III

A large map laid on my bed, ‘X’ marks filling the vast emptiness that surrounded the city. I laid on top of the sheet while humming a melody – probably something catchy that stuck in my head at the time; unimportant.

I then plied the map into a small easier to handle piece which I put inside my backpack.

Alone, I walked to the next place to check. The number of Isolated farms and sheds surrounded by mud had begun to diminish. It didn’t have to be this one, but I was going to find something, soon, very soon.

A wooden hut in the middle of nowhere – I first looked around it cautiously for blood, hair, skin. Or maybe tools or signs of recent digging.

I took my notebook and drew – to the best of my ability – the tire patterns on the road.

The door creaked and struggled to open – a bad sign, already. The walls were shelves coloured rusty teal. I examined each one carefully before stomping to check for empty space underground. I was disappointed, but not too much; I knew what to do next: simply keep looking. If not here, elsewhere. If not today, another day.

The following day was the same. The day after, however, was the day I’d finally see the fruits of my efforts. Rotten foul fruits.

This farm was a great candidate for many reasons; it was one of the farthest, one of the oldest yet very spacious compared to some of the places I’d visited. Most important was its proximity to the river.

Upon my arrival, the first thing that raised my suspicion were the surroundings. Seemingly ordinary, if not too clean. Of course, tall grass and wild plants rose arbitrarily. But other than those, there was no metal scraps, broken equipment or damaged wood.

I pushed the door but it wouldn’t move an inch, only further intensifying my doubts.

I lapped around the giants building leaving no stone unturned. I searched for an opening, a hole in the walls wide enough for my child’s body to fit in.

My father was a careful and principled man above all. However, I still had hoped to solve this mystery. As careful as he was, nobody would prepare for a child’s investigation. There weren’t many things a child could do and an adult couldn’t. So, I had to use the few advantages that did exist.

I was small; the glass windows high up were easy for me to breach. I was light and agile, as long as there were ununiform surfaces for me to grapple onto.

But that was for another day. I patiently sketched the features of the structure before heading back home. All the while keeping my expression unchanged, as if there was no hurry. Indeed, there wasn’t. I didn’t care if more people died. If anything, more victims meant more evidence. He was going to slowly walk into the trap that was me.

It was no longer a matter of revenge. After all, I was the one who killed Brynn.

I refrained from revisiting the shed on the next day not to raise much suspicion. Again, from patience and not hesitation. My father stayed home on the weekend which further delayed my investigation. But I was at ease. It was eventual and inevitable. Delay felt like a breeze, a whispered promise of my victory.

The long-awaited Monday came. Fittingly, the weather was the worst. Raindrops fell in continuous tethers connecting the clouds and earth. The wind blew strong enough to launch me at the shed’s windows without much need for climbing, but it wasn’t going to be so easy as rain made my hands and all surfaces slippery.

It was the worst time to go mystery-hunting, that’s why I had to go.

The worst time for mystery-hunting is the best for mystery-hiding, therefore the best for mystery-hunting.

My boots reached my knees; they were still halfway stained with mud. With every step in the countryside, I felt the pull of the ground from below and wind from above.

When I finally reached my destination, I was surprised to see wheel markings – still fresh and unwashed by the tempest. I couldn’t see the car which meant someone had recently been here, but left not too long ago.

It might have been luck, but I chose to attribute it to the good intuition that drove me here in this weather.

I immediately headed to the back of the building where I’d found the best way up: a missing brick, multiple cracks, an unstable window that creaked with the wind.

My wet fingers slid into every opening, the plastic from my boots drilled into the wall offering me more grip. I slowly gained altitude and fear both. My eyes were fixated on the sky above – blackened by clouds, bleeding and weeping into my eyes.

My fingers finally reached the end. One final push. I could feel the glass weakening my hold, almost sending me falling into the ground. I managed to restabilise and find a comfortable seating.

I then pushed the window. It was a long painful process. I was kept on the edge; the more force I put, the harder I was pushed back into the abyss: a sad way to be introduced to Newton’s third law.

Somehow, the window stopped resisting, and instead shattered inside the building.

Thankfully, I was too far away from civilisation to worry about playing the quiet burglar.

I followed the window. Landed on my legs without rolling. It was painful, but I needed to avoid touching the shards of glass with my hands, or any part of my body for that matter.

The shed was vast and empty – home to naught but echoes and, hopefully, ghosts.

I began searching immediately: the walls, the floor… every inch and every corner. Once, twice and thrice. But I was clearly fooling myself – the place was empty. There was nowhere to hide anything.

‘Accept it, Veronika.’ I said to myself, aloud. The voice came as a hiss as my rarely used vocal cords adjusted. ‘You’ll never beat him.’

He was always smarter, more experienced, stronger… I was up against decades of the pulp of his unmatched experience.

Why then?

Why did I feel so bad?

I was so close this time, he was just barely one step ahead.

One… step?

One big footstep, clearly not mine, appeared before my eyes. There was a trail of them coming from the main entrance. Not trying to hide itself, it looked brown and clear against the floor. I was the one too blinded to see.

The trail stopped in the middle of the nowhere. I dropped on my knees and observed for any splits, anything like the traces of a bunker.

My breath stopped at the sight on an invisibly small gap. I pushed my nails to try and open it, but they wouldn’t fit. I then tried to apply light pressure. My attempt was rewarded with success; the bunker opening slowly rose off the ground.

I could see the reason it wouldn’t make a sound even though I’d checked the whole floor for underground space: it was enforced with heavy and thick concrete.

I walked downstairs, ready to finally get repaid for all the trouble, ready to finally unveil the truth I’d already known.

I turned on the lights.

A hospital bed.

A hand saw.

Some plastic boxes and pots of plants. I neither took my father for a gardener at the time, nor did I know the shape of weed. But now I do.

On each pot was a sticker:

Linda. Astrid… Brynn.