Laura’s hands trembled as she was led away from the site where Emily’s bike had been uncovered. Everything felt unreal—twelve years of grief suddenly sharpened into a single name. Ernest Mallerie. He had lived quietly in town for years, polite and forgettable. No one paid attention to him. But he had paid attention to Emily.
That night, Laura couldn’t sleep. Every sound in the house felt like a warning. At 4:00 AM, she gave up, got dressed, and drove toward the bakery where she worked. Fog covered the road. As she passed the Airbnb, she noticed something strange.
A light was on inside.
The property was supposed to be sealed.
Laura pulled over and watched. The light flicked off. A figure stepped outside—slouched shoulders, slow movement. A familiar silhouette.
Ernest.
He carried something heavy toward a white van—something about the size of a suitcase, wrapped in black plastic.
Laura’s heart pounded. She ducked down and waited until he drove away, then called Detective Hayes.
The call barely connected—only static and broken words.
Still, she followed him.
The van drove along Cedar Ridge Road before turning onto a narrow path lined with pine trees. He stopped, walked into the woods, and moments later, smoke began rising.
He was burning something.
Laura took photos, her hands shaking. He returned carrying a heavy metal burn barrel, struggling with the weight, then loaded it back into the van and drove off.
This time, her call to Detective Hayes went through.
“Do not approach him,” the detective said firmly. “We’re on our way. Do not follow.”
But Laura was already behind him.
Police arrived quickly—blocking the road and forcing Ernest to stop. He was pulled from the van, shouting incoherently about “saving them.”
Officers opened the back doors.
Inside were three long black body bags.
Laura felt her legs give out.
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