In July of 2012, 9-year-old Tommy Matthews rode his Orange Strider bike down Riverside Avenue and vanished.

It was a warm Saturday afternoon.

The sky was clear, the streets quiet.

He turned the corner by the old fairgrounds, and was never seen again.

For 8 years, the case went cold.

Then, in the autumn of 2020, a renovation crew broke through a basement wall in a long abandoned house at the edge of town.

Behind the cinder block was a sealed crawl space, the air thick with dust and mildew.

Mark Sullivan had been hired to clear out the old garage before the demolition crew arrived.

The rusty overhead door fought him for a moment before grinding open with a screech of metal on metal.

When the afternoon light spilled into the darkness, he saw them.

Scattered across the concrete floor were children’s bicycles.

Four of them.

One was Tommy’s.

The same orange frame with black handlebars, the same scuffed seat where he used to bounce when he got excited.

The others didn’t belong to anyone his family knew.

Mark’s hands trembled as he pulled out his phone, staring at the bikes, scattered like broken promises across the dusty floor.

“911? What’s your emergency?” “I’m renovating a house on Elm Street,” he said, voice cracking.

“I just found Jesus Christ.

I found kids bikes scattered on the floor.

One of them, it’s that missing boy’s bike, Tommy Matthews.

The discovery would pull the quiet town back into a nightmare it thought was over.

And for the people who’ buried those bikes, it meant a secret that had stayed hidden for nearly a decade was about to come to light.

Rachel Matthews was stocking shelves at Murphy’s Hardware when her phone buzzed with Detective Paul Redell’s name on the screen.

Eight years.

Eight years since she’d seen that name flash across her phone, and her stomach still dropped like she was 17 again, sitting in the police station while they asked her to describe what Tommy was wearing for the hundth time.

She let it go to voicemail.

Customers needed help finding the right screws for their deck repairs, and she needed the distraction of normal problems with normal solutions.

But 20 minutes later, when Jenny Lee came through the door asking if she’d heard about all the commotion on Elm Street, Rachel’s hands went cold around the box of nails she was pricing.

“Police cars,” Jenny said, shaking her head.

“Three of them and that white van from the crime scene.

People haven’t seen that much activity since.

” She trailed off, eyes finding Rachel’s face.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry.

I didn’t mean to.

” It’s okay, Rachel said, though her voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.

What house on Elm? Jenny hesitated.

The old hail place.

You know, the one that’s been empty forever.

Someone’s been fixing it up, and apparently they found Well, I don’t know what they found, but it must be something.

Rachel set the box down carefully, like it might explode if she moved too fast.

the Hail Place, Gordon Hail’s house, the one he’d abandoned when she was still in elementary school.

She remembered him vaguely, the handyman who used to fix Mom’s garbage disposal and always smelled like cigarettes and motor oil.

“I have to go,” she told Jenny.

The drive to Elm Street took 4 minutes, but it felt like 4 hours.

Rachel’s hands gripped the steering wheel so tight her knuckles burned white.

She could see the flashing lights three blocks away, painting the late afternoon sky in reds and blues that made her think of ambulances and missing person reports.

She parked behind a news van.

Christ, they were already here and walked toward the yellow tape that cordoned off the house like a crime scene.

Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Even before she knew what they’d found, her body knew.

The way her chest went tight, the way her mouth tasted like copper, the way her legs wanted to run.

Detective Ryell saw her coming.

He was older now, grayer with lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there when Tommy disappeared.

But he still had that same careful way of moving, like he was afraid he might break something just by existing.

Rachel, he said, stepping toward her.

I tried calling.

What did you find? The words came out harder than she meant them to.

Jenny Lee said, “Crime scene texts.

What did you find in that house?” Radell glanced back at the house, then at her.

His mouth opened like he was going to say something gentle, something cushioned in careful language designed to soften the blow.

“Just tell me,” Rachel said.

“Please, I’ve been waiting 8 years.

Just tell me.

” He nodded once, slow.

We found bicycles hidden in a sealed room in the basement.

Four of them.

Rachel’s breath caught.

Tommy’s.

We think so.

Orange strider bike, black handlebars, matches the description.

The world tilted sideways for a second.

Rachel reached out, found the hood of a police car to steady herself.

8 years of wondering, of imagining, of hoping he’d just run away, and was living somewhere safe with people who loved him.

Eight years of mom setting his place at the table and Rachel checking missing person websites obsessively.

The other bikes, she said, voice barely a whisper.

Do you know who they belong to? Ryle’s face was grim.

We’re running serial numbers now, but Rachel.

He paused, looked at her like he was measuring how much truth she could handle.

There’s something else.

The room where we found them.

It had been walled up, sealed.

Someone didn’t want those bikes found.

Rachel’s legs gave out then, not dramatically, not like in movies.

Just a slow sink onto the curb, her body finally admitting what her mind had known for years, but refused to say out loud.

Tommy wasn’t coming home.

Tommy was never coming home.

And someone in this quiet, safe town had made sure of that.

Ryell sat down beside her on the curb, his knees creaking.

Around them, crime scene techs moved in and out of the house like ants, carrying evidence bags and cameras and all the tools they used to make sense of the senseless.

We’re going to find him, Rachel, Ryell said.

We’re going to find Tommy, and we’re going to find whoever did this.

Rachel nodded, but she wasn’t really listening anymore.

She was thinking about that orange bike, about Tommy’s excited voice when dad brought it home from the store, about how he’d insisted on riding it in circles around the driveway until mom made him come in for dinner.

About how somewhere in that house, behind walls that had hidden the truth for 8 years was the last piece of her brother’s life, and maybe finally the first piece of justice.

The call came at 6:23 p.

m.

just as Elaine Matthews was pulling a casserole from the oven.

The same tuna noodle recipe she’d been making every Tuesday for eight years because it was Tommy’s favorite and stopping felt like giving up.

Mom.

Rachel’s voice was thick.

Careful.

You need to sit down.

Elaine set the dish on the counter with shaking hands, steam rising from the cheesecrusted top like ghosts.

What happened? Are you hurt? I’m fine, but mom, they found something at the old Hail House on Elm Street.

The words hit Elaine like cold water.

She sank into the kitchen chair Tommy used to sit in, the one with the wobbly leg he’d rock back and forth until she’d tell him to stop fidgeting.

What kind of something? Rachel was quiet for so long, Elaine thought the call had dropped.

Then his bike, mom.

They found Tommy’s bike.

The casserole dish slipped from Elaine’s hand.

It hit the lenolium floor with a crash that echoed through the empty house.

Tuna and noodles spreading across the tiles like a promise broken.

She didn’t clean it up, just sat there staring at the mess while Rachel’s voice kept talking.

Words like sealed room and evidence and other bikes washing over her like white noise.

Eight years.

Eight years of leaving his bedroom exactly the way it was the day he disappeared.

Eight years of washing his clothes and folding them back in his dresser just in case.

8 years of telling herself he was out there somewhere that he’ just gotten lost or confused or taken by someone who wanted a little boy to love.

8 years of lying to herself.

By the time Detective Ryell knocked on her door an hour later, Elaine had cleaned up the casserole and put on the blue dress she wore to church.

The one that made her feel like a person instead of a ghost haunting her own life.

Ryell looked older.

They all did.

The parents in the missing children support group, the detectives who’d promised they wouldn’t give up.

Even Rachel with her serious eyes and careful way of moving through the world like she was afraid to take up too much space.

Mrs.

Matthews,” he said, and his voice was gentler than she remembered.

“May I come in?” She led him to the living room where Tommy’s school pictures still lined the mantle.

Kindergarten through third grade, that gaptothed grin getting broader each year.

“Ryell’s eyes found them, lingered.

“I need to ask you some questions about Gordon Hail,” he said.

The name hit her like a slap.

She hadn’t thought about Gordon in years.

The quiet handyman who used to fix their leaky faucets and sticky windows.

The man who’d always been polite, professional, who never overcharged and always cleaned up his messes.

Gordon, what does he have to do with She stopped.

The bike.

Tommy’s bike in Gordon’s house.

Oh, God.

What can you tell me about him? How well did you know him? Elaine’s mind raced backward through fragments of memory.

Gordon in his workclo, tool belt hanging loose around his narrow waist.

Gordon accepting payment with those soft thank yous and quick smiles that never quite reached his eyes.

Gordon, who’d moved away in 2010, sold his house to some investment company and disappeared.

He did work for us, she said slowly.

Odd jobs.

He was reliable, quiet.

I don’t think I ever saw him with friends or family.

He kept to himself.

Did Tommy ever interact with him? The question made her stomach clench sometimes.

Tommy was curious about tools, about how things worked.

Gordon would show him basic repairs, let him hold the flashlight.

She paused, remembering.

Tommy liked him, said Gordon treated him like a grown-up.

Redell wrote something in his notebook.

When was the last time Gordon worked on your house? Spring of 2012, maybe.

He fixed our back door.

The lock was sticking.

That was just a few months before.

She couldn’t finish the sentence.

Did you know he owned that house on Elm Street? Elaine blinked.

I thought he lived on Maple in that little blue house by the park.

He rented that one.

The Elm Street house belonged to him.

He told neighbors he was moving away in 2010, but we think he kept coming back.

The room felt smaller, suddenly, the air thicker.

Elaine thought about all those times Gordon had been in their house in Tommy’s space, about the way Tommy had trailed after him, asking questions, eager to help.

You think he? She couldn’t say it.

Couldn’t put those words together in a sentence that made sense.

We’re investigating, Ryell said.

But Mrs.

Matthews, I need you to think.

In the weeks before Tommy disappeared, did Gordon come by? Did you see him in the neighborhood? Elaine closed her eyes, tried to remember.

July 2012.

The heatwave that had everyone cranky and tired.

Tommy’s excitement about starting fourth grade.

The way he’d begged every day to ride his bike to the store to prove he was responsible enough for the longer trip.

And yes, Gordon, she remembered now.

He’d been working on the Henderson’s garage across the street.

Some problem with their overhead door.

She’d seen his van several times that week, parked in their driveway.

He’d waved to her once, that same polite smile.

He’d been there, right there, watching when Tommy disappeared.

“He was working across the street,” she whispered.

“The week Tommy vanished, he was there.

” Ryell nodded like he’d expected this.

“Did Tommy see him? talk to him.

I don’t know.

Maybe.

Tommy always wanted to see what people were building or fixing.

Her voice broke.

Oh god, did I let this happen? Did I? Mrs.

Matthews.

Redell’s voice was firm.

This is not your fault.

None of this is your fault.

But even as he said it, Elaine was remembering Tommy’s voice that last morning.

Mom, can I ride to the store? I’ll be really careful.

I promise I’ll come straight back.

And her own voice, distracted by bills and laundry and all the small concerns that felt so important then.

Okay, baby.

But straight there and back.

No detours.

He’d kissed her cheek and run out the door, his orange bike gleaming in the summer sun.

Straight there and back.

If only it had been that simple.

Rachel couldn’t sleep.

She lay in her childhood bed, staring at the ceiling where Tommy had helped her stick glow-in-the-dark stars when they were seven.

The pattern was random, chaotic.

Tommy had insisted they make their own constellation, something no one else in the world would have.

He’d called it the gummy bear because he said it looked like the green ones from the bag they’d shared that night.

At 3:00 a.

m.

, she gave up pretending and walked to his room.

Mom had kept it exactly the same.

The race car bedspread, faded now, but still tucked military tight, the way Tommy liked it.

His collection of hot wheels lined up on the window sill in order of color, not size, because Tommy said size was boring, but rainbow order was magic.

His backpack still hung on the desk chair.

Homework from third grade still tucked inside.

Rachel sat on the edge of his bed and pulled out her phone.

The screenshots she’d taken at the crime scene were grainy, but she could make out the orange frame of his bike among the others scattered on that basement floor.

Her phone buzzed.

A text from Detective Ryell.

Can you come in tomorrow? Need to go through evidence with you.

She typed back, “What kind of evidence?” Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

Finally, items we found with the bikes.

Some may be connected to other missing children.

Rachel’s blood turned cold.

Other missing children.

She thought about the three other bikes in that sealed room, about families in other towns who might be getting phone calls like the one she’d made to mom today.

She opened her laptop and started searching.

Missing Children, Pennsylvania, 2010 to 2015.

The results filled her screen.

Faces that looked too much like Tommy.

Too young, too trusting.

Kids who’d vanished from playgrounds and school bus stops and their own front yards.

Jessica Foster, age seven, disappeared from Lancaster in 2011, last seen playing in her backyard.

Marcus Williams, age 8, vanished from Harrisburg in 2013.

left his house to walk to a friend’s and never arrived.

Lily Rodriguez, age six, missing from York in 2014.

Her pink bike was found two blocks from her house, but she was never seen again.

Rachel stared at Lily’s picture, gaptothed smile, pigtails tied with ribbons that matched her pink bike, the same pink bike Rachel had seen in the basement photos, streamers hanging limp from the handlebars.

She was about to close the laptop when another search result caught her eye.

Not a missing child report, but a news article from 2010.

Local handyman questioned in missing girl case released without charges.

The article was short, buried in the back pages of a small town newspaper.

A six-year-old named Emma Foster had vanished from Millerville 30 m away.

Police had questioned several local contractors and service workers, including Gordon Hail, who’d been working in the neighborhood that week.

No charges were filed, no evidence found.

The case went cold.

But Emma’s bike, a yellow one with training wheels, was never found.

Rachel counted back.

2010, 2 years before Tommy disappeared, 2 years before Gordon supposedly moved away from their neighborhood.

She printed the article and every missing child report she could find, spreading them across Tommy’s desk like pieces of a puzzle.

The timeline was there, scattered across 5 years and four counties.

A pattern of children vanishing near construction sites near places where a handyman might be working.

Her phone rang.

Mom’s name on the screen.

Rachel, are you awake? Yeah, Mom.

I’m in Tommy’s room.

a pause.

I can’t stop thinking about what Detective Ryell said, about Gordon watching our house, about Tommy trusting him.

Rachel looked at the printed articles, at the faces of children who’d smiled for school pictures and never made it home.

Mom, I think there were others before Tommy.

What do you mean? Rachel explained what she’d found, reading names and dates and details that painted a picture too horrible to fully accept.

When she finished, the silence on the other end stretched so long she thought mom had hung up.

Finally, that man was in our house.

He fixed our sink, our doors.

He smiled at us.

He shook your father’s hand.

I know.

Tommy helped him carry tools, brought him glasses of water when it was hot.

Mom’s voice was getting smaller, more distant.

How could we not see it? How could we not know? Rachel didn’t have an answer for that.

She thought about the way Gordon had always been polite, professional, the way he’d blend into the background of their lives, just another adult taking care of adult things.

Invisible until you needed something fixed.

We couldn’t have known, she said, but the words felt hollow.

He was good at hiding.

I keep thinking about that last morning.

Tommy was so excited about riding to the store by himself.

He’d been asking for weeks to make that trip alone to prove he was responsible.

Mom’s voice cracked.

What if Gordon was waiting for that? What if he knew Tommy would eventually convince me to let him go? Rachel felt sick.

She thought about predators, about the patient way they studied their prey, about Gordon working across the street from their house that week, watching, learning Tommy’s patterns and preferences.

The police will figure it out, she said.

They’ll find evidence and they’ll Rachel.

Mom’s voice was steady now, certain.

I want to see that house.

I want to see where they found his bike.

Mom, I don’t think that’s a good idea.

It’s a crime scene, and he’s my son, my baby.

For 8 years, I’ve wondered where he went.

What happened to him? Now, I know he was six blocks away this whole time.

Six blocks.

Rachel understood.

She felt it, too.

The need to see, to touch, to make this real in a way that police reports and evidence photos couldn’t.

But she also knew what that basement would do to mom.

What seeing Tommy’s bike in that dark room would cost her.

“Let me talk to Detective Ryell tomorrow,” she said.

“Maybe after they process everything.

Maybe then.

” “Okay,” Mom said.

But Rachel could hear the lie in it.

The same tone Tommy used to use when he promised he’d clean his room later, when later was code for never.

After mom hung up, Rachel sat in Tommy’s room until sunrise, surrounded by evidence of all the children who’d never made it home.

When the morning light finally crept through his window, hitting those glow-in-the-dark stars and making them fade, she made herself a promise.

She was going to find Gordon Hail, and she was going to make him tell her exactly what he’d done to her brother.

The evidence room at the police station smelled like cardboard and disinfectant.

Rachel sat across from Detective Ryell at a metal table, staring at the plastic bags laid out between them, like artifacts from another world.

Tommy’s bike helmet, the red one with flame stickers he’d insisted on, even though it clashed with his orange bike.

A small backpack blue with cartoon characters she recognized from shows he used to watch.

A child’s watch, the digital kind with a superhero face, and other things, things that belong to children she’d only seen in missing person reports.

The helmet and backpack are definitely Tommy’s, Ryell said, consulting his notes.

Your mother confirmed it yesterday.

The watch belongs to Marcus Williams.

His grandmother identified it an hour ago.

Rachel picked up the evidence bag containing Tommy’s helmet felt the weight of it through the plastic.

The stickers were faded now, peeling at the edges.

One of the flames had been torn, probably from whatever had happened in that basement room.

What about the pink bike? Did you find out who it belonged to? Ryell nodded grimly.

Lily Rodriguez.

Her parents drove down from York this morning.

They dot dot dot.

He paused, rubbed his eyes.

They’ve been carrying her picture for 6 years.

Never stopped looking.

6 years.

Rachel thought about Lily’s parents, about the relief and horror they must be feeling right now.

Relief that they finally had answers.

Horror at what those answers meant.

There’s something else, Ryell said.

He pulled out another evidence bag.

This one containing what looked like a child’s drawing.

We found this taped to the wall in the hidden room.

Looks like it was drawn in crayon on notebook paper.

Rachel leaned closer.

The drawing was crude, the way kids artwork always was, but clear enough to understand.

A house with windows and a door.

Stick figures standing in the yard, one tall, one small.

At the bottom, in shaky letters, Tommy’s house.

Her breath caught.

Tommy drew this? We think so.

The handwriting matches samples from his schoolwork that your mother provided.

Ryell’s voice was careful, clinical.

Rachel, we think the children were kept in that room, at least for a while.

The words hit her like a physical blow.

She’d been preparing herself for the idea that Tommy was dead, that he’d been killed quickly and his bike hidden as evidence.

But this, the thought of him trapped in that dark basement drawing pictures of home was somehow worse.

“How long?” she whispered.

“We don’t know yet.

The forensics team is still processing everything.

” Ryell leaned forward.

“But Rachel, there’s something I need to tell you about Gordon Hail.

We’ve been tracing his background, and what we found, it’s not good.

” He opened a folder, pulled out a timeline written in precise handwriting.

Gordon moved around a lot, never stayed in one place more than a few years.

Always worked as a handyman or contractor, always had legitimate reasons to be in people’s houses.

Rachel studied the timeline.

Pennsylvania, Maryland, Virginia, back to Pennsylvania, a scattered pattern that followed small towns and suburban neighborhoods.

We contacted police departments in each of these locations, asked them to check their missing children cases from the years Gordon lived there.

Ryel’s jaw was tight.

So far, we found possible connections to 11 other cases.

11? Rachel felt dizzy.

11 children.

11 families who lost a child during the time Gordon was living in their area.

Not all of them can be definitively linked to him.

Some of these kids were found.

Some cases were solved with other perpetrators.

But the pattern is there.

Rachel stared at the timeline at the neat handwriting that reduced her brother’s death to dates and locations.

Where is he now? Where is Gordon? We’re working on that.

He’s been using different names, different social security numbers.

After he left your neighborhood in 2012, he basically disappeared.

But we’ll find him, Rachel.

This kind of evidence, the bikes, the personal items, it’s enough to build a solid case.

What if he’s still out there? What if he’s taken other kids since Tommy? Redelle didn’t answer right away, and that silence told her everything she needed to know.

A knock on the door interrupted them.

A unformed officer stuck his head in.

Detective, the parents from York are here.

The Rodriguez family, they want to see their daughter’s bike.

Ryell nodded.

Give us 5 minutes.

After the officer left, Rachel looked at the evidence bags again.

Tommy’s helmet, his backpack, a drawing that proved he’d been alive in that basement at least long enough to remember home.

“I want to see the house,” she said.

“Rachel, I want to see where he was, where he drew that picture.

I need to see it.

Ryell studied her face.

The crime scene team is still processing.

It’s not a place you want to be right now.

It’s not a place I want to be ever, Rachel said.

But he’s my brother, and for 8 years, I’ve been wondering where he went.

Now I know.

He was six blocks from our house, and I drove past that place hundreds of times without knowing he was there.

She picked up Tommy’s helmet again, traced the outline of a flame sticker through the plastic.

I used to yell at him for leaving this on the kitchen counter.

Said he was going to lose it if he didn’t put it away properly.

Her voice broke then, just for a second.

All those times I worried about him losing his helmet.

I never worried about him losing everything else.

Ryell was quiet for a moment.

Then I’ll see what I can do.

Maybe in a few days when we’ve cleared the major evidence, but Rachel, seeing that room isn’t going to give you closure, it’s just going to give you nightmares.

I already have nightmares, Rachel said.

At least this way they’ll be real.

Outside the evidence room, she could hear voices in the hallway.

The Rodriguez family probably getting ready to face the same horrible confirmation she’d just experienced.

parents who’d spent six years hoping their daughter was alive somewhere, only to learn she’d been dead almost the entire time.

Rachel thought about the pink bike with streamers, about a six-year-old girl who’d loved bright colors and probably drew pictures of home just like Tommy had.

She thought about Gordon Hail, wherever he was now, living under whatever name he’d chosen next.

And she thought about the 11 other families who might not even know yet that their children’s disappearances were connected to a man who’d made a career out of fixing things while secretly breaking the most important things of all.

The forensics report arrived on a Thursday morning, delivered to Detective Ryell’s desk in a manila envelope that looked too thin to contain 8 years of answers.

Rachel sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair across from his desk, watching him read through pages of technical language and clinical observations.

His face gave nothing away, but she could see his jaw tighten with each page he turned.

“What does it say?” she asked finally.

Ryell set the report down carefully, like it might bite him.

The basement room was set up as a living space, makeshift but functional.

There was a camping toilet behind a curtain, bottles for water, some kind of ventilation system he’d rigged through the foundation.

Rachel’s stomach turned.

He kept them alive.

For some period of time, yes, the forensics team found evidence that children had been in that room over several years, different time periods.

He paused, met her eyes.

Rachel, they found more drawings hidden under a loose floorboard, different handwriting, different children.

The room felt smaller suddenly.

Rachel gripped the arms of her chair.

How many? Seven drawings total.

Three we can match to known missing children based on the names written at the bottom.

The others.

He shrugged helplessly.

Kids whose cases we might not have connected yet.

Seven children.

Seven families who’d gone through what her family was going through now.

Rachel thought about Tommy drawing that picture of their house, about him being scared and alone and still remembering home clearly enough to recreate it in crayon.

Did they suffer? The question came out before she could stop it.

Can you tell if they how long they The medical examiner is still working on that? Ryell said gently.

But Rachel, I need to prepare you for something.

We found evidence that Gordon didn’t work alone.

What do you mean? Ryell pulled out another file, this one thicker.

The room was too sophisticated for one person to manage longterm.

The ventilation, the soundproofing, the way it was hidden, that took planning and expertise, and some of the children’s belongings show signs of being moved multiple times.

Rachel stared at him.

You think there was someone else? We think Gordon had help.

Maybe someone who provided the location.

Maybe someone who helped with maintenance.

The house was supposedly empty for years, but neighbors report seeing utility trucks there occasionally.

Always different companies, always with legitimate looking work orders.

Fake work orders.

That’s what we’re thinking.

Someone was making sure that basement stayed functional even after Gordon officially moved away.

Ryell leaned back in his chair.

Rachel, I’m telling you this because we need your help.

We need you to think about anyone Gordon might have been close to, anyone who did similar work who might have had access to equipment or knowledge about hiding rooms.

Rachel’s mind raced through memories of Gordon working on their house.

He’d always worked alone, as far as she remembered, quiet, efficient, professional.

But there had been that one time.

There was another man once, she said slowly.

I was maybe 10 or 11.

Gordon was fixing our furnace and this other guy came by.

They talked in the basement for a while, but I never saw his face clearly.

Do you remember anything about him? His name? What he looked like? He was older than Gordon, I think.

Gray hair.

He drove a white van with some kind of company logo on the side.

Rachel closed her eyes, trying to pull the memory into focus.

Mom made me stay upstairs, but I heard them talking about the project.

At the time, I thought they meant our furnace.

Ryell wrote something in his notebook.

What about the company logo? Do you remember what it said? Something with electric in the name? Maybe Valley Electric? Rachel shook her head.

I’m sorry.

I was just a kid.

I wasn’t really paying attention.

That’s okay.

Every detail helps.

He flipped through more pages in the file.

We’re also looking into Gordon’s employment history more closely, tracking down every company he worked for, every job site he had access to.

Have you found anything? Some patterns.

Gordon always seemed to get work in neighborhoods where children later disappeared.

And he was good at establishing trust, references from satisfied customers, connections to local contractors.

Ryell’s expression darkened.

the kind of reputation that would give him access to homes with children.

Rachel thought about her mother letting Gordon into their house, trusting him around Tommy, about all the parents in all the neighborhoods who’d made the same reasonable decision to hire a reliable handyman.

There’s something else, Ryell continued.

We contacted the company that bought Gordon’s house in 2010.

The sale was handled through a shell corporation, but we tracked down the real buyer.

Who was it? A man named Bill Foster.

He’s an electrician.

Owns a small contracting business in the next county.

Ryell paused.

The same county where that first missing girl case happened in 2010.

Emma Foster.

The name hit Rachel like a slap.

Foster.

The same last name.

Bill Foster is Emma’s uncle, her father’s brother.

Rachel felt the room spin.

Her uncle bought Gordon’s house.

The house where Gordon was keeping children.

That’s what it looks like.

And get this.

Bill Foster’s company was listed as the contractor for several jobs in your neighborhood between 2010 and 2012, including work on the Henderson House across from yours.

The Henderson House? Where Gordon had been working the week Tommy disappeared.

Rachel remembered seeing the van in their driveway.

Remembered mom mentioning they were having garage door problems.

You think this Bill Foster was working with Gordon? We think he was either working with him or cleaning up after him.

Maybe both.

Ryell closed the file.

Rachel, we’re going to bring Bill Foster in for questioning, but I wanted you to know first because this means the investigation is about to get a lot bigger and a lot more complicated.

Rachel nodded, but she wasn’t really listening anymore.

She was thinking about Emma Foster, about a six-year-old girl whose own uncle might have helped hide her body.

About Tommy trusting Gordon, maybe even meeting this Bill Foster without knowing he was walking into a trap.

When? She asked.

When are you bringing him in? Tomorrow morning.

We’re getting the warrant tonight.

Rachel stood up, her legs shaky.

I want to be there when you arrest him.

Rachel, that’s not not to interfere, just to see his face.

To see the face of someone who helped kill my brother.

Ryell studied her for a long moment.

I’ll see what I can do.

But Rachel, seeing his face isn’t going to make this hurt less.

It’s just going to give you another face to hate.

Good, Rachel said.

I need someone to hate who’s still alive.

Bill Foster lived in a split-level house on a dead-end street, the kind of place where neighbors minded their own business and nobody asked questions about the sounds coming from basement.

Rachel sat in Detective Royell’s unmarked car, parked two houses down, watching the tactical team position themselves around Fosters’s property.

It was 6:47 a.

m.

Early enough that most people would still be in bed, but late enough that Foster might be getting ready for work.

He’s got a workshop behind the house, Ryol said, studying surveillance photos.

Separate building, no windows on the sides facing the neighbors.

If he’s got anything else hidden, that’s where it’ll be.

Rachel stared at the ordinarylook house with its neat lawn and painted shutters.

A child’s bicycle was visible in the garage, pink with training wheels.

Her heart clenched before she remembered that Bill Foster had legitimate children.

A family who probably had no idea what he’d been doing.

“What about his family?” she asked.

“Wife and two daughters.

Wife works nights at the hospital.

Kids are at their grandmothers this week for spring break.

” Redell’s radio crackled.

We timed it that way.

Didn’t want them here for this.

The team leader’s voice came through the radio.

All units in position.

Suspect’s vehicle is in the driveway.

Lights are on in the kitchen.

Ryell keyed his radio.

Move in.

Rachel watched the tactical officers approached the house with practice efficiency.

No sirens, no shouting, just the controlled movement of people who knew exactly what they were doing.

The front door opened before they could knock.

Bill Foster stepped onto his porch wearing workclo and carrying a thermos of coffee.

He was older than Rachel had expected, maybe 60, with gray hair and the kind of weathered hands that came from years of manual labor.

He looked like somebody’s grandfather, not like a man who helped murder children.

He didn’t run, didn’t resist, just set his thermos down carefully and put his hands behind his back like he’d been expecting this moment for years.

“That was too easy,” Ryell muttered.

They watched the officers lead Foster to a patrol car, his head down, shoulders sagging.

No drama, no protestations of innocence, just quiet resignation.

He knew, Rachel said he knew you were coming.

Maybe.

Or maybe he’s just tired of running.

Ryell started the car.

Come on, let’s see what he’s hiding in that workshop.

The workshop was locked with three different deadbolts and a chain.

It took the entry team 15 minutes to get through Foster’s security measures, but when they finally opened the door, Rachel understood why he’d been so careful.

The space was divided into two sections.

The front looked like a normal electrical contractor’s workshop, tools, supplies, workbenches covered in the debris of legitimate repairs.

But the back section, separated by a heavy curtain, was something else entirely.

File cabinets lined the walls, each drawer labeled with dates and locations.

Maps covered a pegboard marked with colored pins that corresponded to different years.

And on a desk in the center, a computer surrounded by external hard drives and manila folders stuffed with photographs.

Detective Ryell emerged from the workshop 20 minutes later, his face pale.

Rachel, you need to go home.

What did you find? more than we expected.

A lot more.

He walked her back toward his car, one hand on her elbow.

This isn’t just about Gordon Hail anymore.

This is organized, professional.

We’re looking at what might be a trafficking network that’s been operating for 15 years.

15 years.

Rachel felt sick.

How many children? We don’t know yet.

Foster kept detailed records, but they’re coded.

It’s going to take time to decode everything.

Ryell opened the passenger door for her.

But Rachel, some of the recent dates suggest this didn’t stop when Gordon disappeared.

They might still be active.

The thought hit her like a physical blow.

While she and her family had been grieving Tommy while they’d been learning to live with his absence, other children had been disappearing.

Other families had been destroyed.

The children in the basement, she said.

Were they Were they sold? Ryell didn’t answer immediately, which was answer enough.

We think some were moved to other locations.

The drawings we found, the personal items, they might have been kept as records.

Proof of inventory.

His voice was clinical, professional, but Rachel could hear the disgust underneath.

Fosters’s computer contains shipping manifests, contact lists, financial records.

This was a business, Rachel.

A business that sold children.

Rachel leaned against the car, her legs suddenly weak.

She thought about Tommy drawing pictures of home while men in another room discussed selling him like merchandise.

About other children, maybe dozens of them reduced to line items in Fosters’s files.

I want to see what’s on that computer.

Absolutely not.

This is evidence in a federal investigation now.

The FBI is taking over.

Ryell paused.

Rachel, you need to prepare yourself.

This case is about to become national news.

The media attention is going to be intense.

I don’t care about media attention.

I care about finding every child these bastards took.

I know, and we will.

But it’s going to take time and it’s going to be painful.

Some of these cases are old.

Some of the evidence is degraded.

We might not be able to save everyone.

Rachel understood what he wasn’t saying.

Tommy was gone.

Had been gone for years.

Probably died shortly after those drawings were made.

But there might be other children still alive.

Still trapped in places like that basement room.

What about Gordon? Have you found him yet? Fosters talking gave up Gordon’s location within an hour of his arrest.

Ryell’s smile was grim.

Apparently, loyalty only goes so far when you’re looking at federal trafficking charges.

Where is he? Small town in West Virginia, living under the name Gary Hudson, working construction.

Local police are picking him up this afternoon.

Rachel felt a surge of satisfaction so intense it surprised her.

After 8 years of wondering of imagining Tommy’s killer as some untouchable ghost, the idea that Gordon Hail was about to be arrested in a West Virginia jail cell felt like justice finally catching up.

Will I be able to see him when he’s brought back? Rachel, I need to see his face.

I need him to see mine.

She turned to look at Foster’s workshop where investigators were still carrying out boxes of evidence.

That man in there made money off my brother’s death.

Gordon Hail took Tommy from us.

I need them to know that Tommy mattered, that he wasn’t just inventory.

Redell studied her face.

When the time comes, we’ll see what we can arrange.

But right now, you need to go home and prepare your family.

This story is going to break in the next few hours, and it’s going to change everything.

As they drove away from Fosters’s house, Rachel watched the crime scene tape flutter in the morning breeze.

Soon this quiet street would be overrun with reporters and curiosity seekers, all wanting to see where evil had hidden behind suburban normaly.

But for now, it was just another neighborhood where children rode bikes and parents trusted contractors and nobody suspected that monsters could look like tired electricians carrying thermoses of coffee.

Just like the neighborhood where Tommy had disappeared, trusting a handyman who’d smiled and waved and planned his death behind kind eyes, Gordon Hail didn’t look like a monster.

That was Rachel’s first thought when she saw him through the one-way glass in the interview room.

He was smaller than she remembered, his hair completely gray now, wearing an orange jumpsuit that made him look like any other tired old man who’d made bad choices.

But then he smiled at something Detective Ryol said, and Rachel recognized that same polite expression he’d worn when he fixed their kitchen sink.

The same careful friendliness he’d shown Tommy when her brother had begged to help with repairs.

“He looks so ordinary,” she whispered.

Beside her, FBI agent Martinez nodded.

“They usually do.

That’s how they get away with it for so long.

” Through the speakers, she could hear Ryell’s voice.

“Gary Hudson isn’t your real name, is it, Gordon?” Gordon, she couldn’t think of him as Gary, not when she’d known him as the man who’d murdered her brother, leaned back in his chair.

“Haven’t used that name in years.

” Figured it was time to be someone else.

Someone who didn’t kidnap and kill children.

Now, detective, that’s a strong accusation.

You sure you can prove something like that? His voice was the same, too.

Soft, reasonable, with that slight southern accent that had made him seem trustworthy.

Rachel’s hands clenched into fists.

We found the bikes, Gordon, in your basement on Elm Street, including Tommy Matthews’s Orange Strider.

For the first time, Gordon’s expression flickered just for a second, but Rachel caught it.

a tightening around his eyes, a barely perceptible shift in his posture.

That’s quite a story, he said finally.

But I haven’t lived in that house since 2010.

Whatever somebody put in that basement happened after I left.

Except we have your partner, Bill Foster, and Bill’s been very talkative.

Gordon’s smile faltered.

Bill’s got health problems, memory issues.

I wouldn’t put too much stock in what he says.

Agent Martinez leaned forward.

Foster showed us the records, Gordon.

Every transaction, every location, every child.

Your operation was impressive.

If you can call destroying families impressive.

I don’t know what you think you found.

We found Tommy Matthews drawing, Ryell interrupted.

A picture of his house that he drew while you kept him in that basement.

A seven-year-old boy, scared and alone, drawing pictures of home while you and Foster decided what to do with him.

Gordon was quiet for a long moment.

When he spoke again, his voice was different, harder, less performative.

Kids draw pictures.

Doesn’t prove anything.

It proves he was alive in that room.

It proves you kept him there long enough for him to process what was happening to him.

Ryell’s voice was still.

What did you tell him, Gordon? Did you tell him his parents were looking for him? Did you tell him he was going home? I told him what he needed to hear.

The casual cruelty of it hit Rachel like a slap.

She stood up so fast her chair scraped against the floor.

I want to talk to him.

Rachel, that’s not I want 5 minutes with the man who killed my brother.

Agent Martinez shook her head.

That’s not how this works.

You’re here as an observer, nothing more.

Then let me observe him lying about Tommy.

Let me watch him pretend he doesn’t remember.

Through the glass, Gordon was still talking, his voice maddeningly calm.

You want to know what I remember about that summer? I remember working honest jobs for honest pay.

I remember helping families fix their problems.

Like the Matthews family, Ryell asked.

Did you help them fix their problems when you took their son? The Matthews boy rode his bike past my work site every day.

Friendly kid, always waved.

Gordon’s smile returned and Rachel wanted to put her fist through the glass.

Shame what happened to him.

Real tragedy.

You know exactly what happened to him because you made it happen.

Now, detective, you’re putting words in my mouth.

Rachel couldn’t stand it anymore.

She walked out of the observation room and straight to the interview room door.

Agent Martinez called after her, but she was already turning the handle.

Gordon looked up when she entered, and for a split second she saw recognition flash across his face.

Then the polite mask slipped back into place.

“Well, if it isn’t little Rachel Matthews,” he said.

“My, how you’ve grown.

” The sound of her name in his mouth made her skin crawl.

You remember me? Of course I remember you.

Sweet family.

Your mother made the best iced tea in the neighborhood.

Rachel sat down across from him, ignoring Ryel’s warning look.

Tell me what you did to Tommy.

I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.

You took him from his bike ride.

You put him in that basement.

You kept him there while our family searched every street, every park, every place we thought he might have gone.

Her voice was steady, controlled.

She’d practiced this conversation in her head for days.

“Tell me what you did to my brother.

” Gordon studied her face with the clinical interest of someone examining an insect.

“You know, you look just like him.

Same eyes, same stubborn chin.

He talked about you constantly.

” The words hit her like a physical blow.

“What?” in the basement.

He worried about you, about how scared you’d be, said you always took care of him, made sure he was safe.

” Gordon’s smile widened.

“Sweet kid, real protective of his family.

” Rachel’s vision blurred.

The idea that Tommy had been thinking about her, worried about her while he was trapped and terrified, was almost too much to bear.

“Where is he now?” she whispered.

“Now? Well, I expect he’s wherever good little boys go when their time is up.

Where is his body? Gordon leaned back, his expression thoughtful.

You know, Rachel, your brother was special, different from the others.

He never stopped believing he was going home.

Even at the end, he kept asking when you were coming to get him.

Tell me where he is.

He’s at peace, Gordon said softly.

Isn’t that enough? Rachel lunged across the table before she could stop herself.

Her hands found Gordon’s throat, her thumbs pressing against his windpipe, while he made choking sounds that sounded like the justice she’d been waiting 8 years to deliver.

Strong hands pulled her back, Ryell and Martinez, their voices urgent but distant.

Gordon coughed and rubbed his neck, his eyes bright with something that looked almost like pleasure.

There’s the anger, he said, his voice raspy.

Tommy had that same fire when he realized he wasn’t going home.

Real fighter, your brother made everything so much more interesting.

Rachel struggled against the hands holding her, wanting nothing more than to wipe that smile off Gordon’s face permanently.

But even as they dragged her from the room, she could hear him laughing.

That sound would follow her home and into her dreams for weeks to come.

The news broke at 6:00 p.

m.

on a Tuesday, spreading across social media like wildfire before the evening broadcasts could catch up.

Child trafficking ring exposed.

8-year investigation into missing boy leads to massive bust.

Rachel sat in her mother’s living room watching their quiet street fill with news vans and reporters.

The phone had been ringing non-stop since the story hit the wire.

Journalists wanting comments.

True crime podcasters fishing for exclusive interviews, victim advocacy groups offering support she wasn’t ready to accept.

Mom had unplugged the landline an hour ago and drawn all the curtains, but they could still hear the voices outside, the shuffle of feet on their front porch, the occasional knock from someone brave enough to approach the door.

23 children, Rachel said, reading from her phone.

They’re saying Gordon and Foster were responsible for 23 missing children over 15 years.

Mom sat in dad’s old recliner, the one she’d never been able to throw away, clutching a cup of tea that had gone cold hours ago.

23 families, she said quietly.

23 mothers who went through what I went through.

The FBI had released limited information to the press enough to explain the scope of the investigation without compromising ongoing cases.

Fosters’s computer had contained shipping manifests that read like inventory reports.

Children reduced to physical descriptions and monetary values.

Some had been sold to buyers across state lines.

Others had been kept longer, used for purposes the agents wouldn’t describe in detail.

They found three children still alive.

Rachel continued reading.

Rescued from a compound in Nevada, ages 12, 14, and 16.

They’d been missing for 4, 6, and 8 years, respectively.

It was good news, the best news they could have hoped for.

But it also meant that while Tommy had been dying in that basement room, other children had been surviving in places just as terrible, growing up in captivity while their families grieved.

The doorbell rang again.

Mom flinched but didn’t move to answer it.

Mrs.

Matthews, this is Linda Chen from Channel 8 News.

We’d love to give you a chance to share Tommy’s story to help other families who might be going through something similar.

Rachel recognized the name.

Linda Chen, had covered Tommy’s disappearance eight years ago, had done one of the more respectful pieces about the search efforts.

But right now, the last thing either of them wanted was to share their grief with television cameras.

They want a story, Mom said.

Something neat and simple.

Closure.

Justice served.

The bad guys caught.

Is that what this is? Mom was quiet for a long moment.

I don’t know.

Gordon Hail is in prison.

Bill Foster is talking to the FBI, but Tommy’s still gone.

He’s been gone for 8 years, and finding his bike doesn’t bring him back.

Rachel set her phone aside and moved to the window, peering through a gap in the curtains.

The reporters were setting up for evening broadcasts, using their house as a backdrop, while they explained how a routine renovation had exposed one of the largest child trafficking operations in state history.

Agent Martinez called while you were in the shower.

Mom said they want us to come in tomorrow to discuss victim impact statements for the trial.

What did you tell her? That I’d think about it.

Mom finally set down her teacup.

Rachel, I don’t know if I can sit in a courtroom and listen to the details.

I don’t know if I can hear what they did to him.

Rachel understood.

She’d barely made it through Gordon’s interrogation without attacking him again.

The idea of sitting through weeks of testimony of hearing evidence described in clinical detail felt overwhelming.

But she also thought about the three children who’d been rescued, about families who were getting their kids back because Gordon and Foster had finally been caught, about the families of the other 20 children who might finally get answers.

Maybe we don’t have to know everything, she said.

Maybe it’s enough to know that he’s not going to hurt anyone else.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Detective Ryel.

Media getting overwhelming.

Safe house available if you need space.

She showed the message to mom, who shook her head.

This is our home.

We’re not letting them drive us out of our own house.

But as the evening wore on and more vans arrived, as reporters knocked with increasing frequency and neighbors began gathering on the sidewalk to watch the spectacle, Rachel began to reconsider.

The attention felt invasive, parasitic.

Their private grief had become public entertainment.

Around 900 p.

m.

, a knock came that sounded different from the others, softer, more hesitant.

Rachel opened the door to find Jenny Lee standing on the porch holding a covered casserole dish.

“I’m sorry,” Jenny said immediately.

“I know you probably don’t want visitors right now, but I made too much lasagna, and I thought, well, I thought you might not feel like cooking tonight.

” Rachel stepped aside to let her in, grateful for a familiar face that wasn’t asking for interviews or statements.

Jenny had lived across the street for 15 years, had helped search for Tommy in those first awful days after he disappeared.

“How are you holding up?” Jenny asked, setting the dish on the kitchen counter.

“I don’t know,” Rachel said honestly.

“It’s good that they caught him.

It’s good that other children were saved, but it doesn’t feel like closure.

It feels like like we’re just learning how much worse it was than we imagined.

” Jenny nodded.

I keep thinking about that summer, about seeing Tommy ride past my window every day, about how normal everything seemed.

That man was living six blocks away and we had no idea.

Did you ever talk to him to Gordon? A few times he worked on our air conditioning unit once, maybe 2011.

Seemed nice enough, professional.

Jenny’s face darkened.

He asked about the neighborhood kids.

said he liked seeing them play outside, that it reminded him of his own childhood.

I thought he was just being friendly.

The casual way Gordon had gathered information made Rachel’s skin crawl.

How many conversations like that had he had? How many parents had unwittingly given him details about their children’s routines and habits? The FBI agent said he might have been watching families for months before taking their children.

Rachel said, “Learning their patterns, figuring out the best opportunities.

” “23 children,” Jenny whispered.

“I can’t wrap my head around that number.

” Rachel looked out the window at the news vans, their bright lights turning her street into a stage set.

Tomorrow, the reporters would move on to other stories, other tragedies.

But the families of those 23 children would still be living with the knowledge that their babies had been reduced to merchandise in Gordon Hail’s twisted business.

Her phone rang.

Mom’s name on the screen.

Rachel, where are you? Kitchen.

Jenny brought food.

Good.

Listen, I’ve been thinking about what Agent Martinez said about the victim impact statements.

Mom’s voice was stronger than it had been all day.

I want to do it.

I want Gordon Hail to hear what he took from us.

Rachel closed her eyes, picturing Gordon’s cold smile, his casual cruelty when he described Tommy’s final days.

The idea of facing him again in court, of giving him another opportunity to hurt them, was terrifying, but it was also necessary.

“Okay,” she said.

“We’ll do it together.

” Outside, the reporters continued their broadcasts, turning their family’s nightmare into content for the evening news.

But inside their small kitchen, surrounded by the smell of Jenny’s lasagna and the quiet strength of women who’d survived the unthinkable, Rachel felt something she hadn’t experienced in 8 years.

Not closure exactly, but purpose.

They were going to make sure Gordon Hail never hurt another family.

and they were going to make sure Tommy’s story was told by people who loved him, not by strangers looking for ratings.

The courthouse steps were slick with October rain, and Rachel could feel the weight of every camera lens pointed at her back as she climbed toward the heavy wooden doors.

6 months had passed since Gordon Hail’s arrest.

6 months of depositions and evidence reviews and sleepless nights spent preparing for this moment.

Today was sentencing day.

The trial itself had been a nightmare of clinical testimony and exhibits that reduced Tommy to case numbers and forensic evidence.

Rachel had sat through three weeks of testimony about trafficking networks and financial records, about the systematic way Gordon and Foster had operated their business.

She’d listened to experts explain how children were broken down psychologically, how they were prepared for transport, how they were sold to buyers who saw them as commodities.

But today was different.

Today she got to speak.

Agent Martinez met them in the hallway outside courtroom 3B.

Her face grim but determined.

The judge has agreed to hear victim impact statements from five families.

You and your mother will go third.

Remember, speak directly to the judge, not to Gordon.

Don’t let him see your pain.

What if I want him to see it? Rachel asked.

Then you’re giving him exactly what he wants.

Gordon Hail feeds on the suffering he’s caused.

Don’t give him that satisfaction.

They entered the courtroom to find it packed with reporters, victim advocates, and families Rachel had come to know over the past 6 months.

The parents of Marcus Williams sat in the front row, holding hands so tightly their knuckles were white.

Behind them, the grandmother, who’d raised Lily Rodriguez, dabbed at her eyes with a tissue that had been used too many times.

Gordon sat at the defendant’s table in a dark suit that made him look like a mourning relative rather than a child killer.

His hair had been cut and styled, his demeanor calm and attentive.

He looked like someone who belonged in this respectable courtroom, not someone who’d spent 15 years destroying families.

When he turned to scan the gallery, his eyes found Rachel’s immediately.

That same polite smile crossed his face, the one she remembered from her childhood.

She forced herself to stare back without flinching, to let him see that she wasn’t the scared girl who’d watched him fix their kitchen sink.

Judge Morrison called the court to order, her voice echoing off the woodpanled walls.

Before I pass sentence, I will hear from the victim’s families.

Mrs.

Williams, you may proceed.

Marcus Williams mother approached the podium with shaking hands, clutching a folded piece of paper.

Her voice broke as she described her son’s love of baseball, his dream of becoming a veterinarian, the way he’d left for a friend’s house one day and never came home.

He would be 16 now, she said, looking directly at Gordon.

He would be learning to drive, complaining about homework, asking for money for movies with his friends.

Instead, I visit his grave every Sunday and wonder what his voice would sound like if it had been allowed to change.

Gordon’s expression never shifted.

He might have been listening to a weather report.

Next came Lily Rodriguez’s grandmother speaking in heavily accented English about a little girl who’d loved pink tutus and wanted to be a ballerina.

She’d brought one of Lily’s drawings, a crayon picture of a family under a rainbow, and held it up for the judge to see.

“She drew this the day before she disappeared,” the old woman said.

“Still has our refrigerator magnets on the back.

Six years, I keep it, hoping she’d come home to see it again.

” “Then it was Rachel’s turn.

” She walked to the podium on unsteady legs, feeling the weight of 8 years settling on her shoulders.

The statement she’d prepared was in her pocket, but she found herself speaking from the heart instead.

“Tommy Matthews was 9 years old when Gordon Hail took him,” she began.

“He was my twin brother, born 4 minutes after me, and he never let me forget that I was technically older.

He collected Hot Wheels cars and arranged them by color because he said rainbows were magic.

He wanted to be a dinosaur hunter when he grew up.

And he practiced by digging holes in our backyard that mom was always filling in.

She paused, looking at Gordon, who was still wearing that infuriating smile.

Tommy trusted adults.

When our garbage disposal broke and mom called Gordon Hail to fix it, Tommy stood right next to him asking questions about tools and pipes and how things worked.

Gordon answered every question, kindly.

He made Tommy feel important, like his curiosity mattered.

Rachel’s voice grew stronger.

That’s how predators work, isn’t it, Gordon? They study children, learn what makes them feel special, and then they use that knowledge to destroy them.

You turned Tommy’s natural curiosity into a weapon against him.

Gordon’s smile faltered slightly.

For 8 years, my family lived in limbo.

We didn’t know if Tommy was alive or dead, if he was being hurt, or if he’d simply vanished.

My mother set a place for him at every dinner table just in case he came home hungry.

I drove past your empty house hundreds of times without knowing my brother was dying six blocks from our front door.

She pulled out her phone and showed the judge the photo of Tommy on his orange bike, the one taken just days before he disappeared.

This is who Tommy was before you took him.

Happy, trusting, full of dreams about the future.

The drawings we found in your basement show who you turned him into.

A scared little boy drawing pictures of home because home was the only safe place he could remember.

Rachel’s voice broke then, just for a moment.

You didn’t just kill Tommy, Gordon.

You tortured him.

You made him suffer.

You made him die believing that no one was coming to save him.

She looked directly at Gordon, who was no longer smiling.

But you know what? You failed because Tommy is still loved.

He’s still remembered.

His story helped save three other children who might have died in places like your basement.

And every day you spend in prison, every night you lie awake knowing you’ll never be free.

Tommy’s memory is getting justice.

She walked back to her seat without looking at Gordon again, but she could feel his eyes on her back.

When mom took the podium and spoke about the son she’d lost, about the hole in their family that would never heal, Rachel watched Gordon’s face carefully.

For the first time since his arrest, he looked uncomfortable.

Not sorry, Rachel doubted he was capable of genuine remorse, but definitely uncomfortable, as if hearing the real cost of his actions was more difficult than he’d expected.

Judge Morrison listened to all five families speak, her expression growing darker with each statement.

When the last parent finished, she turned to Gordon.

Mr.

Hail, do you have anything to say before I pass sentence? Gordon stood slowly buttoning his suit jacket with the same careful precision he’d once used to organize his tools.

Your honor, I want these families to know that I never intended for anyone to be hurt.

Sometimes things happen that we don’t plan for, situations that get out of hand.

Rachel felt rage flare in her chest.

Even now, he couldn’t admit what he’d done.

I’m sorry for their loss, Gordon continued.

I hope they can find peace.

It was a masterpiece of non-apology, expressing regret without accepting responsibility.

Judge Morrison’s face showed exactly what she thought of it.

Mr.

Hail, in 30 years on this bench, I have seen many defendants try to minimize their crimes.

I have heard every excuse, every justification, every attempt to shift blame.

But what you have done, the systematic torture and murder of children for profit, represents a level of evil that defies explanation.

She paused, letting the words settle.

I sentence you to life in prison without the possibility of parole on each count of first-degree murder sentences to run consecutively.

Additionally, I sentence you to 25 years for each count of kidnapping and trafficking, also consecutive.

You will die in prison, Mr.

Hail, and the world will be safer for it.

” Gordon’s composure finally cracked.

His shoulders sagged, and for just a moment he looked like what he really was, a tired old man who’d spent his life hurting children and finally been caught.

As the baiffs led him away in shackles, Rachel felt something she’d been carrying for 8 years finally loosen in her chest.

Not closure, she doubted she’d ever really have that.

but something close to peace.

Tommy’s killer would never hurt another child, and that would have to be enough.

Two years after Gordon Hail’s sentencing, Rachel found herself standing in front of a different house on a different street, holding a clipboard and trying to convince a stranger to let her inside.

“I know this is unusual,” she said to the elderly man who’d answered the door.

“But I promise you, I’m not selling anything.

I just need to look at your basement.

Mr.

Patterson squinted at her through thick glasses, probably wondering why a 27-year-old woman was asking to inspect his foundation on a Thursday morning.

Behind him, she could see the hallway of a house that had been built in the same era as Gordon’s Place, 1960s ranch style, with the kind of basement that could easily hide secrets.

I’m with the Matthews Foundation, Rachel continued, showing him the business card she’d had printed 6 months ago.

We’re working with law enforcement to identify properties that might have been connected to child trafficking operations.

Your house was owned by someone we’re investigating.

It was a lie, but a useful one.

The Matthews Foundation existed only on paper and in Rachel’s laptop, funded by the book deal she’d signed to tell Tommy’s story.

The real work, the obsessive searching through property records and rental histories, was something she did alone in the evenings, following leads that probably went nowhere.

Mr.

Patterson studied her card, then her face.

You’re that girl from the news, the one whose brother? Yes, sir.

That’s me.

He stepped aside and let her in.

The basement was finished, carpeted, converted into a family room decades ago.

Nothing suspicious about it, no hidden rooms or suspicious modifications.

But Rachel had learned to be thorough.

She checked behind bookcases, looked for unusual electrical work, measured rooms to make sure the interior dimensions matched the exterior.

“Find what you’re looking for?” Mr.

Patterson asked when she emerged 20 minutes later.

“Nothing here,” she said.

“But that’s good news for you.

” It was the same conversation she’d had 43 times in the past year, ever since she’d started tracking down properties connected to Gordon Hail’s extended network.

Most of the houses were clean.

A few had minor modifications that might have been suspicious.

One had revealed a hidden room that contained nothing but old Christmas decorations and a musty smell.

But she kept looking because the FBI investigation had stalled.

Because there were still missing children whose cases hadn’t been solved because sitting at home feeling sorry for herself wasn’t bringing anyone back.

Her phone rang as she walked back to her car.

Mom’s name on the screen.

How’d it go today? Mom asked.

Nothing.

Another basement full of perfectly normal family memories.

Rachel slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

How was group? Good.

We have three new families this month.

Parents of kids who went missing in the last few years.

I think it helps them to hear from someone who’s been through it.

Mom had started facilitating a support group for families of missing children 6 months ago, meeting every Tuesday evening in the basement of St.

Mark’s Church.

Rachel had gone to a few meetings, but found them too painful.

All those parents still hoping, still believing their children might come home alive.

Agent Martinez called.

Mom continued, “They found another property in Ohio.

House that was rented by one of Fosters’s associates back in 2016.

Local police want to know if you’re available to consult.

” Rachel felt the familiar surge of adrenaline that came with a new lead.

When? Next week.

But Rachel, honey, you don’t have to keep doing this.

The FBI has their own people, their own experts.

You’ve already done more than anyone could expect.

Someone has to look for them, Mom.

Someone has to care enough to check every basement, every hidden room, every place these animals might have stashed evidence.

I know.

I just worry that this is becoming your whole life.

You’re 27 years old.

You should be thinking about your future, not spending every weekend crawling through strangers basement.

Rachel didn’t answer right away.

She understood mom’s concern, but she also understood something mom didn’t.

That the alternative to searching was accepting that Tommy’s death had been meaningless.

That Gordon and Foster’s other victims would remain lost forever.

Three children were saved because we found those bikes, she said finally.

Three families got their kids back because someone was willing to break through that basement wall.

If there’s even a chance of finding one more, isn’t it worth it? Mom was quiet for a moment.

Just promise me you’re not doing this to punish yourself.

What happened to Tommy wasn’t your fault.

I know that.

But even as she said it, Rachel wasn’t sure she believed it.

The guilt had faded over the years, but never disappeared completely.

The knowledge that she’d been Tommy’s older sister, his protector, and she’d failed him when he needed her most.

“I have to go,” she said.

“I’m meeting Jenny for lunch.

Give her my love.

Rachel drove toward downtown, past the street where Gordon’s house had stood before the city demolished it six months ago.

The lot was empty now, just grass and a small memorial garden that families had planted for all the children who’d suffered there.

Someone had left fresh flowers by the marker with Tommy’s name, probably Mrs.

Chen, who still checked on them regularly.

She found Jenny waiting at their usual table in the corner diner, already ordering coffee for both of them.

Jenny had become Rachel’s closest friend over the past 2 years.

One of the few people who understood the strange combination of relief and ongoing pain that came with solving a case like this.

“Any luck today?” Jenny asked.

“Clean basement, nice family, sweet old man who probably thinks I’m slightly crazy.

” Rachel slid into the booth across from her.

But that’s 44 houses down.

Only about 200 more on my list.

Rachel.

Jenny’s voice was gentle but firm.

You know you can’t investigate every property Gordon Hail ever looked at, right? You know you can’t personally search every place he might have hidden evidence.

I can try.

But at what cost? When was the last time you went on a date? When was the last time you thought about anything other than missing children and basement rooms? Rachel stared into her coffee cup, seeing her reflection distorted in the dark surface.

Jenny was right, of course.

The search had become consuming, an obsession that left little room for anything else.

But it was also the only thing that felt meaningful, the only way she knew how to honor Tommy’s memory.

There’s something else, Jenny said.

I wasn’t going to tell you, but I think you should know.

They’re making a documentary about the case.

Someone from Netflix called the police department asking for interviews.

Rachel’s stomach dropped.

Great.

More strangers wanting to turn our family’s nightmare into entertainment.

Maybe.

Or maybe it’s a chance to tell Tommy’s story the right way to make sure people remember him as more than just a victim.

I’ll think about it, Rachel said.

But she knew she wouldn’t participate.

She’d already told Tommy’s story in the book had already exposed their family’s pain to help other parents recognize the warning signs.

She wasn’t ready to do it again for cameras.

Her phone buzzed with a text from agent Martinez.

Ohio property confirmed.

Hidden room found behind furnace.

Can you be there Monday? Rachel showed the message to Jenny who read it and sighed.

Another basement, Jenny said.

Another chance, Rachel corrected.

Because somewhere out there in houses that looked as innocent as Mr.

Patterson’s, there might still be evidence waiting to be found.

Clues that could solve other cases, bring other families closure, maybe even save children who were still missing.

Tommy was gone.

She’d accepted that reality, made peace with it as much as anyone could.

But his death had revealed a network that had operated for years, had destroyed dozens of families, had left a trail of evidence that might still lead to other victims.

As long as there was even the possibility of finding answers, Rachel would keep looking.

She owed Tommy that much.

She owed all of them that much.

And maybe if she looked long enough and hard enough, she’d find something that would help other families avoid the years of uncertainty her family had endured.

Maybe that would be enough.

Maybe that would finally feel like justice.

Outside the diner window, children walked past on their way home from school, backpacks bouncing, laughing about whatever seemed important in their 8-year-old worlds.

They looked so much like Tommy had, so trusting and innocent and unaware that monsters could hide behind helpful smiles and friendly waves.

Rachel watched them go and made herself a promise.

She would keep searching until every basement was checked, every hidden room was found, every secret was dragged into the light.

Because somewhere out there, another Tommy was waiting to be found.

And she wasn’t going to stop looking until she brought him home.