The trunk wasn’t filled with the remains everyone expected, but it wasn’t empty either. A single, pristine leather satchel sat atop a pile of waterlogged blankets, remarkably preserved by a vacuum seal of mud. Elias stared at the initials embossed on the flap: J.M.
His mind raced back to 1984, to the high school hallways and the faces of the three girls who never came home. Julianne Miller had been the leader, the girl with the bright future and the sharpest wit in the county. Why would her bag be in a car that didn’t belong to any of them? He pulled the satchel out, the leather feeling strangely warm beneath the coating of cold, grey river silt. As he moved it, something heavy shifted inside, thumping against the sides with a dull, rhythmic sound. It wasn’t books or clothes; it felt like a collection of jagged, hard stones.
Elias looked back toward the road, half-expecting to see the sheriff’s cruiser coming down the ridge. Instead, there was only the wind whistling through the Douglas firs and the rhythmic drip of water from the chassis. He unbuckled the first strap of the bag, his breath hitching in his throat.
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