…not missing. She is hiding.
The letter was dated the morning of her wedding. The ink was smudged, written in a frantic, desperate rush.
“If you are reading this, he found out. Do not trust David. Do not let him near the family. He isn’t who he says he is. The man I married yesterday is a monster, and if I don’t leave tonight, I won’t survive the week.”
My blood ran cold. David. The man who had sat at our dinner table every Thanksgiving for the last decade. The grieving, heartbroken widower who had cried on my mother’s shoulder and helped pay for the private investigators. The man who was downstairs in our kitchen right now, having Sunday coffee with my parents.
I read further. My sister detailed offshore accounts, aliases, and a terrifying, violent history she had only uncovered hours after saying ‘I do.’ She had staged her own disappearance to protect us, knowing that if she went to the police, his connections would ensure she never made it to trial. She left the letter in the ‘college things’ box knowing David would never care to look there, but hoping one day I would.
At the very bottom of the page, there was a postscript: “If it’s been years and you’re just finding this, check the safe deposit box at First National. The key is taped under the bottom drawer of my old vanity. I’ll leave a breadcrumb there every five years. Find me.”
Suddenly, a floorboard creaked in the hallway right outside the attic door.
“Hey,” David’s voice echoed up the stairs, soft but sending ice straight through my veins. “Your mom said you were up here going through Elena’s things. Need any help opening those boxes?”
I shoved the letter into my pocket, my heart hammering against my ribs. The attic suddenly felt like a cage.
“Just reminiscing!” I called back, fighting to keep my voice steady. “I’ll be right down!”
I had to get to that vanity. But first, I had to walk past the man who made my sister vanish.
