Fifteen years ago, my mother vanished during a land dispute, and everyone told me she died in the freezing waters of Mist Creek.
The signed affidavit felt heavy in my pocket, a cold, hard truth against my leg. Marcus Pryor’s world was about to collapse.
But first, Eleanor. My mother. I needed to bring her home.
I drove frantically through the mountain pass, the icy rain still falling, merging with a thick, ominous fog that coiled around the ancient pines. My headlights cut weak tunnels through the white-out, illuminating nothing but swirling vapor.
The road was treacherous, slick with ice. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel, every turn a gamble.
I was heading toward Mist Creek, the very place where I had first seen her on the news broadcast. The place where the phantom locket had reappeared.
As I neared the old stone bridge, a chilling sight broke through the swirling fog: flashing red lights, pulsing like a desperate heartbeat. A county sheriff’s cruiser was parked awkwardly near the riverbank, its hazard lights painting the gray landscape in stark, urgent flashes.
My stomach dropped. I slammed on the brakes, the tires skidding on the wet asphalt.
A deputy emerged from the cruiser, his silhouette distorted by the fog, and walked toward my car. His uniform was dark against the swirling white.
I rolled down the window, a blast of icy air hitting my face.
“Everything alright, officer?” I asked, my voice strained.
He peered at me, his face grim. “Mr. Kincaid? Julian Kincaid?”
I nodded, my breath caught in my throat. How did he know my name?
“We found your mother, sir,” he said, his voice quiet, almost regretful. “An hour or so ago. Sitting on a bench, near the ruined keeper’s cabin.”
My heart pounded against my ribs, a sickening drum. “Is she… is she okay?”
The deputy’s eyes met mine, full of a heavy, undeniable pity.
“She succumbed to cardiac arrest,” he said, the words hanging in the freezing air like ice shards. “Brought on by severe hypothermia. The coroner estimates it happened hours ago, in the sub-zero night air.”
The words echoed in my head, each one a hammer blow. Hours ago. In the sub-zero night.
My mother. Dead.
Killed by the cold I had sent her into.
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