, age 12, and Owen, age 8—checked into the Ranger Station at Glacier Peak Wilderness early on a Friday morning. They were experienced hikers, well-prepared, and excited for their annual family trip. But by Monday, when they failed to return, search and rescue teams found only their abandoned campsite: sleeping bags laid out, food still in bear canisters, and all their gear untouched. It was as if the family of four had simply stood up mid-breakfast and walked into the forest, never to return.

For sixteen years, Elena’s sister Caroline searched for answers, haunted by the inexplicable disappearance. When a wildfire in 2013 burned through a remote section of the wilderness, it exposed something that should have stayed buried—a discovery so disturbing it suggested the Brennan family’s fate was far worse than anyone had imagined. The smoke from the Wolverine Creek fire finally cleared after three weeks of burning through 12,000 acres of old growth forest in the Cascade Range. Fire crews had worked around the clock to contain the blaze. Now, in early September 2013, rehabilitation teams were assessing the damage and planning restoration efforts.

Tommy Reeves, a wildland firefighter with eleven years of experience, had seen plenty of destruction in his time. Charred landscapes were part of the job, as were the occasional discoveries of wildlife casualties. But what he found on a blackened ridge overlooking what used to be called Whispering Creek had nothing to do with the fire. The structure was barely visible at first—just the suggestion of geometric lines beneath the ash and debris. Tommy had almost walked past it entirely, focused on marking hazard trees, when something made him stop—a feeling, perhaps, as the forest held an eerie silence after the fire.

He approached slowly, using his boot to clear away a layer of ash. What emerged made his stomach clench: wooden planks, old and weathered, forming the beginnings of a trap door set into the earth. But it was the small pink shoe lying next to the partially exposed entrance that made Tommy reach for his radio with shaking hands. A child’s hiking boot, its laces still tied, looking remarkably preserved despite what must have been years in the elements. Tommy had lived in the area his whole life and knew the stories. Every local knew about the Brennan family—the mystery that had never been solved.

He keyed his radio. “Base, this is Reeves. I need you to contact the county sheriff. I found something on the north ridge above Whispering Creek. Something they’re going to want to see.” As he waited for a response, Tommy stared at the small shoe and the hidden entrance it guarded. The wind picked up, carrying the acrid smell of burnt timber, and somewhere in the distance, a raven called out—a harsh, lonely sound that seemed to carry a warning. Some secrets, Tommy thought, should stay buried, but this one was about to surface.

Caroline Mercer stood in the kitchen of her Seattle home, staring at her phone as if the device itself had betrayed her. The voice on the other end belonged to Detective Sarah Hullbrook of the Skagget County Sheriff’s Office, and she was saying words Caroline had both longed for and dreaded for sixteen years. “Ms. Mercer, we found something in the Glacier Peak Wilderness that may be connected to your sister’s case. I’d like you to come to the station when you’re able.” Caroline’s hand tightened around the phone. “What did you find?”

“I’d prefer to discuss the details in person.”
“Please,” Caroline said, her voice barely steady. “I’ve been waiting sixteen years. Just tell me. Did you find them? Did you find Elena and the children?”
There was a pause on the line, and Caroline could hear papers rustling in the background. “We found evidence that suggests a structure was built in a remote area of the wilderness, very close to where your sister’s family was last seen. The wildfire exposed it. There are items we believe belong to the Brennan family.”

Caroline closed her eyes, gripping the counter for support. “Are they alive?”
“We don’t know yet. The site is still being excavated, but Ms. Mercer, I need you to prepare yourself. What we found so far indicates…” Detective Hullbrook hesitated. “It indicates this wasn’t a simple case of getting lost in the wilderness.”

Two hours later, Caroline sat across from Detective Hullbrook in a small conference room at the Skagget County Sheriff’s Office. The detective was in her early forties with sharp eyes and an expression that managed to convey both professionalism and genuine sympathy. “Thank you for coming so quickly,” Detective Hullbrook said, sliding a folder across the table. “I want to be transparent with you about what we know, but I also need to warn you that some of this may be difficult to process.”

Caroline opened the folder with trembling hands. Inside were photographs of a burned forest landscape. In several images, she could make out the remains of what looked like a wooden structure built into the side of a hill, almost like a root cellar or bunker. “This was found approximately two miles from the campsite where your sister’s family was last seen in 1997,” Detective Hullbrook explained. The structure was deliberately concealed and would have been nearly impossible to find under normal circumstances. The fire burned away decades of overgrowth.

Caroline studied the photographs. “What is it? Some kind of shelter?”
“We’re still determining that. But Ms. Mercer, we found personal belongings inside. A child’s backpack with the name Sophie Brennan written on the tag. Clothing that appears to match descriptions from the original missing person’s report.” The detective paused. “We found a journal. It belonged to your sister.”

Caroline’s breath caught. Elena kept a journal. “It appears she wrote in it after the family disappeared. The entries are disturbing. She describes being held captive with her children, being moved between locations in the wilderness.” Detective Hullbrook leaned forward. “Ms. Mercer, we have reason to believe your sister and her family didn’t die in 1997. They were taken, held against their will by someone who knew these mountains intimately.”

The room seemed to tilt. Caroline had imagined countless scenarios over the years—bear attacks, falls, exposure, even murder. But kidnapping, captivity, in the middle of the wilderness? “That’s impossible,” Caroline whispered. “The search teams covered miles. They had helicopters, dogs. How could someone hide four people?”
“These mountains are vast,” Detective Hullbrook said quietly. “And there are people who live off the grid, people who know places even experienced rangers don’t know about. We’re looking into individuals who were in the area in 1997—anyone with a history of wilderness survival skills or suspicious behavior.”

Caroline’s mind raced back to that summer, to the last conversation she’d had with Elena. They’d spoken on the phone the night before the hiking trip. Elena had been excited, talking about teaching Sophie to identify bird calls and letting Owen practice with his new compass. There had been no fear in her voice, no premonition of danger. “The journal,” Caroline said, her throat tight. “What else did it say?”

Detective Hullbrook’s expression grew more guarded. “The entries are fragmentary. Your sister was clearly under extreme stress. She mentions a man she refers to only as ‘the shepherd.’ She describes being moved through underground passages, being kept in darkness. She talks about trying to protect the children, about David attempting to escape.”

“Attempting?” Caroline’s voice cracked.
“There’s an entry from approximately three months after the disappearance. Your sister writes that David was caught trying to lead the children out through a tunnel. She doesn’t describe what happened to him after that, but…” Detective Hullbrook met Caroline’s eyes. “Her subsequent entries only mention the children. David isn’t referenced again.”

Caroline felt tears burning behind her eyes, but she forced them back. She’d learned long ago that grief was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Grief meant accepting they were gone. Instead, she’d chosen anger, obsession, the relentless pursuit of answers. “How long do the entries continue?” she asked.

“The last dated entry is from December 1997, six months after the disappearance. But there are undated entries that appear to have been written later. The handwriting becomes less steady, more erratic. Your sister writes about illness, about the children growing weaker, about something she calls ‘the feeding time’ and ‘the lessons.’”

Caroline’s stomach turned. “What does that mean?”
“We don’t know yet. The journal is with forensic analysts. We’re hoping to extract more information, possibly find fingerprints other than your sister’s.” Detective Hullbrook pulled out another photograph. “There’s something else. In the last pages of the journal, your sister drew a map.”

The photograph showed a hand-drawn sketch on lined paper. Caroline recognized Elena’s handwriting immediately, the same careful printing she’d used since childhood. The map depicted what looked like a series of connected chambers or rooms with notations like “entry point,” “water source,” and “deepest chamber.”
“We believe this is a map of the underground structure where they were held,” Detective Hullbrook said. “We’ve already sent a team to explore the site, using this as a guide. It’s possible there are remains.” She stopped herself. “It’s possible we’ll find more answers.”

Caroline stared at the map, her sister’s final act of desperate documentation. “You think they’re dead?”
“I think we need to prepare for that possibility. But until we have concrete evidence, we’re treating this as an active investigation.” Detective Hullbrook closed the folder. “I need to ask you some questions about your sister’s life before the disappearance—anything that might help us understand who could have targeted this family.”

For the next hour, Caroline answered questions she’d answered a dozen times before, but now with new purpose. She described Elena and David’s marriage—solid, loving, no enemies she knew of. She talked about the children, Sophie’s love of nature photography, and Owen’s collection of interesting rocks. She mentioned David’s job as an architect, Elena’s work as a substitute teacher, their quiet life in Bellingham.

“Was there anyone who showed unusual interest in the family?” Detective Hullbrook asked. “Anyone who might have known about their hiking plans?”
Caroline thought back. Elena posted about the trip on an online hiking forum she frequented. She liked to get trail recommendations from other hikers.
Detective Hullbrook made a note. “Do you remember which forum?”
“Northwest Trails and Adventures. I think she’d been a member for years.”
“We’ll look into that. What about when they checked in at the ranger station? Did your sister mention meeting anyone unusual?”

“She called me that Friday evening after they’d set up camp. She said they’d passed a few other hikers on the trail, but hadn’t talked to anyone at length. She mentioned…” Caroline paused, a memory surfacing. “She said Owen thought he saw someone watching them from the trees while they were eating dinner. Elena dismissed it as Owen’s imagination. He was eight, always seeing things.”

Detective Hullbrook leaned forward. “Did she describe what Owen saw?”
“Just a man standing very still in the shadows. Elena said she looked but didn’t see anyone. She figured it was the way the evening light played through the trees.” The detective wrote something down, underlining it twice.
“Ms. Mercer, I want to be clear with you about something. This investigation is going to attract media attention. The discovery of the journal, the structure—this is going to become a major story. You may want to prepare yourself for that.”

Caroline had dealt with media attention before, in the immediate aftermath of the disappearance and again on the tenth anniversary. She’d given interviews, made appeals, appeared on missing person shows, but this felt different. This wasn’t speculation anymore. This was evidence of horror.

“I don’t care about the media,” Caroline said firmly. “I only care about finding out what happened to my sister and her family. And if someone took them, if someone hurt them…” Her voice hardened. “I want them found. I want them to answer for what they did.”
Detective Hullbrook nodded. “That’s what we all want. We’re going to find the truth, Ms. Mercer. Whatever it takes.”

As Caroline left the sheriff’s office, stepping out into the cool September afternoon, she felt the weight of sixteen years pressing down on her shoulders. She’d never given up hope, never stopped searching. She’d hiked every trail Elena had planned to take, posted on internet forums, hired private investigators with money she didn’t have, and driven herself to the edge of madness with what-ifs. Now, finally, she had something concrete—a journal, a map, evidence that her sister had survived, at least for a while. Evidence that something truly terrible had happened in those mountains.

She got into her car and sat for a moment, staring at the mountains visible in the distance—the same mountains that had swallowed her sister’s family whole. Somewhere up there in the burned forest, the earth was giving up its secrets. Caroline pulled out her phone and called her husband.
“Mark, they found something. Something bad. I’m going to need you to take the kids this weekend. I have to go up there. I have to see where they found her things.”

As she spoke, she didn’t notice the pickup truck parked three spaces down, or the man behind the wheel watching her with intense, unblinking eyes. The man who’d been waiting sixteen years for this day, knowing it would eventually come, knowing that fire cleanses—but also reveals. He started his engine and pulled out of the parking lot, disappearing into traffic before Caroline ended her call.

The drive to the Glacier Peak Wilderness took Caroline three hours, winding through increasingly remote roads until pavement gave way to gravel and finally to a dirt access road marked with official vehicles. She’d left at dawn, unable to sleep after her meeting with Detective Hullbrook, her mind cycling through images of Elena’s journal and that haunting map. Yellow crime scene tape cordoned off a section of forest where the fire had burned through most intensely.

Caroline parked behind a sheriff’s SUV and approached the checkpoint where a young deputy stood guard.
“I’m Caroline Mercer,” she said, showing the identification Detective Hullbrook had given her. “I’m authorized to be here.”
The deputy checked his clipboard and nodded. “Detective Hullbrook said you’d be coming. She’s up at the site. Follow the marked path about a quarter mile.”

The smell of burnt wood hung heavy in the air as Caroline made her way up the trail. Blackened tree trunks stood like sentinels, their branches reduced to skeletal fingers reaching toward a gray sky. In places, the fire had burned so hot that the earth itself looked scorched, turned to a surface of ash and char. She found Detective Hullbrook standing with a forensic team near what remained of the hidden structure. In the daylight, Caroline could see it more clearly—a wooden framework built into the hillside, designed to look like a natural outcropping.

Most of the wood had been consumed by the fire, but the earthen chambers beneath had survived, their openings now exposed like wounds in the ground.
“Ms. Mercer,” Detective Hullbrook greeted her, stepping away from the team. “I appreciate you waiting until we processed the initial evidence before coming up here.”
“What have you found?” Caroline asked, unable to take her eyes off the dark openings in the earth.

“Come with me, but I need to warn you. This is disturbing.”
They approached the largest of the exposed chambers. A ladder had been set up leading down into darkness, with generator-powered lights illuminating the space below. Caroline could see that the chamber had been carved out of the earth and reinforced with timber, creating a room roughly fifteen feet square.

“We believe this was the main living area,” Detective Hullbrook explained. “We found the journal here along with blankets, some preserved food containers, and children’s items. The person who built this knew what they were doing. The chambers were designed to maintain temperature and humidity, and to be virtually undetectable from the surface.”

Caroline peered down into the chamber. Even with the lights, there was something deeply unsettling about the space—the way it had been hidden from the sky, from help, from hope.
“How many chambers are there?” she asked.
“We’ve found five so far, connected by narrow passages. The map in your sister’s journal indicates there should be seven. We’re still excavating.” Detective Hullbrook paused. “Miss Mercer, we found something in the deepest chamber. I need you to identify if you can.”

They moved to a smaller opening at the far end of the site. This entrance had been more carefully preserved by the forensic team, as if they were being especially cautious about what it might contain. A photographer was documenting everything before items were removed.
“We found human remains,” Detective Hullbrook said quietly. “Adult male. Based on preliminary assessment, the body was in a section of the chamber that collapsed possibly decades ago. We won’t have a positive ID until we run DNA tests.” She held up a sealed evidence bag. Inside was a watch, the band broken but the face still intact.

“Do you recognize this?”
Caroline took the bag with shaking hands. The watch was a Timex with a distinctive blue face and silver band. She’d been with Elena when Elena bought it for David on their tenth anniversary, just two months before the hiking trip.
“That’s David’s watch,” she whispered. “Elena had it engraved on the back. Ten years, forever to go.”

Detective Hullbrook nodded solemnly. “We’ll verify the engraving. I’m sorry, Ms. Mercer. I know this isn’t the outcome anyone wanted.”
Caroline stared at the watch, thinking about what Elena had written in the journal—David attempting to escape, David no longer being mentioned in later entries. Now she understood why.

“He tried to save them,” she said, her voice hollow. “He tried to get the children out, and whoever did this killed him for it.”
“That’s our working theory. The collapse that buried him appears to have been deliberate. We found evidence of tools, of the ceiling being intentionally compromised.” Detective Hullbrook touched Caroline’s arm gently. “Come sit down. This is a lot to process.”

They moved to a makeshift command station set up in a clearing, where Caroline sank onto a folding chair. One of the forensic team members brought her a bottle of water, which she accepted numbly.
“What about Elena and the children?” Caroline asked. “Have you found any other remains?”
“Not yet, but there are still chambers we haven’t fully explored. The map indicates passages that go deeper into the hillside, and we found evidence of cave-ins and flooding in some sections. It’s going to take time.”

Caroline opened the water bottle but didn’t drink. “Tell me about the journal. What else did Elena write?”
Detective Hullbrook sat down across from her, pulling out a tablet. “I’ve had the journal scanned so we could preserve the original. I can show you some of the entries if you think you’re ready.”
“I need to know.”

The detective pulled up a scanned image. Caroline recognized Elena’s handwriting immediately—neat, controlled, so familiar it made her chest ache. The entry was dated August 3rd, 1997, two weeks after the family’s disappearance.
“Sophie keeps asking when we can go home. I don’t know how to tell her that. I don’t know if we ever will. The shepherd says we’re being prepared for something important, that we were chosen. David doesn’t believe him. Every night after the shepherd leaves, David examines the walls, looking for weaknesses. He thinks there’s a way out through the water tunnel, the one that floods when it rains. I’m terrified he’s going to try it and drown. I’m terrified we’re all going to die down here in the dark.”

Caroline’s vision blurred with tears. She was so scared.
“The entries continue in that vein for several weeks,” Detective Hullbrook said. “She documents their daily routine. The shepherd would bring food and water, sometimes stay for hours talking about wilderness philosophy, survival of the worthy—things that suggest possible mental illness or a distorted belief system. Your sister tried to keep the children’s spirits up, created games for them, told them stories.”

“What happened to David?” Caroline forced herself to ask.
Detective Hullbrook scrolled to another entry, dated September 15th, 1997. “Your sister writes about David’s escape attempt. It was late at night. He’d managed to remove some of the timber reinforcing one of the passages and thought he’d found a way to the surface. He got the children halfway through before…” She paused. “…before the shepherd discovered them.”

Caroline waited, her heart hammering.
“Elena doesn’t describe what happened in detail. She just writes, ‘David is gone. The children are back. The shepherd says, “This is what happens to those who reject his gift of shelter. We must learn to be grateful.”’ After that, she never mentions David again.”

The horror of it settled over Caroline like a physical weight. Her brother-in-law—a good man who’d loved his family, who’d worked in a profession dedicated to building safe spaces for people to live—had died trying to save his children in a nightmare he couldn’t architect his way out of.
“The shepherd,” Caroline said, forcing her voice to stay steady. “Do you have any leads on who he might be?”

“We’re investigating several possibilities. We’re looking at individuals who lived in this area in the ’90s—anyone with known survivalist tendencies or who’d been reported for suspicious behavior in the wilderness. We’re also reviewing the forum Elena posted on before the trip, checking if anyone showed unusual interest in her family’s plans.”
Detective Hullbrook set down the tablet. “There’s something else. In some of the later entries, your sister becomes less lucid. She writes about the lessons the shepherd was teaching, about how Sophie had to learn to be grateful, about how Owen wasn’t adapting as well as the shepherd wanted.”

“What does that mean?”
“We’re not entirely sure, but some of the phrasing suggests…” Detective Hullbrook chose her words carefully. “It suggests the shepherd may have had specific plans for the children—educational or indoctrination purposes. Your sister writes about having to watch while Sophie was taken to the ‘learning chamber’ and how she could hear Owen crying from another section of the structure.”

Caroline pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting nausea. He was torturing them—psychologically torturing children.
“It appears that way. Yes.”
A shout came from the excavation site. One of the forensic team members was waving urgently.

Detective Hullbrook stood immediately. “Wait here.”
But Caroline followed, unable to stay away. She reached the edge of the largest chamber just as a technician climbed up the ladder, his face pale.
“We found another chamber,” he said, slightly out of breath. “Behind a false wall in the deepest section. Detective, you need to see this.”

They descended into the underground structure, the temperature dropping noticeably as they went deeper. Caroline’s claustrophobia kicked in. The walls seemed to press inward, the ceiling to lower with each step. How had Elena survived down here? How had the children coped with this darkness?

The technician led them through a narrow passage that required them to duck and move sideways. Caroline’s breathing quickened, her heart racing. Then they emerged into a slightly larger space lit by portable work lights. The chamber was different from the others. The walls had been carved with symbols—crude drawings of trees, animals, and humanoid figures that seemed to dance in the flickering light.

In the center of the room stood a small table made of stone, and on it were arranged items that made Caroline’s blood run cold. Children’s drawings, dozens of them preserved in plastic sleeves. Photographs of Sophie and Owen taken at different ages. And in the corner, a child’s skeleton curled into a fetal position, a small bracelet still clasped around tiny wrist bones.

Detective Hullbrook moved closer to examine the bracelet, then looked at Caroline with an expression of profound sorrow.
“Ms. Mercer, did your niece Sophie wear a bracelet—something she wouldn’t have taken off?”
Caroline’s knees buckled. She knew that bracelet. She’d given it to Sophie for her tenth birthday, two years before the disappearance. It was silver with a charm shaped like a camera because Sophie had loved photography.

“That’s Sophie,” Caroline whispered, the words tearing from her throat. “Oh god, that’s Sophie.”
She turned and stumbled back through the passage, desperate for air, for light, for anything that wasn’t this tomb where her niece had died. She made it to the surface and collapsed onto her knees in the ash, retching as sobs racked her body.

Detective Hullbrook emerged a moment later, kneeling beside her. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry you had to see that.”
“She was twelve,” Caroline choked out. “She was just a child. How could someone…” She couldn’t finish. There were no words for what had been done to her family.

They sat in the burned forest for a long time, Caroline crying in a way she hadn’t allowed herself to cry in sixteen years. All that time, hoping, searching, believing that somehow, somewhere, they’d survived. And now this—this nightmare confirmation. Eventually, her tears subsided into numb exhaustion.

“Owen,” she said hoarsely. “And Elena, have you found them?”
“Not yet,” Detective Hullbrook said quietly. “But the journal had later entries, undated ones. Your sister was alive for some time after Sophie—after we lost Sophie—and she mentions Owen being moved to a different location, somewhere the shepherd called ‘the sanctuary.’”

Caroline looked up sharply. “Different location? You mean there might be more structures like this?”
“It’s possible. The map in the journal shows these chambers, but there are notations on the edges—references to ‘the old place’ and ‘the sanctuary.’ We think the shepherd may have had multiple sites throughout the wilderness.”

The implications were staggering. Not just one underground prison, but a network of them. How many people might this person have taken over the years? How many families had stories like the Brennans?

“We need to find him,” Caroline said, standing on shaky legs. “We need to find the shepherd. He could still be out there.”
“We’re working on it,” Detective Hullbrook assured her. “But Ms. Mercer, you need to prepare yourself for what we might find. Your sister’s last entry suggests she was seriously ill. She writes about being unable to keep food down, about fever and confusion. And Owen…” She hesitated. “She writes about Owen differently in the later entries, like he’d changed somehow, like he’d stopped resisting.”

The thought of her eight-year-old nephew being broken by captivity, of his bright curiosity being crushed into submission, was almost more than Caroline could bear.
“I want to read the journal,” she said. “All of it. Everything Elena wrote.”
“I’ll arrange that, but not today. You should go home, be with your family. This investigation is going to take weeks, maybe months. You need to take care of yourself.”

Caroline knew the detective was right, but the thought of leaving felt like abandonment. Her sister had died in these mountains along with Sophie and David. Owen’s fate was still unknown. How could she just drive away?

As if reading her thoughts, Detective Hullbrook said, “Your sister documented everything she could in that journal. She drew maps, described the shepherd, recorded details that are helping us build a profile. She fought to leave us answers. The best way to honor that is to let us do our job. We’ll find the truth, and we’ll find whoever did this.”

Caroline nodded slowly, taking one last look at the excavation site. Somewhere under that burned earth, her sister had lived and died. But she’d left a message—a trail of breadcrumbs for someone to follow.

“Call me the moment you find anything else,” Caroline said. “Anything at all.”
“I will, I promise.”

As Caroline walked back to her car, she passed the area where they’d found Sophie’s remains being carefully documented and prepared for transport. A small pink hair tie lay among the evidence, and Caroline remembered buying it with Sophie at a drugstore, the girl insisting on that exact shade of pink. She got in her car and sat for a moment, staring at the mountains that had taken everything from her. Then she pulled out her phone and called her husband again.

“Mark, they found Sophie,” she said when he answered. “She’s dead. They’re still looking for Elena and Owen.”
She heard his sharp intake of breath.
“Caroline, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Do you need me to come get you?”
“No, I’m driving back now. But Mark, I need you to help me with something. I need to research everyone who was in this area in 1997—hikers, guides, rangers, anyone. There are records somewhere—forum posts, ranger station logs, permits. Someone saw this man. Someone knows who he is.”

“Caroline…”
“I have to do this,” she said firmly. “Elena left a journal. She documented everything she could. Now it’s my turn to finish what she started.”

As she ended the call and started her car, Caroline didn’t see the figure standing in the trees at the edge of the burned zone, watching her through binoculars. Didn’t see him lower the binoculars and smile. The shepherd had been watching Caroline for sixteen years, just as he’d watched Elena before her. Some people, he believed, were meant to find their way to him. They just didn’t know it yet. He turned and disappeared into the unburned forest, moving with the practiced silence of someone who’d spent decades learning every trail, every hidden path, every secret these mountains held.

The fire had exposed one of his places, but he had others. And if Caroline Mercer wanted to find him so badly, well, the shepherd had always appreciated visitors who came willingly into the wilderness.

Caroline spent the next three days in a haze of grief and obsessive research. She’d taken leave from her job as a legal assistant, told her children that Aunt Elena’s case had developments she needed to focus on, and converted her home office into a makeshift investigation room. The walls were now covered with printouts, maps, timelines, and photographs, both old and new. Mark brought her coffee at odd hours, gently reminding her to eat, to sleep, to remember she had a life outside this tragedy.

But Caroline couldn’t stop. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw that small skeleton curled in the dark—the bracelet she’d given Sophie still clutched around bone-thin wrist. Detective Hullbrook had sent over copies of Elena’s journal entries as promised, along with a warning to contact a therapist if the content became too overwhelming. Caroline read every word, some entries multiple times, searching for clues hidden in her sister’s desperate documentation.

The entries painted a picture of systematic psychological torture. The shepherd—Elena never learned his real name—would keep the family in darkness for days, then flood the chambers with bright lantern light. He’d withhold food until they thanked him properly for his protection from the dangerous world above. He lectured them about how civilization had corrupted humanity, how only those who could survive in the pure wilderness deserved to continue existing.

But it was the entries about the children that haunted Caroline most.
October 22nd, 1997.
“The shepherd took Sophie to the learning chamber again today. She was gone for six hours. When she came back, she wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t look at me, just curled up with her blanket and stared at the wall. Owen asked what the shepherd does in the learning chamber, but Sophie won’t say. I think it’s better he doesn’t know. I think it’s better I don’t know. I can’t bear to imagine.”

November 8th, 1997.
“Owen is getting thinner. The shepherd says he’s too weak, too attached to soft living. He makes Owen do exercises until he collapses, then refuses to give him water until he can complete them. My son is eight years old. Eight. And this monster is trying to break him like an animal. David, if you can hear me wherever you are, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect them.”

December 15th, 1997.
“Sophie is gone. The shepherd came this morning and took her to what he calls the final chamber. She’s been gone all day. Owen keeps asking when she’ll be back. I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t know if she’s coming back.”
That was the last dated entry. After that, the journal became fragmentary, undated, Elena’s handwriting deteriorating from neat script to frantic scrawl.

“Owen doesn’t cry anymore. The shepherd says he’s finally learning. I see my son becoming something else. Something silent and hollow. Better that than dead. Better that than what happened to Sophie in that final chamber. I can’t write what I found. I can’t. God forgive me for not protecting her. Sick again. Fever won’t break. The shepherd brings medicine, but it doesn’t help. Owen sits with me, but doesn’t speak. He watches me the way the shepherd watches us. Like I’m an animal. Like I’m prey. The shepherd says Owen is ready to move to the sanctuary. Says he’s learned the most important lesson, how to survive by any means necessary. I asked what that means. He smiled. Said I’d understand soon enough. Said Owen has a gift for adaptation. I don’t recognize my son anymore.”

The final entry was barely legible, the letters shaky and uneven.
“Owen gone to sanctuary. Alone now. So cold. Can hear water rising. Shepherd hasn’t come in days, weeks. Time strange. If someone finds this, tell Caroline I tried. Tell her I loved my babies. Tell her some of us don’t die all at once. Some of us die in pieces until there’s nothing left to die.”

Caroline had read that final entry a dozen times, tears blurring the words. Her sister had died alone in the dark, sick and abandoned, believing she’d failed her children. The cruelty of it was incomprehensible.

Three days after seeing Sophie’s remains, Caroline sat at her computer with a renewed sense of purpose. Detective Hullbrook’s team was investigating from an official capacity. But Caroline had something they didn’t—intimate knowledge of Elena’s habits, her way of thinking, the small details she might have included in online posts that would mean nothing to strangers.

She logged into the Northwest Trails and Adventures forum, the hiking community Elena had been part of for years. The website looked dated, clearly not updated since the late ’90s, but it was still active. Caroline had created an account using her own name and started combing through old posts. It took her several hours to find Elena’s original thread from June 1997, titled “Family Hiking Trip Glacier Peak Area Route Suggestions.”

Elena’s post was cheerful and detailed, describing the family’s experience level, the children’s ages, and their plan for a three-day trip in late July. She listed the specific trails they were considering and asked for recommendations on campsites suitable for families with children. Caroline scrolled through the responses. Most were helpful and straightforward suggestions for scenic spots, warnings about bear activity, recommendations for water filtration, but one username appeared multiple times: TrailWatcher77.

His first response had been helpful enough, suggesting a campsite near Whispering Creek with good access to water and relatively flat ground for setting up tents. But his follow-up posts had a different quality.
TrailWatcher77: “You mentioned your daughter likes photography. The area around Whispering Creek has some interesting rock formations just off the main trail about a quarter mile north. Not many people know about them. Your family might enjoy exploring there.”
TrailWatcher77: “I’m curious about your son’s rock collection. Does he prefer sedimentary or igneous specimens? The Glacier Peak area has some unique geological features I could point you toward if you’re interested in educational opportunities.”
TrailWatcher77: “How long have you been teaching your children wilderness survival skills? It’s refreshing to see a family taking outdoor education seriously. Too many parents these days raise their children to be dependent on technology and comfort.”

Caroline felt her skin prickle. The posts were polite, helpful even, but there was something in the way TrailWatcher77 focused on the children, asked specific questions about them, praised Elena’s parenting style that set off alarm bells. She clicked on his profile. He’d been a member since 1995 and had posted extensively about wilderness survival, primitive camping, and what he called “authentic living,” rejecting modern conveniences in favor of traditional skills. Many of his posts had an almost evangelical quality, arguing that civilization was corrupting humanity and that only those willing to embrace hardship and isolation could achieve true enlightenment.

Caroline grabbed her phone and called Detective Hullbrook.
“I found something,” she said as soon as the detective answered. “On the hiking forum, there was a user who showed unusual interest in Elena’s family before the trip.”
“I’m listening.”
Caroline read through the relevant posts, explaining her concerns about the specific focus on the children and the ideology that matched what Elena had described in her journal.

“Can you send me screenshots of everything?” Detective Hullbrook asked. “We’ll have our tech team trace the account, see if we can identify who was behind it.”
“There’s more,” Caroline said, still scrolling through TrailWatcher77’s post history. “He made posts in other threads, too. There’s one from 1995 about a solo hiker who went missing in the North Cascades. He claimed to have information about what happened to her, but said he’d only share it with people worthy of understanding the wilderness’s judgment.”

“What was the hiker’s name?”
Caroline checked the thread title.
“Rebecca Marsh. She was a 23-year-old woman from Oregon who disappeared during a solo backpacking trip.”
She heard typing on the other end of the line.
“Rebecca Marsh was never found,” Detective Hullbrook said. “Her case is still open. Ms. Mercer, this could be significant. If the same person who posted as TrailWatcher77 was involved in multiple disappearances, then the Brennans weren’t his only victims.”

Caroline finished. “He could have been doing this for years.”
“Send me everything you have. I’m going to contact the FBI. If this is a serial predator operating across multiple jurisdictions, we need federal involvement.”

After ending the call, Caroline continued digging through the forum. She found more threads where TrailWatcher77 had interacted with hikers planning trips to remote areas. Not all of them led to disappearances; most people probably hiked their routes and returned home safely, but there were patterns. He seemed to focus on families with children, solo female hikers, and people who expressed interest in primitive camping or extended wilderness stays. He always offered local knowledge and off-trail suggestions, praised people who wanted to disconnect from civilization and challenge themselves in harsh conditions.

Caroline created a spreadsheet documenting every thread, every user TrailWatcher77 had interacted with, every recommendation he’d made. Then she started cross-referencing with missing persons cases in Washington State. The results made her stomach turn. Between 1995 and 2000, seven people who’d posted on Northwest Trails and Adventures had gone missing in the North Cascades. Not all had interacted directly with TrailWatcher77, but all had posted in threads he’d participated in. All had expressed interest in remote hiking or primitive camping, and none had ever been found.

Caroline was so absorbed in her research that she didn’t notice the time until Mark knocked softly on her office door.
“Caroline, it’s almost midnight. You need to get some sleep.”
She looked up, realizing her eyes were burning from staring at the screen.
“Mark, I think I found him. I think I found the shepherd.”
He came into the room, looking at the wall covered in her research, the spreadsheet on her screen.
“Did you tell the police?”
“Yes, but I’m not done. There’s so much information here, so many connections. If I can just—”
“Caroline.” He knelt beside her chair, taking her hands. “You’re exhausted. You’ve barely eaten in three days. I know you need answers, but you’re going to make yourself sick.”

She wanted to argue, but the concern in his eyes stopped her.
“I just keep thinking about Elena down there in the dark, writing in that journal, hoping someone would find it. She left breadcrumbs for me, Mark. She knew I’d never stop looking.”
“And you haven’t. You found crucial information that the police are acting on. But you can’t do this alone, and you can’t do it without taking care of yourself.”
Caroline nodded reluctantly. “Okay, I’ll try to sleep.”

But after Mark left, she couldn’t help taking one more look at TrailWatcher77’s profile. His last post was from September 2013, just weeks ago, right after the wildfire.
TrailWatcher77: “Fires cleanse the forest, but also expose what was hidden. Nature has a way of revealing the truth when the time is right. Those who understand the wilderness know that some secrets are meant to surface.”

The post had been made two days before Tommy Reeves found the hidden structure. It was as if TrailWatcher77 had known what the fire would reveal, as if he’d been waiting for it. Caroline’s phone buzzed with a text from Detective Hullbrook.
Tech team traced the account. It was created using a public library computer in Bellingham. Different computers each time he posted. Smart. He knew how to cover his tracks, but we’re reviewing library security footage from 1997. It’s a long shot. But we might get lucky.

Caroline texted back.
His last post was right before the structure was found. He knew the fire would expose it.
The response came quickly.
I saw that. We’re working on the theory that he’s still in the area, still monitoring the situation. Caroline, I need you to be careful. If this is who we think it is, he’s dangerous and he’s been evading capture for decades. Don’t do anything on your own.

Caroline sent a confirmation text, but couldn’t shake the unsettled feeling creeping over her. TrailWatcher77 had watched Elena online, had guided her family toward a specific campsite near his hidden structure. Had he watched them set up camp that Friday evening? Had he been the figure Owen saw in the trees?

She pulled up Elena’s forum posts again, reading them with new eyes. Her sister’s enthusiasm for the trip, her gratitude for TrailWatcher77’s suggestions, her mention of the children’s interests—all of it now felt like bait being taken by a predator. One detail caught her attention. In her final post before the trip, Elena had written, “Thanks everyone for the great suggestions. We’re definitely checking out those rock formations TrailWatcher77 mentioned. Owen is already packing his rock hammer. See you all when we get back.”

The rock formations a quarter mile north of the trail—that was where the hidden structure had been found. TrailWatcher77 had lured them directly to his trap.

Caroline stood and walked to the window, looking out at the darkness. Somewhere out there, the man who destroyed her family was watching and waiting. He’d posted on the forum after the fire, which meant he was still monitoring it, still engaged with the hiking community. An idea formed in her mind—dangerous, probably foolish, but potentially effective.

She sat back down at the computer and created a new thread on the forum.
Subject: Looking for information about my sister’s 1997 disappearance.
My name is Caroline Mercer. In July 1997, my sister Elena Brennan and her family disappeared during a hiking trip in the Glacier Peak Wilderness. Recently, evidence has been found suggesting they were held captive. I’m trying to understand what happened to them. If anyone has information about unusual activity in that area during the late 1990s or knew anyone who spent significant time in the remote sections of the North Cascades, please contact me. I’m particularly interested in connecting with TrailWatcher77, who gave my sister hiking suggestions before her trip. Any information could help bring closure to my family.

She included her email address and hit post before she could second-guess herself. Mark would be furious if he knew what she’d just done. Detective Hullbrook would probably be angry, too. But Caroline needed to do something active, something that might draw the shepherd out. If he was still monitoring the forum, he’d see her post. And maybe, just maybe, his ego or curiosity would compel him to respond.

She refreshed her email every few minutes for the next hour, but no new messages appeared. Finally, exhausted, she shut down her computer and went to bed. But sleep was elusive. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Owen’s face from family photographs, superimposed with the haunting words from Elena’s journal.
“Owen doesn’t cry anymore. I don’t recognize my son anymore. The shepherd says he’s learned the most important lesson.”

What had happened to Owen in that underground prison? Where was the sanctuary the shepherd had mentioned? And most disturbing of all, was it possible Owen was still alive somewhere?

Caroline’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. She grabbed it, expecting a message from Detective Hullbrook about the forum post. Instead, it was from an unknown number—a text message with no words, just a photograph. The image showed a young man, probably in his early twenties, standing in a dense forest. He was thin, with dark hair and a hollow expression. He wasn’t looking at the camera, but staring off to the side as if watching something in the trees. The photograph was dated. The timestamp in the corner read September 18th, 2013—three days ago.

Caroline’s hands shook as she enlarged the image, studying the young man’s features. She hadn’t seen Owen since he was eight years old, but there was something in the shape of his face, the set of his eyes that reminded her of David. Could it possibly be? Another text arrived: “Some children adapt. Some become something new. The wilderness teaches those willing to learn.”

Caroline called the number immediately, but it went straight to a disconnected message. She texted back, “Who is this? Is that Owen?” No response came. She forwarded the messages to Detective Hullbrook with shaking fingers, then sat staring at the photograph until her vision blurred. If that was Owen, he’d survived. He was alive. But the hollow look in his eyes suggested that whatever he’d endured had fundamentally changed him.

The shepherd had sent her this. She was certain of it. He’d seen her forum post and responded in his own way, showing her that he still had power, still had control over at least one member of her sister’s family. Caroline didn’t sleep at all that night. She sat in the darkness, studying the photograph, committing every detail to memory and making a silent promise to Elena.
I will find him. I will find your son, and I will make the shepherd answer for what he’s done.

The next morning, Detective Hullbrook arrived at Caroline’s house at seven, accompanied by FBI agent Marcus Torres. Caroline had been awake for hours, sitting at her kitchen table with the photograph still displayed on her phone, studying it obsessively for any clue about where it might have been taken.

“Ms. Mercer,” Agent Torres said as they settled around the table. “I need you to walk me through exactly what happened last night, every detail.”
Caroline explained about the forum post, about checking her email and then receiving the texts. Agent Torres examined the photograph on her phone, his expression grave.
“We’ll need your phone to extract the full metadata from this image,” he said. “Sometimes photographs contain GPS coordinates or other identifying information that can tell us where they were taken.”

“Do you think that’s really Owen?” Caroline asked, unable to keep the desperate hope from her voice.
“The age would be about right,” Detective Hullbrook said carefully. “Owen would be 24 now, and this young man appears to be in his early twenties, but we won’t know for certain without DNA comparison or other definitive identification.”

Agent Torres leaned back in his chair.
“Miss Mercer, I need to be direct with you. Posting on that forum was extremely risky. If this is the same person who held your sister’s family captive, you’ve now put yourself on his radar. He knows who you are, where to find you, and that you’re actively investigating.”

“I had to do something,” Caroline said. “I couldn’t just sit here waiting while he’s out there.”
“I understand the impulse, but this individual has successfully evaded law enforcement for potentially decades. He’s intelligent, patient, and extremely dangerous. The fact that he responded to your post within hours suggests he monitors that forum regularly. He may have been monitoring it for years, looking for new potential victims.”

The thought made Caroline’s skin crawl. While she’d been researching, posting on the forum, he’d been watching her do it.

“What’s our next move?” she asked.
“We’ve set up monitoring on your forum account and email,” Detective Hullbrook explained. “If he contacts you again, we’ll trace it. In the meantime, we need to understand more about what happened in those chambers. The excavation has revealed additional details that might help us identify who we’re looking for.”

Agent Torres pulled out a tablet, bringing up photographs from the excavation site.
“We found evidence that the structure was built over several years, possibly starting in the early 1990s. The construction shows sophisticated knowledge of engineering, wilderness survival, and psychology. The learning chamber your sister mentioned in her journal was designed for sensory deprivation and manipulation. We found restraints, audio equipment for playing recorded sounds, and evidence of temperature control.”

Caroline felt sick. “What kind of sounds?”
“Recordings of forest noises, animal calls, wind, rain, but also human voices. We’re analyzing them now, but initial review suggests they were meant to disorient and confuse, creating an environment where captives couldn’t distinguish between real and recorded sounds—day and night, inside and outside.”

“Psychological torture,” Caroline said quietly.
“Exactly. This wasn’t just about physical captivity. Whoever built this place wanted to break down his victims’ sense of reality, make them dependent on him for basic information about their own environment.”

Detective Hullbrook pulled up another image.
“We also found something else. Tools that were used for carving those symbols we saw in the final chamber. They were high-quality, well-maintained—the kind of tools a professional craftsman or artist would use.”
“So, we’re looking for someone with artistic or craftsman skills?” Caroline asked.
“Possibly, or someone who values precision and detail. The symbols themselves appear to be a personal mythology—a combination of indigenous petroglyphs, Christian imagery, and what our consultant believes are original creations. Whoever made them was trying to communicate something about their belief system.”

Agent Torres swiped to a close-up of one of the carvings. It showed a human figure standing among trees with other smaller figures kneeling before it. This motif appears repeatedly—a shepherd figure with followers. The dominant figure always has its arms outstretched as if offering protection or demanding worship.

Caroline studied the image, thinking about the entries in Elena’s journal. The shepherd had seen himself as a protector, saving worthy people from the corruption of civilization. In his twisted worldview, he was doing them a favor by imprisoning them.

“Have you been able to identify any of his other potential victims?” she asked.
“We’re working on it,” Agent Torres replied. “The seven missing persons cases you identified from the forum are being reinvestigated. We’ve also started looking at unsolved disappearances throughout the Pacific Northwest dating back to the early 1990s. The pattern suggests he may have started with solo hikers—easier targets, less likely to be immediately missed—before escalating to families.”

“Why families?” The question had haunted Caroline since she’d first learned the truth. “What would make someone target entire families?”
“Control,” Agent Torres said simply. “When you take a family, you have leverage. Parents will do anything to protect their children. Children will comply to protect their parents. It creates a web of fear and dependency that’s easier to manipulate than a single individual who only has themselves to worry about.”

The doorbell rang, making Caroline jump. Detective Hullbrook stood immediately.
“Were you expecting anyone?”
“No.”
The detective moved to the front window and looked out, her hand instinctively going to her weapon. Then she relaxed slightly.
“It’s a delivery truck. You expecting a package?”
Caroline shook her head.

They all moved toward the front door together. Through the window, Caroline could see a courier truck pulling away from the curb. Detective Hullbrook opened the door carefully. On the porch sat a small cardboard box addressed to Caroline Mercer, with no return address. The detective pulled on gloves before picking it up.

“It’s light,” she said, gently shaking it. Something shifted inside with a soft rustling sound.
“Should we call a bomb squad?” Caroline asked, suddenly terrified.
“Let me check it first.” Detective Hullbrook produced a knife and carefully cut the tape, opening the box while Agent Torres stood ready.

Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a small item wrapped in plastic. The detective lifted it out carefully. Through the plastic, Caroline could see what looked like a child’s toy—a small compass with a cracked face and a faded strap.

“Owen’s compass,” Caroline whispered. Elena gave it to him for Christmas the year before they disappeared. He took it everywhere.

Detective Hullbrook laid the package on the porch and photographed it from multiple angles before carefully opening the plastic. The compass was definitely old, weathered from years of exposure. Attached to it with a rubber band was a small piece of paper. The note was handwritten in neat, precise letters.

“He who loses his way in the wilderness can either perish or become wilderness himself. Owen chose wisely. Will you?”

Caroline’s knees went weak. Mark, who’d been hovering in the doorway, caught her elbow.
“What does that mean? Is he threatening you?”
“It’s an invitation,” Agent Torres said grimly. “He’s telling Ms. Mercer that Owen survived by adapting to captivity, by becoming what the shepherd wanted him to be, and he’s challenging her to follow—to come looking for answers in the wilderness.”

“That’s insane,” Mark said. “Caroline, you can’t seriously consider—”
“We need to trace this delivery,” Detective Hullbrook interrupted, already on her phone. “Find out which courier service, where it was dropped off—everything.”

While she made calls, Caroline stared at Owen’s compass. She remembered buying it with Elena at an outdoor supply store, remembered her nephew’s face lighting up when he’d opened it Christmas morning.
“He’d spent hours teaching himself to use it, insisting on checking their direction every time the family went hiking. He kept it all these years,” she said softly. “Through everything that happened, somehow he kept this.”

“Or the shepherd kept it,” Agent Torres said. “This could be a trophy. Many serial predators keep items from their victims.”
But Caroline shook her head.
“No. Owen loved this compass. If he adapted the way the journal suggested—if he became what the shepherd wanted—maybe keeping this was his way of holding on to who he used to be. A small act of resistance.”

“Or it could be exactly what the shepherd wants you to think,” Mark said firmly. “Caroline, this man is manipulating you. That’s what he does. He sees what people need—hope, answers, closure—and he uses it against them.”

Caroline knew Mark was right. Everything about the shepherd’s methods showed sophisticated psychological manipulation. The timing of his contacts, the information he chose to reveal, the way he was dangling Owen’s survival in front of her like bait—it was all calculated. But knowing that didn’t make it any less effective.

Detective Hullbrook ended her call.
“The package was dropped at a courier service location in Everett yesterday afternoon. Paid for in cash, sender gave a fake name and address. The clerk remembers a man in his fifties or sixties—average height, gray hair, wearing outdoor clothing and a baseball cap. Very polite, very unremarkable.”

“Security footage?” Agent Torres asked.
“They’re pulling it now, but if he’s been doing this as long as we think, he knows how to avoid cameras.”

Caroline looked at the photograph on her phone again, then at the compass. Two messages in less than 12 hours. The shepherd was escalating, becoming more bold.

“Why?”
“He’s worried,” she said suddenly. “The fire exposed his structure. We found Elena’s journal. He knows we’re building a case against him. He’s trying to control the narrative—stay one step ahead.”

Agent Torres nodded slowly. “That’s a good observation. He’s moving from passive monitoring to active engagement. That could mean he’s feeling pressured, but it could also mean he’s preparing for something.”
“Like what?”
“Like relocating, destroying evidence, or…” Agent Torres hesitated. “Or finishing what he started. If Owen really is alive and has been with him all these years, the shepherd might decide it’s too risky to keep him now that we’re closing in.”

The thought sent ice through Caroline’s veins.
“We have to find him before he hurts Owen or disappears completely.”
“We’re doing everything we can,” Detective Hullbrook assured her. “We have teams reviewing the forum archives, analyzing the journal entries for geographic clues, and re-examining every missing person’s case that matches the pattern. The FBI is coordinating with park services and forest rangers across the entire Pacific Northwest. If he has other structures out there, we’ll find them.”

But Caroline heard the unspoken qualifier: “We’ll find them eventually,” which might not be soon enough.
“I want to go back to the excavation site,” she said. “There might be something in the chambers we missed. Something that only someone who knew Elena would recognize.”

Detective Hullbrook exchanged a glance with Agent Torres.
“The site is still being processed.”
“I know, but Elena left that journal knowing I’d find it. Maybe she left other messages—other clues meant specifically for me.”
“It’s possible,” Agent Torres admitted. “Family members sometimes notice details investigators overlook because they understand personal significance that wouldn’t be obvious to strangers.”

“Then let me try, please.”
After a long moment, Detective Hullbrook nodded.
“All right, but you go with an escort. You touch nothing without authorization, and if we tell you to leave, you leave immediately.”
“Understood.”
“Understood.”

They made plans to visit the site the following morning. After the detective and agent left, taking Owen’s compass as evidence, Caroline sat with Mark in the kitchen.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked quietly. “Going back up there, potentially putting yourself in this man’s sights.”
“I’m already in his sights. He knows who I am, where I live. The question is what I do with that.”
“You could let the professionals handle it. Let them do their job while you stay safe.”
Caroline took his hand. “If it was our children, could you do that? Could you sit home and wait while someone else looked for them?”
Mark closed his eyes. “No, I couldn’t. But Caroline, our children need their mother. They’ve already lost their aunt and cousins. I can’t—” His voice broke. “I can’t lose you, too.”

“You won’t. I promise I’ll be careful, but I have to see this through—for Elena, for Sophie and David, and for Owen, if there’s any chance he’s still out there.”

That night, Caroline lay awake again, listening to the house settle around her. She thought about Owen at eight years old—bright and curious and so excited about his rock collection. She thought about what he might have become after sixteen years with the shepherd, shaped and molded by captivity into something unrecognizable.

Her phone buzzed. Another text from the same unknown number—this time a video file just ten seconds long. Caroline’s hands shook as she pressed play. The footage showed a young man, the same one from the photograph, sitting at a rough wooden table in what looked like a cabin. He was carving something, his hands moving with practiced precision. The camera angle suggested whoever was filming was standing in a doorway watching him. The young man looked up briefly, directly at the camera, before returning to his work. His expression was blank, almost serene. There was no fear in his eyes, no plea for help—just empty acceptance.

The video ended. Caroline called Detective Hullbrook immediately, forwarding the file. Then she lay in the darkness, thinking about that empty look in the young man’s eyes. Whether it was Owen or not, whoever he was had been broken completely. The shepherd had won with him, but Caroline was determined not to let him win permanently.

Tomorrow she’d go back to those underground chambers. She’d search for whatever Elena had left behind. And somehow she’d find a way to bring the shepherd into the light—even if it meant walking into the darkness to do it.