I assumed Arthur had sent it from a burner phone, trying to lure me out to the woods to frame me for trespassing, or worse.
But the red clay on Lily’s boots flashed in my mind.
If Arthur was trying to trap me, he wouldn't have brought Lily to the hospital.
That meant Lily had sent the message.
She must have found a hidden phone, escaped Arthur’s house, and run to Sarah’s old cabin.
I couldn't wait for Bear at the hospital.
I texted him my change of plans, telling him to secure the hospital lobby and not let anyone move Lily until I got back.
I ran out to my truck, tires spinning on the wet asphalt as I sped toward the edge of town.
The rain was coming down in heavy sheets by the time I pulled onto the dirt access road leading to the cabin.
I cut my headlights a mile out, relying on the moonlight filtering through the storm clouds to guide me.
I parked the truck behind a thick stand of pine trees and walked the rest of the way on foot.
The cabin was dark.
The front door hung wide open, twisting violently in the wind.
I unclipped the heavy steel flashlight from my belt and stepped silently onto the porch.
The wood groaned under my weight.
Inside, the place had been completely torn apart.
Chairs were smashed, floorboards were pried up, and Sarah’s old bookshelves were completely emptied, the books scattered across the rug.
Someone had been searching for something.
Something Lily must have known about.
I walked toward the back door, which led out to the steep, rocky ravine that cut through the property.
The doorframe was splintered, as if someone had kicked it open from the inside.
I aimed my flashlight down the muddy slope.
The ground was churned up, marked by deep, sliding footprints.
I carefully made my way down the slick embankment, the red clay pulling at my boots.
Halfway down, caught in the exposed roots of an old oak tree, the beam of my flashlight hit something metallic.
I knelt in the mud and picked it up.
It was Lily’s silver locket.
The chain was violently snapped in half.
The clasp was twisted and bent.
When I popped it open, Sarah’s picture was still inside, but tucked behind the photo was a tiny, tightly folded piece of laminated paper.
It was a safety deposit box receipt from a local bank, dated three days before Sarah died.