Chapter 8 - THE HUNT IN THE WOODSThe Ohio state troopers descended on our property within minutes, their red and blue sirens painting the sleepy suburban neighborhood in flashing, chaotic washes of color. Police cruisers blocked both ends of the street, K-9 units barked frantically from the edge of the tree line, and an amber alert pinged simultaneously on every cell phone within a fifty-mile radius.
AMBER ALERT: Missing child, Mia Miller, 11 years old. Last seen wearing a gray hoodie and blue jeans. Suspect: Helen Brooks, 65, thin build, white hair.
I stood in the middle of the gravel driveway, shivering in the cold morning wind, clutching Mia's abandoned sneakers to my chest like a lifeline.
"She's taking her to the old quarry," Susan said softly, walking up beside me. She looked hollow, her face drained of all color, her eyes staring blankly at the dark wall of trees at the back of the property.
I turned on her, my rage boiling over with such intensity I felt like I could combust.
"The quarry?" I screamed, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her violently. "You knew about a quarry? Why didn't you tell the police?"
"It's an abandoned limestone pit three miles deep into the state park behind our woods," Susan cried, tears streaming freely down her cheeks. "Helen used to take long walks out there twenty years ago before she was committed. There's an old pump house—abandoned concrete, underground tunnels. If she has Mia out there in this weather, she won't survive the morning."
A state trooper rushed over, his face grim.
"Mrs. Miller! We found a set of fresh footprints leading past the tree line toward the old utility trails," the officer reported, his hand resting on his holster. "We have a chopper inbound, but the canopy is too thick. We have to go in on foot."
"I'm coming with you," I said instantly, my voice leaving no room for argument.
"Ma'am, you can't—"
"I am her mother!" I roared, stepping directly into his face. "And the woman who took her is my mother! You find the trail, and you let me lead you to her!"
The trooper looked into my eyes, saw the wild, terrifying determination burning there, and gave a sharp nod.
"All right. Stay behind us. Do not engage."
We moved into the woods in a tight, tactical formation, the K-9 leading the way, its nose pressed frantically against the damp, rotting autumn leaves. The forest grew darker and denser the deeper we went, the towering oak and pine trees blocking out the pale morning sun until we were surrounded by a suffocating twilight of gray and green.
For forty-five minutes, we pushed through the underbrush, the branches whipping against our faces, our boots sinking into the muddy soil.
And then, the dog stopped.
It let out a low, mournful whine, staring intently at a massive concrete slab set flush into the side of a moss-covered hill—the entrance to the old utility tunnels leading down to the abandoned limestone quarry.
Heavy steel doors covered the opening. And hanging from the rusted padlock was a handwritten note, pinned to the metal with a silver hairpin.
I broke away from the troopers, ignoring their shouted warnings, and sprinted toward the door. I ripped the note off the pin and unfolded it.
Claire,
You finally came to see me. But you brought the police.
May you like
If you want your daughter back, you come down into the dark alone. Just you and me. The way it should have been thirty-two years ago.
— Helen.
