June’s mother, Laura, sat at the dining table, her gaze fixed on the untouched plate of spaghetti in front of her. The hum of the refrigerator droned on in the background, accompanied by the occasional creak of the old house. Across from her, Mia sat quietly, poking at her food, her small hands resting on the table. Her cheeks were stained with tears that hadn’t stopped since her sister disappeared.
Laura gripped her fork so tightly her knuckles turned white. “She’s not gone,” she whispered, the words trembling in the air. Saying them felt like holding onto a rope in a storm. “We’re going to find her.”
Mark, June’s father, stood by the window, staring out into the dark yard. His shoulders were slumped, his face drawn with exhaustion. “The police said they’re expanding the search area tomorrow,” he said, his voice low and flat. “We have to keep hoping.”
Mia’s small voice broke the heavy silence. “Do you think she’s scared?”
Laura’s composure crumbled as she pushed back from the table, pulling Mia into her arms. “She’s strong, baby,” she whispered into her daughter’s hair, her voice cracking. “June is strong.”
Outside the Hartley house, Ethan paced the driveway, his breath clouding the cold night air. His phone was in his hand, the last text message from June glowing on the screen: Goodnight, see you tomorrow xx. He had read it so many times, the words felt like a knife twisting in his gut.
Jenna appeared on the porch, wrapping her arms around herself. She hesitated before speaking. “I keep thinking about how she went outside alone,” she said, her voice shaky. “If I’d stopped her, if I’d just—”
“It’s not your fault,” Ethan interrupted, too sharply. Jenna flinched, and he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry,” he muttered, his voice softer. “It’s just—this doesn’t feel real. She was right there.”
Jenna nodded, wiping her eyes. “She’ll come back. We’ll find her.”
Ethan didn’t respond. His jaw tightened, and he turned away. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. Inside, rage simmered, red and raw. If someone had hurt her—if someone had touched her—they would pay.
Later that evening, Laura sat on the couch in the living room, an open photo album resting on her lap. Her fingers traced over the images: June as a chubby toddler with frosting smeared across her cheeks, laughing on her first day of school with her gap-toothed grin, mid-laugh in her cheerleading uniform. The memories felt like ghosts, taunting her with what she’d lost.
Mark walked in, holding his phone tightly. His face was pale, his expression strained. “The police found something,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“What?” Laura asked, standing so quickly the album tumbled to the floor.
Mark held out his phone. “An earring. It was found near the woods off Route 9. They think it might be hers.”
The words hit Laura like a physical blow. Her legs gave out, and she collapsed into the nearest chair, her body wracked with sobs. “It’s her,” she cried, clutching her chest. “I know it’s hers.”