Chapter 4 - The Ashford Farmhouse
The rain had turned into a freezing, horizontal drizzle by the time Elena’s unmarked cruiser turned off the main highway and onto a dirt logging road hidden beneath a dense canopy of pine trees.
The Ashford property sat at the end of a three-mile stretch of mud and gravel, bordered by rusted chain-link fencing and overgrown blackberry bushes. A dilapidated two-story farmhouse with peeling white paint and a sagging wraparound porch stood at the center of the clearing.
A silver sedan—identical to the one captured on the toll-booth camera—was parked partially inside an open-air pole barn beside the house.
Elena cut her headlights a hundred yards away, rolling to a stop behind a thick clump of cedar trees. Officer Miller killed his engine, resting his hand on his service belt.
“We have two cruisers ten minutes behind us,” Miller whispered, keeping his eyes on the house. “Should we wait for backup, Detective?”
“By the time they get through this mud, anyone inside will have burned the place down or vanished into the woods,” Elena said, unholstering her Sig Sauer. “We check the perimeter. If Lily is in there, we get her out.”
They moved quickly through the wet brush, keeping low against the wooden siding of the barn.
The air smelled of damp earth, woodsmoke, and gasoline.
Elena paused near the rear sliding door of the barn. Peering through a gap in the rotting wooden slats, she saw the silver sedan. Its hood was warm to the touch; the engine had been running within the last hour.
On the backseat lay a purple backpack.
Beside it sat a small, stuffed rabbit with one missing button eye.
“She’s here,” Elena muttered.
They circled around to the back entrance of the farmhouse. The screen door hung loosely on a single hinge, swinging back and forth in the wind with a dry, rhythmic squeak.
Elena pushed it open with the barrel of her weapon.
The interior of the house was freezing. Unlike the modern comfort of their suburban home on Maple Ridge Drive, this place felt abandoned, preserved only in memories and dust. The floorboards groaned under their boots as they stepped into a narrow kitchen lined with yellowed wallpaper and empty cabinets.
“Clear,” Miller whispered, sweeping the hallway to the left.
“Clear,” Elena replied, checking the pantry and the cellar stairs.
They moved toward the staircase at the center of the house. The second-floor landing was shrouded in darkness, lit only by the pale gray light filtering through dirty, rain-streaked windows.
As they reached the top of the stairs, a faint sound drifted down from the master bedroom at the end of the hall.
A child’s voice.
“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
Elena froze, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“Lily?” she called out, stepping carefully over a loose floorboard.
“My dad said I have to wait until the lights go out.”
Elena rushed down the hall, kicking the bedroom door open with a loud bang.
The room was sparse. A single mattress lay on the floor beneath a window. A small electric space heater hummed in the corner, throwing off a dry, metallic heat.
Sitting cross-legged on the mattress, clutching her knees to her chest, was an eight-year-old girl with dark hair and wide, terrified brown eyes.
She wore a blue sweater and tennis shoes covered in dried mud.
It was Lily Carter.
“Lily,” Elena breathed, lowering her weapon immediately and holstering it as she dropped to her knees beside the mattress. “Sweetheart, it’s okay. I’m a detective. I’m here to help you. Where is your aunt Melissa?”
Lily stared at Elena, her expression eerily blank, mirroring the look on her face in the toll-booth photo.
“She went to the store,” Lily whispered.
“Did your dad bring you here?”
Lily shook her head slowly.
“My uncle did.”
Elena’s blood ran cold. “Your uncle? You mean your father?”
“No,” Lily said, pointing a small finger toward the doorway behind Elena. “Uncle Marcus.”
Elena spun around.
Standing in the doorway, blocking the only exit from the bedroom, was a tall man in a heavy canvas hunting jacket. He held a heavy-duty bolt-cutter in one hand and a black gasoline canister in the other.
His face was weathered, his eyes cold and dead.
It wasn't Daniel.
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It was Daniel’s older brother—a man the police reports hadn't even mentioned, a man who had been released from federal prison three years prior for arson and insurance fraud.
“Well,” Marcus Ashford said, unscrewing the cap of the fuel can with a sharp twist. “Looks like the police department is even more punctual than my brother said.”
