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The Aftermath

The funeral was on Sunday.  It was a quick affair, officiated by Reverend Stryker, Fair River Forest's Baptist minister.  Most of the town came out for it, some out of genuine affections for the deceased, but most from morbid curiosity.  Fair River Forest has had its share of strange events, but none quite like this. The Howard sisters were holed up at home with Cam and Grace, avoiding the inevitable paparazzi, the interrogations.  Keith Howard would have gone to spit on the grave, but he was still laid up in the hospital. The wooden casket the reverend presided over was empty.  The sheriff's body had not been located, but there was enough evidence to presume him dead.  When Deputy Smith had searched the woods after receiving Grace's call, he had found the clearing that she had described.  Deep burgundy stains coated the grass near the entrance to the fallout shelter, and connected to that was a long, bloody streak that cut across the clearing, disappearing into the woods.
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One, Two, Three

Jane peered down into the opening in the earth.  Three faces stared up at her.  One was Willow's, her eyes red and puffy, no trace of makeup upon her face.  The second belonged to a girl of about nine who looked vaguely familiar, although Jane could not place her.  Her face was dry, but her eyes were wide and round, like an owl's.  The final face, set with red-rimmed eyes, was Cam's.  They were standing beside Willow, one arm around her shoulder.  Their hair had grown to reach their collarbone, but otherwise they looked almost the same as they had six years ago. "You're makin' a huge mistake," Sheriff Mitchell said.  "Sophie needs her big sis.  Are you really gonna turn your back on her?" "I said shut up," Grace said, her voice almost a snarl. Jane glanced over her shoulder.  Grace was standing with her gun aimed at the sheriff.  She nodded, keeping her gaze fixed on the sheriff all the while.  "I've got this," she said. 
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Decisions

"Sonofafuck!" Sheriff Mitchell howled.  His service revolver clattered against the door.  It fired, and the sheriff sank to the ground, clutching his abdomen with his unscathed arm as he cursed. Grace marched toward the sheriff, her rifle trained on him.  Jane's whimpers in the background melded with the howl of the wind, as though the forest itself was mourning along with her.  The pitiful sounds set Grace's veins alight, white hot rage fueling her feet forward. The sheriff fumbled across the grass, his fingers arching toward the glint of silver peeking out between the crumpled blades.  Grace kicked the gun aside, away from his reach. It was the sheriff's turn to hold up a hand.  Such a pathetic, useless gesture, Grace almost felt sorry for him.  But she thought of Jane, reduced to that helpless position, and her anger rose once more, vanquishing any softer emotions. "Look, Grace, I ..." Sheriff Mitchell started. "Give me the key," Grace said.
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The Confrontation

The moonlight pierced through the clouds, carving silhouettes from the darkness.  A man stood toward the center of the clearing, staring down at a set of double doors that looked like the sort that might lead to a basement or storm shelter.  Strings of profanities poured from his mouth.  Even without his wide-brimmed hat, Grace knew it was Sheriff Mitchell. Keith crept forward, into the clearing.  Jane leaned in toward Grace, her breath warming Grace's frigid cheek.  "We surround him," Jane said.  "You go around the woods 'til you're opposite where my dad is.  I'll go halfway between." Grace nodded.  She shoved her phone, which she had been using as a flashlight, into her back pocket, and unholstered her shotgun.  Her heart thundered in her chest as she inched along the edge of the woods.  Each leaf that caught beneath the soft soles of her boots blared in her ears.  Were the sheriff not cursing so loudly, he would hear them for sure, but so far, he
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The Search

Inside the woods, the night was as black as pitch.  Although the moon and a smattering of stars had been visible when Jane, Grace, and Jane's father, Keith, stepped from Keith's rusted out Chevrolet pickup, the dense canopy of foliage overhead blotted out the sky.  Shadows rose and fell in the two beams of light provided by Jane's and Grace's flashlights, darting between trees, scuttling beneath the withered brown leaves coating the forest's floor. "You two should be back at the car," Keith said, his muttered words barely audible over the howl of the wind and the crunching of leaves beneath the trio's feet. Jane shivered.  She tugged at the zipper on her down jacket, but it was already as high up as it could go.  "I thought you didn't believe us," she said, breath billowing from her lips in a frosty cloud. "I don't.  Sheriff's not that kind of a person.  But it's not safe out here." An owl hooted, its sound deep and
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Putting the Pieces Together

Jane and Grace were the only two people remaining on the Zoom call.  Their friends had bowed out when it became clear that no one had new insights regarding Willow's location.   Jane's eyes widened.  She smacked her palm against her desk.  "Sheriff Mitchell.  He must be the one who kidnapped Willow and Collin." "Why do you say that?" Grace said. "When I called him to report Willow missing, something felt wrong about the conversation, and I finally figured out what it was.  When I said Willow was missing, he said something like, 'Wasn't she out with her boyfriend?'  How would he know that?" "Maybe he saw them in the gardens," Grace said. "And he told me that he couldn't open a missing person case for 24 hours, but I hadn't told him what time she went missing." "I feel like it's pretty common for people to call the sheriff sooner than 24 hours, though.  That one could be a guess." "It has to
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Willow Howard and Collin Phillip's Disappearance

From the police interview with Francine Howard, the night Willow went missing seemed perfectly ordinary, but I suppose those ordinary nights are where most of the trouble begins.  On August 15th, 2020, Willow joined her mother and sister for supper at around five - an early meal in the Howard household, but Willow had requested it, and Francine "saw no reason not to oblige her."  Willow was in good spirits that evening, chattering away about the photo shoot she was going to do with Collin, and all the likes she was expecting to get on Instagram.  She loved feeling beautiful, but the feeling was fleeting, one she constantly needed to stoke by producing new photos for her small band of internet admirers to fawn over. Collin arrived around five thirty, as the family was finishing their dinner.  Willow invited him in, but he said he would wait on the porch until she was ready.  There was nothing unusual about that either; the chill of Francine's glare can be nearly as intim
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