My Neighbor Took My Newborn Baby and Branded Me a Witch — Then an Old Forum Post Revealed My Silver Bracelet on an Underground Listing
Julian moved with a terrifying precision, his grief a honed edge. The two unconscious guards were quickly secured, gagged, and left in the cabin. He knew better than to involve local law enforcement; Arthur owned the sheriff and half the deputies with favors and debts. This was an underworld problem, and it required an underworld solution.
Marcus gave Julian directions to Silas Gable’s hidden scrapyard. It was a treacherous drive, even in Marcus’s heavy-duty truck, through deepening snow and biting winds. The old roads were slick with black ice, and visibility dropped to almost zero in the swirling flakes.
The scrapyard was a nightmare of rusted metal and broken dreams, nestled in a remote hollow far from any main road. Mountains of crushed cars, tangled wire, and discarded machinery rose like frozen, metallic trees. A single, battered trailer served as Silas’s office and living quarters.
Julian kicked the door open without knocking. The stench of stale cigarettes and cheap whiskey hit him first. Silas “Grizz” Gable, a barrel-chested man with a grimy beard, jumped up from behind a desk piled with invoices. He looked like he hadn’t seen a shower in weeks.
“Julian! What in the damn hell?” Silas spluttered, reaching instinctively for a pipe wrench.
Julian moved faster. He slammed Silas back against the wall, one hand at his throat, pinning him. “My son,” Julian growled, his voice a low, guttural rumble. “Where is he? Who was the courier?”
Silas’s eyes darted nervously. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about, Julian. Arthur said it was a private adoption. Nothing illegal.”
Julian pressed harder, his grip like iron. “Don’t lie to me, Silas. I have the forum post. I have the photo. And I know you arranged the transport.”
Silas coughed, his face turning purple. “Alright! Alright! He paid me off! Said it was an unwanted baby, needed off-grid. A couple grand for the setup. I got a runner, some kid named Billy. Had a beat-up van, heading north to his sister’s.”
“The courier’s name. The route. Everything,” Julian demanded.
Silas choked out the details, gasping for air. “Billy Jenkins. Took the old Bear Creek Pass route. He left… forty-eight hours ago. Arthur told him it was urgent, needed to be quick.”
“And the heater in that van?” Julian asked, a new, chilling dread creeping into his voice. He knew Billy Jenkins’s old van. It was a rust bucket.
Silas’s eyes flickered, avoiding Julian’s gaze. “It was… on the fritz. Billy said it was acting up before he left.”
Julian’s grip tightened further. “What did he say on the radio? What did he report?”
Silas, terrified, finally broke. “He said… he said the heater failed halfway. Sub-zero temperatures, Julian. The baby… he wasn’t doing good.”
The words hung in the air, a devastating blow in the freezing, metallic graveyard of the scrapyard.
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