Thomas’ wife had died giving birth to Ty, leaving him to raise his son alone on an isolated farm. Had he groomed Ty to follow in his footsteps? Or had Ty discovered his father's secrets after his death and decided to continue the family tradition?
The mistakes made in Missy’s abduction and Reed’s murder gave credence to the scenario—they were dealing with two abductors.
The soft glow from the cabin's windows seemed to pulse with its own menacing energy. She needed to see inside, to confirm or refute the increasingly dark scenarios playing through her mind.
But first, she needed to consider her position carefully.
She was alone, on private property without permission, with no backup. Discovering Ty's truck didn't constitute evidence of wrongdoing—at least not legally. It didn’t even prove that Allen had lied, because he might truly believe his nephew had driven to Buffalo River for the week.
Yet she couldn’t ignore the red flags.
What if Missy Claymont were still alive? What if she were inside the cabin right now? Any delay could prove fatal.
Ty could be cleaning up his mistakes, and Hadley couldn't bear the thought of what might happen overnight if she didn’t make the decision to intervene.
She briefly considered calling for backup, but it would take too long for either Nick or Ramos to arrive. Plus, she was trespassing on a neighbor's property with no evidence of wrongdoing beyond a lie about someone's whereabouts. No judge would issue a warrant based on what she had discovered. And in the time it would take to navigate the proper channels, whatever secrets this cabin held might vanish forever.
“What if the Claymont girl is still alive?”
Ramos’ words came back full force. The possibility had seemed remote hours ago, but it had grown legs.
One look.
If she observed nothing suspicious, she would retreat and seek out the property owner come morning. She would ask for permission to search his land near the Hobbs’ property line.
She quietly set her flashlight on the ground, wanting both hands available, if needed. She then drew her service weapon from its holster, keeping her finger off the trigger. The cabin had no exterior lights, allowing her to use the shadows as cover. She moved silently across the open space, staying low.
Ty's truck provided momentary shelter, and she paused beside it, listening for any sound from inside the cabin. Nothing but the gentle hum of what might be a generator somewhere near the stack of firewood.
She cautiously made her way around the corner of the cabin. The sole window, with its curtains drawn but imperfectly closed, was maybe six feet away. She pressed her back against the rough wood, inching her location until she was finally beside the window.
Hadley took a moment to steady herself. She finally leaned in, angling her head to peer through the narrow openingbetween curtain panels. The sight that greeted her stole her breath, and it was as if time had completely stopped.
A single bare bulb illuminated the cabin's interior, spilling shadows across a table and two chairs. But it was the far corner that held her attention. There, on a narrow cot, lay a young woman with familiar brown hair.
Missy Claymont.
Hadley would have recognized her anywhere after spending the past week and a half studying her photograph. The girl's ankle was secured to the metal frame of the cot with what appeared to be heavy-duty chains, offering enough slack for limited movement but no chance of escape. She wore what looked like an old-fashioned nightgown.
The girl wasn't moving at all, and Hadley concentrated on Missy’s upper torso. Hadley finally spotted the rise and fall of her chest. She was alive, but she was staring off into space as if she’d lost all hope. A plastic water bottle sat on the floor within reach of the cot, along with a plate of food. She appeared thin but not emaciated, suggesting regular, if minimal, feeding.
Hadley’s gaze swept the rest of the room, searching for Ty.
A door on the far wall likely led to a bathroom of sorts. What she needed to do now was retreat and call for backup immediately. With confirmation of a captive, every legal obstacle to intervention vanished.
As Hadley began to turn away from the window, a twig snapped behind her. The sound, barely louder than a whisper, froze her in place. The unmistakable pressure of a gun barrel pressed against the back of her head.
“Drop your weapon, Ms. Dawkins.”
32
Nick Turner
October 2025
Tuesday – 6:34pm
Nick yanked open the door to Gus' Watering Hole with enough force to rattle the collection of faded beer signs hanging from the adjacent wall. His phone remained pressed to his ear, jaw clenched tight enough to send a dull ache through his temples. He’d had a hell of a day, a domestic disturbance that didn’t end the way everyone had hoped, and he still needed to clean up around the house before he picked up his daughter on Thursday.
