In 1997, three children disappeared from their locked home in Pinewood, Colorado, while their parents were at the grocery store for less than 90 minutes.

No forced entry, no witnesses, no ransom demand, just three kids, ages 14, 11, and 8, gone without a trace.

But 27 years later, a demolition crew discovers something behind the walls of a condemned building downtown that will shatter everything investigators thought they knew about that October evening.

A find so disturbing it proves the children never left Pinewood at all.

If you’re drawn to true mysteries that uncover long buried secrets, subscribe now and join us as we unravel the most haunting cold case in Colorado history.

October 18th, 1997.

The afternoon light filtered through the kitchen windows of the Merrick house on Ashwood Lane, casting golden rectangles across the lenolium floor.

Rachel Merik wiped down the counter one more time, her mind already running through the grocery list she’d compiled that morning.

Saturday afternoons had a rhythm to them.

Ersands, dinner prep, maybe a rented movie if the kids behaved.

Tyler, she called up the stairs.

We’re leaving in 5 minutes.

You’re in charge.

14-year-old Tyler Merik appeared at the top of the staircase, his dark hair still wet from the shower.

I know, Mom.

Same as always.

Rachel smiled.

Tyler was responsible beyond his years.

The kind of teenager who didn’t need constant supervision.

He’d been watching his younger siblings since he was 12, and there had never been a problem.

Not once.

Sophia.

Owen,” Rachel continued.

“Come say goodbye.

” 11-year-old Sophia emerged from the living room, a book tucked under her arm.

She had her mother’s green eyes and her father’s serious expression.

“Can you get more of those granola bars I like?” “Already on the list, sweetheart.

” 8-year-old Owen came thundering down from his room, his toy cars clutched in both hands.

“Do we have to go?” You don’t, David.

Merrick said, grabbing his jacket from the hook by the door.

That’s why Tyler’s staying with you, too.

We’ll be back before dinner.

Rachel crouched down to Owen’s level.

Be good for your brother, okay? No fighting over the TV.

Owen nodded enthusiastically, already racing back toward the living room where his elaborate racetrack setup awaited.

Rachel checked her watch.

4:15.

The Safeway would be moderately busy, but they’d be efficient.

In and out in an hour, maybe an hour and a half at most.

She’d done this dozens of times.

“Tyler,” David said, his hand on the door knob.

“Lock the door behind us.

Don’t open it for anyone.

” “Dad, I know.

” Tyler’s tone carried the exasperation of a teenager who’d heard the same instructions countless times.

“I mean it.

Not for anyone.

I won’t.

” Rachel kissed each of her children, lingering an extra moment with Owen, who was always her baby, no matter how big he got.

Then she and David stepped out into the crisp October air.

The aspens along the street brilliant with autumn gold.

Tyler locked the door behind them, the dead bolt sliding into place with a solid click.

Through the window, Rachel saw him wave once before disappearing back into the house.

She had no way of knowing it would be the last time she’d see any of her children.

When Rachel and David returned at 5:52, arms laden with grocery bags, the front door was still locked from the inside.

The house was silent, and Tyler, Sophia, and Owen Merrick were gone.

April 3rd, 2024.

The demolition crew had been working on the old Harmon building in downtown Pinewood for 3 days when Marcus Chen’s sledgehammer punched through a section of wall that sounded different from the rest.

The hollow echo made him pause, his arms still reverberating from the impact.

“Hey, Ror,” Marcus called to his foreman.

“Something’s weird here.

” Daniel Ror set down his crowbar and crossed the dusty expanse of what had once been the building’s ground floor.

The Harmon building had stood empty for 15 years, a relic of Pinewood’s more prosperous mining days.

Now it was scheduled for demolition to make way for a new community center, and Ror’s crew had the contract to tear it down.

“What have you got?” Ror asked, pulling off his work gloves.

Marcus wrapped his knuckles against the wall.

Listen to this.

Sounds like there’s a gap back there, but according to the blueprints, this should be solid brick all the way through.

Ror pressed his ear to the wall, then knocked in several places.

Marcus was right.

The sound changed dramatically in a roughly 6x 8 ft section, suggesting empty space where there shouldn’t be any.

Probably just settling, Ror said, but his voice lacked conviction.

Old buildings do weird things.

Want me to open it up? Ror checked his watch.

3:30 on a Wednesday afternoon.

They were already behind schedule and the building inspector was coming tomorrow.

Yeah, go ahead, but carefully.

Last thing we need is the whole wall coming down on us.

Marcus worked methodically, chipping away at the plaster and brick.

Within 20 minutes, he’d created an opening large enough to shine a flashlight through.

He clicked on his heavyduty work light and aimed it into the darkness.

Then he stumbled backward, his face draining of color.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered.

“What?” Ror moved forward, but Marcus held up a hand.

“Call the police,” Marcus said, his voice shaking.

“Call them right now.

” Ror grabbed the flashlight and looked through the opening Marcus had created.

The beam of light swept across a small hidden room no more than 8 ft by 10 ft.

The space was furnished with remnants of furniture, a disintegrating couch, a small table, a portable toilet in the corner.

Empty water bottles littered the floor along with what appeared to be food wrappers.

Their labels faded beyond recognition, but it was what lay against the far wall that made Ror’s stomach turn.

three sets of skeletal remains arranged side by side.

The bones were small children’s bones.

They wore the tattered remnants of clothing, and near each skeleton lay personal items, a wristwatch, a small backpack, a handful of toy cars.

Ror pulled out his phone with trembling hands, and dialed 911.

Within 40 minutes, the Pinewood Police Department had cordoned off the entire building.

Detective Sarah Vance arrived on scene, her silver stre hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, her expression grim.

At 53, she’d been with the department for 28 years, and she’d seen her share of tragedy.

But this was different.

Chief Porter met her at the entrance, his face ashen.

Sarah, you need to see this, and you need to prepare yourself.

I’ve seen bodies before, Tom.

Not like this.

Not kids, he hesitated.

And Sarah, one of them, is wearing a watch.

The inscription is still visible.

Something in his tone made her stomach clench.

What does it say? To Tyler, love mom and dad, 1995.

The name hit her like a physical blow.

Tyler Merik.

The disappearance of the three Merrick children had happened during her second year as a detective.

It had been her first major case, and it had remained unsolved for 27 years.

She’d carried it with her everyday since, the faces of those three children haunting her dreams.

“Show me,” she said quietly.

They entered the building, now blazing with portable work lights that the crime scene unit had set up.

Sarah followed Chief Porter through the maze of debris until they reached the opening in the wall.

A photographer was already documenting the scene, camera flashes illuminating the hidden room in bursts of stark white light.

Sarah peered through the opening, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe.

27 years.

She’d searched for these children for 27 years.

Rachel Merrick still called her every October 18th, the anniversary of the disappearance, hoping for news.

David Merrick had died 6 years ago, his heart giving out under the weight of grief he’d carried since 1997.

And all this time, Tyler, Sophia, and Owen had been here, less than 2 mi from their home on Ashwood Lane, sealed behind a wall in a building that thousands of people had walked past without knowing.

“The medical examiner is on her way,” Chief Porter said softly.

But Sarah, there’s something else you should know before we go any further.

She turned to look at him.

What? The room was sealed from the outside.

The bricks were morted over.

There’s no way those kids could have done that themselves.

He paused, his jaw tight.

Someone put them in there and then walled them up alive.

The words settled over her like a suffocating blanket.

She’d always suspected the Merrick children were dead.

Statistics made that the most likely outcome after the first 48 hours.

But knowing they’d been alive, trapped in this small space, waiting for rescue that never came.

How long would they have survived? She asked, though she dreaded the answer.

Without food or water? The ME will have to determine that based on the remains.

But Sarah, look at the water bottles.

Look at the food wrappers.

Someone was bringing them supplies.

Sarah’s head snapped up.

What? Porter pointed to a section of the wall opposite the one they’d opened.

There’s a small panel there.

Looks like it could be opened from the outside.

We think that’s how someone passed items through.

So, they were kept here, Sarah said slowly, her detective’s mind starting to overcome the initial shock.

This wasn’t just a murder.

This was imprisonment.

For how long, we don’t know yet.

But yes, someone kept three children in this room behind a sealed wall in the center of town.

Porter’s voice hardened, and that someone has been walking around free for 27 years.

Sarah pulled out her phone and dialed a number she knew by heart.

It rang three times before a familiar voice answered.

“Rachel Merik,” Sarah said gently.

“This is Detective Vance.

I need you to sit down.

We found them.

We found your children.

The sound of Rachel’s gasp, followed by a broken sob, would stay with Sarah for the rest of her life.

As the crime scene team began the painstaking process of documenting and recovering the remains, Sarah stood in the gathering dusk outside the Harmon building.

The street was already crowded with news vans, their satellite dishes pointed toward the sky.

In a town as small as Pinewood, news traveled fast.

Somewhere in this town was a killer.

Someone who had taken three children from their home on a quiet October evening, imprisoned them in a hidden room, and sealed them away to die.

Someone who had lived among them for nearly three decades, keeping that terrible secret.

Sarah looked up at the Harmon building, its windows dark and empty.

This building had been owned by someone, maintained by someone.

Even empty, it would have required occasional access for inspections, repairs, property tax assessments.

She pulled out her notebook and began writing.

The investigation had been dormant for 27 years.

Now it was time to wake it up.

October 18th, 1997.

Detective Sarah Vance had been on duty for 12 hours when the call came through about the missing Merrick children.

It was just after midnight and she’d been about to head home when dispatch connected her with a frantic mother who kept repeating, “They were just here.

They were just here.

” Sarah grabbed her jacket and her notebook.

I’m on my way.

The Merrick house on Ashwood Lane was ablaze with lights when she arrived.

Two patrol cars were already parked in the driveway, and neighbors had gathered on the sidewalk despite the late hour, their faces tight with concern.

In a town like Pinewood, where everyone knew everyone, the disappearance of three children sent shock waves through the entire community.

Officer Mark Granger met her at the door.

“Detective Vance, the parents are in the living room.

They’re pretty shaken up.

” Fill me in,” Sarah said, pulling out her notebook.

David and Rachel Merik left for grocery shopping at approximately 4:15 this afternoon.

They left their three children at home.

Tyler, 14, Sophia, 11, and Owen, 8.

The oldest boy, Tyler, was in charge.

When the parents returned at 5:52, the front door was still locked from the inside, but the children were gone.

Sarah’s pen paused over her notebook.

Locked from the inside.

Yes, ma’am.

David Merrick had to use his key to get in.

The deadbolt was engaged.

And the other doors, windows, all locked from the inside.

No signs of forced entry anywhere in the house.

Sarah followed Granger into the living room where Rachel and David Merrick sat on the couch, holding hands so tightly their knuckles had gone white.

Rachel’s eyes were red and swollen, her face blotchy from crying.

David stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched.

“Mr.

and Mrs.

Merik,” Sarah said gently, taking a seat across from them.

“I’m Detective Sarah Vance.

I’m going to do everything in my power to find your children, but I need you to help me.

Can you walk me through exactly what happened today?” Rachel nodded, wiping at her eyes with a tissue that had been shredded to pieces.

We left at 4:15.

Just a normal grocery run.

We do it every Saturday.

Tyler always watches the other two.

He’s so responsible, detective.

He’s never let us down.

Did you notice anything unusual before you left? Anyone watching the house? Any strange phone calls? No, David said, his voice.

Nothing.

It was just a normal day.

And when you returned, “Everything looked fine from outside,” Rachel continued.

“The lights were on.

I remember thinking Tyler must have started dinner because I could see the kitchen light, but when we got to the door, her voice broke.

It was locked.

” David had to unlock it with his key.

“Did that strike you as odd?” “A little,” David admitted.

“Tyler usually unlocks it when he hears us pull up, but I thought maybe he was upstairs or in the bathroom.

I didn’t think.

He trailed off.

What happened when you entered? The house was silent, Rachel whispered.

I called for them.

All three of them, but there was no answer.

We searched every room, every closet, the basement, the attic.

They weren’t there.

Sarah made notes quickly.

Was anything out of place? Anything taken? No.

Their backpacks were still in their rooms.

Owen’s toy cars were still set up in the living room like he’d been playing with them and just walked away.

The TV was on playing some cartoon.

Rachel’s voice rose with panic.

Detective, where could they have gone? How could they have left without unlocking the door? That was the question that would haunt Sarah for years to come.

She spent the next 3 hours systematically searching the house.

The Merrick home was a modest two-story with three bedrooms upstairs, a bathroom, and the main living areas downstairs.

The basement was unfinished, used primarily for storage and laundry.

Every window was locked from the inside.

Every door was secure.

In Tyler’s room, Sarah found a math textbook open on his desk, a half-finish homework assignment beside it.

In Sophia’s room, a book lay open on the bed, a bookmark suggesting she’d been in the middle of chapter 7.

Owen’s room was a chaos of toys and drawings, the colorful mess of an 8-year-old’s imagination.

None of it suggested a planned departure.

By 3:00 in the morning, Sarah had called in additional officers to conduct a grid search of the neighborhood.

They walked every street, knocked on every door, questioned anyone who might have seen something.

The grocery store’s security footage showed David and Rachel entering at 4:23 and leaving at 5:47, their cart full of bags.

Their timeline checked out perfectly, but the children had simply vanished.

As dawn broke over Pinewood, Sarah stood in the Merik’s backyard, looking back at the house.

The bedroom window stared down at her like empty eyes.

Somewhere, three children were missing.

Somewhere someone knew what had happened to them.

The media descended on Pinewood by midm morning.

News vans from Denver filled the streets.

Reporters shoving microphones at anyone willing to talk.

Rachel and David made a tearful plea for their children’s return.

Their faces broadcast across Colorado and beyond.

Tyler, Sophia, Owen, Rachel sobbed into the cameras.

If you can see this, we love you.

We’re looking for you.

Please come home.

But as the hours turned into days and the days turned into weeks, no trace of the Merrick children surfaced.

Search parties combed the mountains surrounding Pinewood.

Divers searched the reservoir.

Blood hounds tracked scents that led nowhere.

The FBI brought in specialists.

Psychics offered their services.

Tips poured in from across the country.

Each one investigated, each one leading to nothing.

Sarah interviewed everyone who’d had contact with the children in the weeks before their disappearance.

Teachers, friends, neighbors, relatives.

She built a timeline of their lives, searching for any connection to someone who might have taken them.

But the merics were well-liked with no enemies, no suspicious associates, no dark secrets.

The case file grew thicker.

Months passed, then a year, then two.

The media moved on to other tragedies.

The search parties dwindled.

The FBI reassigned their agents.

Rachel Merrick’s hair turned gray and David developed a tremor in his hands that never quite went away.

But Sarah never forgot.

She kept the case file on her desk, reviewing it every few months, hoping for fresh insight.

She called Rachel on every anniversary, a ritual that felt both necessary and cruel.

She followed up on leads that trickled in over the years.

Each one ultimately a dead end.

27 years passed.

And then Marcus Chen’s sledgehammer broke through that wall.

Now standing in the Harmon building’s debris strewn interior.

Sarah remembered that first night.

She remembered Rachel’s desperate eyes and David’s clenched jaw.

She remembered the locked doors and the silent house and the three empty bedrooms.

and she remembered the question that had plagued her then and haunted her still.

How could three children disappear from a locked house without leaving a single trace? Now, finally, she had at least one answer.

They hadn’t left the house at all.

Someone had come in and taken them.

April 4th, 2024.

The medical examiner’s office in Pinewood occupied the basement level of the county building, a windowless space that always smelled faintly of disinfectant and formaldahhide.

Dr.

Patricia Hollis had served as county me for 18 years, and in that time she’d seen her share of difficult cases, but nothing had prepared her for this.

Sarah Vance stood beside her in the examination room, watching as Dr.

Hollis carefully documented the remains laid out on three separate tables.

The skeletal remains had been transported from the Harmon building with painstaking care.

Each bone photographed in situ before removal.

Now under the harsh fluorescent lights, the full tragedy of what had happened to the Merrick children was becoming clear.

The remains are consistent with children aged approximately 8, 11, and 14.

Dr.

Hollis said, her voice professionally neutral, though her hands trembled slightly as she worked.

Based on the clothing remnants and personal items, we can preliminarily identify them as Owen, Sophia, and Tyler Merik.

Can you determine cause of death? Sarah asked.

Dr.

Hollis was silent for a long moment, adjusting her glasses as she examined Tyler’s skeleton.

There’s no obvious trauma to any of the bones.

No fractures, no evidence of blunt force or sharp force injury.

However, given the circumstances of where they were found, “Dehydration,” Sarah finished quietly.

“Svation, most likely a combination, without access to adequate food and water, children that age.

” Dr.

Hollis cleared her throat.

The younger ones would have succumbed first.

Owen, given his size and age, probably lasted 3 to 5 days.

Sophia, perhaps a week.

Tyler, being older and larger, might have survived as long as 10 days, possibly 2 weeks, if he rationed whatever water was available.

Sarah closed her eyes briefly, imagining Tyler Merik watching his younger siblings die, powerless to save them, knowing his own death was inevitable.

The horror of it was almost unbearable.

But you said you found water bottles and food wrappers in the room, Dr.

Hollis continued.

“That suggests someone was providing supplies, at least initially.

” “There was a small panel in the wall,” Sarah confirmed.

“Looks like it could be opened from the outside to pass items through.

Then we need to determine how long they were receiving supplies and when that stopped.

the contents of the wrappers and bottles might help establish a timeline.

Dr.

Hollis moved to the evidence table where the personal items had been cataloged.

She picked up a small water damaged notebook.

This was found with Sophia’s remains.

The pages are largely illeible, but our document examiner might be able to recover some of the writing.

Sarah’s pulse quickened.

A diary, possibly, or just notes.

Children sometimes keep journals.

Dr.

Hollis handed it to Sarah, carefully sealed in an evidence bag.

If there’s any writing that survived, it could tell us what happened to them.

Sarah held the bag gently as if it were made of glass.

Inside was potentially the voice of an 11-year-old girl reaching across 27 years from beyond the grave.

Whatever Sophia had written in those final days could be the key to understanding who had done this and why.

How long before you can complete the full autopsy? Sarah asked.

With three remains to process thoroughly.

At least a week, possibly two.

I want to be meticulous.

These children deserve that much.

Sarah nodded and left the medical examiner’s office.

The evidence bag containing Sophia’s notebook clutched carefully in her hand.

Outside, the April morning was bright and clear.

the Colorado sky a brilliant blue that seemed obscene given what she just witnessed.

The world had no right to be beautiful when three children had died in darkness.

Her phone buzzed.

Chief Porter Sarah Rachel Merrick is here at the station.

She’s asking for you.

I’ll be right there.

The drive from the county building to the police station took 7 minutes.

Sarah spent every second of it preparing herself for what she’d have to say, knowing that no words could adequately convey the horror of what her children had endured.

Rachel Merik sat in the station’s family room, a space designed to be less institutional than the interview rooms.

She’d aged considerably since David’s death 6 years ago, her hair completely white now, her face lined with the kind of deep grooves that came from years of unrelenting grief.

But her eyes were alert, focused, desperate for answers.

Sarah sat across from her, placing the notebook on the table between them, but keeping her hand over it.

“Rachel,” she began gently.

“I’ve just come from the medical examiner’s office.

” “Tell me everything,” Rachel said, her voice steady despite the tears already forming in her eyes.

“Don’t spare me.

I need to know.

” So Sarah told her.

She explained about the hidden room.

the sealed wall, the evidence of provisions that suggested the children had been kept alive for some period of time.

She explained what Dr.

Hollis believed about cause of death, though she softened the details as much as she could.

Rachel listened without interruption, her hands folded in her lap, tears streaming silently down her face.

When Sarah finished, Rachel was quiet for a long moment.

“They were so close,” she finally whispered.

All these years, I thought they might be anywhere in the world.

But they were right here, 2 miles from our house.

If I just if I’d searched harder, Rachel, no.

Sarah reached across and took the older woman’s hands.

There was no way you could have known.

The room was completely sealed.

We only found it because of demolition.

This isn’t your fault.

I should have stayed home that day, Rachel said, her voice breaking.

If I’d just stayed home, if I’d been there.

You can’t think that way.

You did nothing wrong.

Someone took your children.

Someone imprisoned them.

That person is responsible, not you.

Rachel’s eyes focused on the evidence bag under Sarah’s hand.

What’s that? Sarah hesitated, then slid the bag across the table.

We found this with Sophia.

It appears to be a notebook or diary.

The document examiner will try to recover whatever writing might still be legible.

Rachel picked up the bag with trembling hands, staring at the water stained pages visible through the plastic.

She always loved writing, she said softly.

She’d write stories, make up adventures.

She wanted to be an author when she grew up.

If there’s anything readable in there, it might help us understand what happened.

It might help us find who did this.

Do you have any leads? Rachel asked, looking up suddenly.

Any suspects? We’re investigating everyone who had access to the Harmon building in 1997 and in the years following.

We’re reviewing the original case file, reintering witnesses.

We’ll find who did this, Rachel.

I promise you that.

But even as Sarah said the words, she knew how difficult it would be.

27 years was a long time.

People moved away, died, forgot.

Evidence degraded.

Memories became unreliable.

And whoever had done this had managed to keep the secret for nearly three decades.

After Rachel left, Sarah returned to her desk and opened the original case file from 1997.

She’d reviewed it hundreds of times over the years, but now she was looking for something specific, any connection, however tenuous, to the Harmon building.

The building had been owned by Harmon Enterprises, a local investment company, since its construction in 1952.

In 1997, it had housed several businesses, a law office on the second floor, an insurance agency on the third, and the ground floor had been undergoing renovation to become a restaurant that never opened.

Sarah pulled up the property records on her computer.

The renovation had been contracted to Donovan Construction, a company that had gone out of business in 2003.

The owner, Michael Donovan, had died in 2015, but his employees from that time period might still be around.

She began making a list of names, cross-referencing them with the witness statements from 1997.

Most of the workers had been questioned during the initial investigation.

standard procedure given the proximity of the building to the Merrick house, but no one had seemed suspicious at the time.

No one had raised red flags.

Sarah’s phone rang.

It was the document examiner.

Detective Vance, I’ve been working on that notebook you sent over.

I’ve managed to recover some of the writing from the first few pages.

You’re going to want to see this.

20 minutes later, Sarah stood in the document lab looking at enlarged photographs of Sophia Merik’s water damaged diary pages.

The examiner, a meticulous woman named Dr.

Ellen Torres, had used infrared imaging and chemical treatments to make some of the faded ink visible again.

It’s dated, Dr.

Torres said, pointing to the top of the first legible page.

October 19th, 1997.

That’s one day after they disappeared.

Sarah leaned closer, reading the childish handwriting that had been preserved against all odds.

We’re in a small room.

Tyler says we have to stay calm.

The man said he’d bring us food and water if we’re quiet.

Owen is scared.

I’m scared, too.

But Tyler says mom and dad will find us soon.

They have to.

We just have to wait.

Sarah’s throat tightened.

She turned to the next page.

dated October 20th.

The man came back.

He pushed bottles of water through a hole in the wall and some crackers.

Tyler asked him to let us out, but he didn’t answer.

Owen cried all night.

I tried to tell him stories to make him feel better, but I don’t think it helped.

I miss mom.

The entries continued, each one more desperate than the last.

October 21st.

October 22nd.

Sophia’s handwriting becoming shakier, her entries shorter.

The last legible entry was dated October 27th, 9 days after their disappearance.

Owen isn’t moving anymore.

Tyler says he’s just sleeping, but I know he’s not.

The man hasn’t come in 3 days.

We have one bottle of water left.

Tyler gave most of it to me.

He says, “Mom will come.

She has to come.

Please, Mom.

Please find us.

” Sarah had to step away, her vision blurring with tears.

Three children trapped in darkness, slowly dying, while their mother searched desperately for them just 2 mi away.

There’s one more thing, Dr.

Torres said quietly.

On the very last page, there’s something else, not Sophia’s writing.

The hand is older, more controlled.

She showed Sarah the final page.

In firmer script, someone had written a single sentence.

I’m sorry.

I didn’t mean for this to happen.

Tyler, Sarah whispered.

Dr.

Torres nodded.

Probably written in the final hours.

He knew they weren’t getting out.

Sarah returned to her office and sat in the dark for a long time.

Sophia’s words echoing in her mind.

Then she opened her computer and began to work with renewed determination.

Somewhere in Pinewood was a person who had taken three children, sealed them in a wall, and left them to die.

Someone who had called himself the man, and had brought them water and crackers before abandoning them to their fate.

Someone who had lived with this secret for 27 years.

Sarah pulled up the employee records from Donovan Construction and began cross-referencing names with current Pinewood residents.

She was going to find him.

April 5th, 2024.

The morning briefing at Pinewood Police Department was standing room only.

Chief Porter had called in officers from neighboring jurisdictions, and the FBI had sent two agents from their Denver field office.

The Merrick case had become a multi- agency investigation.

Overnight, Sarah stood at the front of the room, a detailed timeline pinned to the board behind her.

She’d worked until 3:00 in the morning, compiling every piece of information they had.

“Here’s what we know,” she began, her voice carrying across the crowded room.

October 18th, 1997.

Tyler, Sophia, and Owen Merik disappeared from their locked home between 4:15 and 5:52 p.

m.

No forced entry, no witnesses, no trace.

At some point between their disappearance and October 27th, they were imprisoned in a hidden room in the Harmon building approximately 2 miles from their home.

Based on Sophia’s diary entries, someone provided them with limited food and water for the first few days, then stopped.

All three children died of dehydration and starvation.

She paused, letting the information settle over the room.

Several officers looked visibly shaken.

The Harmon building’s ground floor was under renovation in October 1997, contracted to Donovan Construction.

The work had been ongoing for 6 months and would continue for another 8 months after the disappearance.

This gave workers regular unsupervised access to the building.

FBI agent Marcus Webb stepped forward.

Do we have a complete list of everyone who worked that site? We do.

Donovan Construction employed 12 workers at various times during the renovation.

Eight of them still live in or near Pinewood.

Three have died, one moved out of state.

Sarah gestured to the board where photographs of the workers were displayed.

We’ve begun reintering everyone who had access to that building.

What about the building owner? Asked agent Rebecca Lynn, Web’s partner.

Harmon Enterprises was run by Gerald Harmon until his death in 2008.

His daughter, Christine Harmon Foster, inherited the properties.

She lives in Denver now, but she’s agreed to meet with us this afternoon.

Chief Porter cleared his throat.

Sarah, tell them about the room itself.

Sarah pulled up crime scene photographs on the projector.

The hidden room appeared on the screen, its walls covered in scratches where small fingers had clawed at the brick.

The room was purpose-built, Sarah explained.

It wasn’t a storage space or utility closet that was walled over.

Someone constructed this room specifically to hide something or someone.

The walls are double thickness brick with soundproofing material between the layers.

The small panel for passing items through was carefully engineered.

This took planning, expertise, and time.

So, we’re looking for someone with construction knowledge, Webb said.

Yes.

someone who knew the building’s layout, had access during the renovation, and possessed the skills to build this room without arousing suspicion from other workers.

An officer in the back raised his hand.

What about the house? How did the suspect get three kids out of a locked house? Sarah had been wrestling with that question since the case reopened.

We’re re-examining the house today.

There has to be something we missed in 1997.

A way in and out that we didn’t find.

After the briefing, Sarah drove to Ashwood Lane for the first time in years.

The Merrick house looked smaller than she remembered, its blue paint faded, the lawn overgrown.

Rachel had moved to an apartment in town after David died, unable to bear living in the house where she’d last seen her children.

Agent Lynn accompanied her along with a forensic team equipped with modern technology that hadn’t existed in 1997.

They began in the basement using thermal imaging cameras and ground penetrating radar to search for hidden spaces.

4 hours into the search, one of the technicians called out from the basement storage room.

Detective Vance, you need to see this.

Sarah descended the stairs quickly.

Lynn close behind.

The technician, a young man named Josh Martinez, stood in the corner of the storage room, pushing aside old boxes and forgotten furniture.

The radar showed an anomaly here,” he explained.

So, I checked the wall more carefully.

He pressed against a section of paneling, and with a soft click, a portion of the wall swung inward, revealing a narrow passage.

Sarah’s breath caught.

“How did we miss this?” “It’s expertly concealed,” Martinez said.

“The seam is virtually invisible unless you know exactly where to press.

” And look, the passage goes under the foundation and connects to the old coal chute.

Sarah squeezed into the passage, following it with her flashlight.

It was barely 3 ft wide, clearly hand dug through the earth beneath the house’s foundation.

After about 15 ft, it opened into the abandoned coal chute that connected to the outside of the house, a relic from when homes in this neighborhood had used coal heating.

The coal chute’s exterior door was hidden behind overgrown bushes and hadn’t been opened in decades, according to the rust on its hinges.

But in 1997, it could have been functional.

“This is how he got them out,” Sarah said, emerging back into the basement.

“He came in through the coal shoot, accessed this hidden passage, and entered the house through this false wall panel.

The kids never knew he was coming.

He could have taken them one by one or forced them to follow him at gunpoint.

But who knew about this passage? Lynn asked.

Who would have had knowledge of this specific house’s architecture? Sarah pulled out her phone and called the property records office.

After a brief conversation, she had her answer.

The house was built in 1963, she told Lynn.

It’s had four owners.

The Mer bought it in 1989.

Before that, it belonged to the Caldwell family from 1978 to 1989.

Before them, the Harrises owned it from 1969 to 1978.

And the original owner, Michael Donovan.

Lynn’s eyes widened.

The construction company owner? Sarah nodded grimly.

He built this house.

He knew every secret in its walls, including that hidden passage.

And in 1997, his company was renovating the Harmon building, but Donovan is dead.

Died in 2015.

Yes, but his employees aren’t.

Sarah pulled up the list on her phone, and one name keeps appearing in multiple contexts.

He worked for Donovan Construction in 1997.

He was interviewed during the original investigation, but cleared because he had an alibi for the time the children disappeared.

And according to property records, he purchased a house on the same street as the Merics in 1995.

Who? Leonard Pike.

He was Donovan’s foreman.

He would have had intimate knowledge of both the Harmon building renovation and the houses Donovan had built, including this one.

They drove to Pike’s last known address, a modest ranch house on Maple Street.

But the current residents, a young couple with a toddler, told them Pike had sold the property 8 years ago and moved to a cabin in the mountains near Evergreen, about 40 minutes away.

Sarah and Lynn made the drive in silence, both processing the implications of what they’d discovered.

If Pike was their suspect, he’d been living free for 27 years while the Merrick family suffered.

The cabin was isolated, set back from the road and surrounded by dense pine forest.

Pike’s truck was parked in the driveway, an old Ford with a faded Bronco sticker on the bumper.

Sarah knocked on the door, her hand resting on her service weapon.

The man who answered was in his late 60s, heavy set with a gray beard and suspicious eyes.

Can I help you? Sarah held up her badge.

Mr.

Leonard Pike.

I’m Detective Sarah Vance, Pinewood Police Department.

This is Agent Rebecca Lynn with the FBI.

We need to ask you some questions about your time with Donovan Construction.

Pike’s expression didn’t change.

That was a long time ago.

Yes, sir.

27 years.

We’re investigating the disappearance of the Merrick children.

Something flickered in Pike’s eyes.

Fear.

Guilt.

Sarah couldn’t quite read it.

I already talked to the police back then, Pike said.

Told them everything I knew, which was nothing.

We’d like to go over your statement again.

New evidence has come to light.

What kind of evidence? We’ve found the children’s remains, Mr.

Pike, in the Harmon building in a hidden room that was constructed during the 1997 renovation when you were sight foreman.

Pike’s face went pale.

I don’t know anything about that.

May we come in, Mr.

Pike? Agent Lynn asked, her voice calm but firm.

Do you have a warrant? We can get one, but it would be easier if you cooperated voluntarily.

Pike stood in the doorway for a long moment, calculating.

Finally, he stepped aside.

Fine, but I’m telling you, I don’t know anything.

The cabin’s interior was neat and sparse.

Hunting trophies mounted on the walls, a well-worn recliner facing a television, a small kitchen visible through an archway.

On the mantle above the fireplace, Sarah noticed several photographs.

One of them made her stop cold.

It was a family photo from the 1980s.

A younger Leonard Pike standing beside a woman and a teenage boy.

The boy looked to be about 15 with dark hair and an awkward smile.

“Is this your family?” Sarah asked, picking up the frame.

“That’s my ex-wife, Helen, and my son, Gary,” Pike said.

“Taken in 1985.

Why?” “Where are they now?” Helen died in a car accident in 1998.

“Gary,” Pike’s voice hardened.

“Haven’t spoken to him in 20 years.

He took off after his mother died.

Haven’t heard from him since.

Sarah examined the photograph more closely.

Your son would have been around 27 in 1997.

28.

What’s this got to do with anything? Did he ever work for Donovan Construction? Pike’s jaw tightened.

Sometimes during summer’s school breaks, Mike Donovan gave him odd jobs to help out.

Why are you asking about Gary? Sarah exchanged a glance with Agent Lynn.

Where exactly was your son on October 18th, 1997? How the hell should I know? Like I said, I haven’t talked to him in years.

But you talked to him then.

Pike’s eyes narrowed.

What are you implying? We’re not implying anything, Mr.

Pike.

We’re trying to establish who had access to the Harmon building during the renovation.

Who might have had knowledge of hidden passages and construction techniques? who might have known about the secret passage in the Meric House.

The what? Sarah watched his reaction carefully.

Either Pike was an excellent actor or he genuinely didn’t know about the passage in the basement.

Michael Donovan built the Meric House in 1963.

It has a hidden passage connecting the basement to the old coal shoot.

Someone used that passage to abduct the children.

Pike sank into his recliner, his face ashen.

Jesus Christ.

Did your son know about that passage? I don’t I don’t know.

Maybe.

Mike used to tell stories about the houses he built, the shortcuts he took, the clever tricks he incorporated.

Gary loved hearing about it.

He wanted to be a builder like Mike.

We need to find your son, Mr.

Pike, Agent Lynn said.

Do you have any idea where he might be? Pike shook his head slowly.

No, last I heard he was drifting around Colorado taking construction work where he could find it.

But that was 15 years ago.

Sarah pulled out a notepad.

We’ll need his full name, date of birth, social security number if you have it, and any photographs.

As Pike provided the information, Sarah felt the pieces beginning to align.

Gary Pike would have been the right age in 1997.

He’d had access to the Harmon building through his father’s construction company.

He would have heard stories about Michael Donovan’s construction techniques, possibly including the hidden passages in the houses Donovan built.

And he disappeared shortly after the Merrick children were sealed in that wall.

“Mr.

Pike,” Sarah said carefully, “did your son have any psychological issues, any history of violence or inappropriate behavior?” Pike was silent for a long moment.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

After Helen died, Gary changed.

He became fixated on things, obsessive.

He’d follow people sometimes, watch them.

I caught him outside a neighbor’s house one night, just staring in their windows.

When I confronted him, he said he was protecting them, keeping them safe.

Pike looked up at Sarah, his eyes haunted.

I tried to get him help, but he tried to get him help, but he refused refused and then he just left.

Sarah’s and then he just left.

Sarah’s pulse pulse quickened.

Did he ever show quickened.

Did he ever show inappropriate interest in children? inappropriate interest in children? Pike’s silence was answer enough.

They Pike’s silence was answer enough.

They left the cabin with a photograph of Gary left the cabin with a photograph of Gary Pike and a promise from Leonard to call Pike and a promise from Leonard to call immediately if his son made contact.

In immediately if his son made contact.

In the car, Agent Lynn pulled up Gary the car, Agent Lynn pulled up Gary Pike’s information on her laptop.

I Pike’s information on her laptop.

He’s had a few addresses over the years, she said, scrolling through databases.

Boulder in 2000, Fort Collins in 2005, Grand Junction in 2010, but nothing current.

No employment records after 2012.

No tax returns.

It’s like he vanished.

Or learn to stay off the grid, Sarah said.

Start running his photo through facial recognition.

Check it against any surveillance footage from the Harmon building demolition site.

If he’s been watching the news, if he knows we found the bodies, he might come back.

You think he’s still alive? I think he’s out there somewhere.

And I think he’s been living with what he did for 27 years.

Sarah pulled onto the highway heading back toward Pinewood.

People like that don’t just disappear.

They’re somewhere watching, waiting.

We just have to find him before he realizes we’re looking.

April 6th, 2024.

Sarah arrived at the station before dawn, her mind racing with possibilities.

She’d spent the night reviewing everything they knew about Gary Pike, constructing a psychological profile of a man who might have imprisoned three children and then vanished into the Colorado landscape.

The conference room had been converted into a command center.

Photographs of Gary Pike at various ages covered one wall alongside maps of Colorado marked with his known addresses.

Agent Webb was already there on the phone with the FBI’s behavioral analysis unit.

They’re sending someone up from Quantico, he told Sarah as he hung up.

Should be here by this afternoon.

But based on what we’ve told them, they agree Pike fits the profile.

obsessive tendencies, difficulty with social relationships, access and opportunity, disappearance.

Following the crime, Sarah pinned up the most recent photograph of Gary Pike.

They’d found a driver’s license photo from 2011.

He would be 55 now, his dark hair likely grayed, but his features should still be recognizable.

The photo showed a man with hollow cheeks and intense eyes that seemed to look through the camera rather than at it.

I’ve been thinking about the supplies, Sarah said, staring at the photo.

Sophia’s diary mentioned that the man brought them water and crackers for the first few days, then stopped.

Why would he stop? Webb considered this guilt, fear of being caught, or maybe he intended to let them out eventually, but something changed.

Or he panicked.

Sarah turned to face him.

What if Gary Pike didn’t plan for this to go the way it did? What if something went wrong? You think the imprisonment was accidental? Not the abduction.

That required planning and premeditation.

But maybe he intended something different.

Maybe he was going to keep them longer, move them somewhere else, and then couldn’t go through with it.

Chief Porter entered the room carrying a file folder.

Sarah, we got the records from Donovan Construction.

I think you need to see this.

He spread several documents across the table.

Work schedules, time sheets, project notes from October 1997.

Sarah scanned them quickly, then stopped at one particular entry.

Gary Pike called in sick on October 18th.

She read aloud.

He didn’t show up for work that entire week.

His father confirmed he was sick.

Porter said that was his alibi.

Leonard said Gary had the flu, stayed home in bed.

“We never pressed it because Leonard seemed credible and there was no reason to suspect Gary at the time.

” “But Leonard wasn’t home during the day,” Sarah said, checking the original interview notes.

“He was at the work site.

He couldn’t actually verify that Gary was home.

” “Web pulled up Gary’s employment records on his laptop.

” And look at this.

Gary requested that week off 3 weeks in advance.

October 13th, he submitted a formal request for vacation time.

October 18th through 24th.

Sarah felt ice settle in her stomach.

He planned it.

He knew exactly when he was going to take them.

But why that specific week? Porter asked.

Sarah returned to the original case file, flipping through the witness statements until she found what she was looking for.

The renovation at the Harmon building.

That week they were scheduled to work on the interior walls of the ground floor.

It was the perfect time to construct a hidden room.

Everyone expected new walls to be going up.

Gary could have built it in plain sight.

Jesus, Webb muttered.

He was probably working on it for weeks before, a little at a time, and then he took that week off to finish it and put the children inside.

Sarah’s phone rang.

It was Dr.

Torres from the document lab.

Detective Vance, I’ve recovered more of Sophia’s diary entries.

I’m sending them to you now, but there’s something you should know.

In one of the entries, she describes the man’s voice.

She says he sounded sad, like he was crying.

Sarah pulled up the scanned images on her phone.

The entry was dated October 22nd, 4 days after the abduction.

The man came again today.

He pushed more water through the hole and some bread.

Tyler asked him why he’s doing this.

The man didn’t answer at first, then he said, “I’m keeping you safe.

” His voice sounded funny, like he was crying.

Tyler said, “We’re not safe here.

We want to go home.

” The man said, “You can’t.

She won’t let me.

” Then he laughed.

“I don’t know who she is.

” Sarah read the passage aloud to Web and Porter.

She won’t let me, she repeated.

Who was he talking about? His mother died in 1998, Webb said, consulting his notes.

But in October 1997, she was still alive.

Helen Pike, Porter was already pulling up Helen Pike’s information.

Car accident, January 1998.

Single vehicle collision on Highway 285.

She lost control on black ice and hit a tree.

Died instantly.

What if it wasn’t an accident? Sarah said slowly.

What if Gary killed her? Webb shook his head.

That’s a big leap.

Is it? Think about it.

He abducts three children, imprisons them in a hidden room.

Sophia says he mentioned a she who won’t let him release them.

3 months later, his mother dies in a convenient accident.

Then Gary disappears and is never heard from again.

You think Helen knew what he’d done? Or he believed she did? Maybe she suspected something.

Maybe she confronted him.

Sarah paced the room, the pieces aligning in her mind.

Gary was obsessive, his father said, fixated on things.

What if he became fixated on the Merrick children, followed them, watched them, learned their routines, and then he took them, but he didn’t know what to do with them once he had them.

So, he hid them in the room he’d built.

Webb continued the thought.

Brought them supplies because he couldn’t just let them die, but he couldn’t let them go either.

And when his mother found out, or he thought she might find out, he killed her to keep the secret safe.

Porter looked skeptical.

We’d need evidence to support that theory.

Then let’s find it.

Sarah grabbed her jacket.

I want to see the accident report from Helen Pike’s death.

And I want to search Gary’s last known residence.

If he’s still alive, if he’s been following this case, he might make contact.

Killers like him, they can’t resist knowing what we know.

The Colorado State Patrol archives provided the accident report from January 1998.

Sarah and Agent Lynn reviewed it in the station’s conference room, looking for anything that might suggest foul play.

Single vehicle collision.

No witnesses.

Lynn read.

Helen Pike was driving home from her job at the library when she lost control on an icy patch.

Her car struck a pine tree at approximately 40 mph.

She wasn’t wearing a seat belt.

Death was instantaneous from blunt force trauma.

Who investigated? Trooper James Walton.

He’s retired now, living in Colorado Springs.

Sarah made a note to contact him.

What about the car itself? Was it examined for mechanical failure? Lynn flipped through the report.

Basic inspection only.

No obvious signs of tampering.

But Sarah, look at this.

The accident happened on Helen’s usual route home from work.

But according to her supervisor at the library, Helen had called in sick that day.

She wasn’t supposed to be working.

Then where was she going? They spent the next two hours tracing Helen Pike’s movements on the day of her death.

Credit card records showed a purchase at a hardware store in Evergreen that morning.

A purchase that included a flashlight, batteries, and a crowbar.

She was going to the Harmon building, Sarah said with sudden certainty.

She suspected what Gary had done.

She was going to check, but the children were already dead by then.

Lynn pointed out it had been more than 2 months.

She didn’t know that.

Or maybe she did and she was looking for evidence.

Either way, Gary found out.

He couldn’t risk her discovering that room.

Lynn pulled up a map on her computer.

The accident happened on Highway 285 about 15 mi from the Harmon building.

If Helen was heading there and Gary intercepted her, forced her off the road.

It would look like an accident.

Icy roads, single vehicle collision.

No one would question it.

Sarah’s phone buzzed with a text from Dr.

Hollis at the medical examiner’s office.

Need to see you immediately.

Found something in Tyler’s remains.

They drove to the ME’s office in tense silence.

Dr.

Hollis met them at the door, her face grave.

I’ve been examining Tyler’s skeletal remains more carefully, she said, leading them to the examination room.

There’s damage to several ribs that I initially attributed to post-mortem degradation, but on closer inspection, I believe these fractures occurred permortem at or near the time of death.

She indicated several ribs on the right side of Tyler’s skeleton.

See these compression fractures? They’re consistent with someone performing CPR.

Sarah leaned closer.

Tyler tried to save one of his siblings.

That would be my interpretation.

The pattern suggests repeated chest compressions.

He would have been 14, possibly with some basic first aid knowledge from school.

When one of the younger children stopped breathing, he tried to revive them.

The image was almost unbearable.

A 14-year-old boy desperately trying to save his dying brother or sister in a dark sealed room, knowing help would never come.

There’s something else, Dr.

Hollis continued.

I found traces of ink on the bones of Tyler’s right hand.

I’ve sent samples to the lab, but I believe he wrote something.

Possibly on the wall, possibly in Sophia’s notebook after she could no longer write.

The apology, Sarah said, remembering the final entry in the diary.

I’m sorry.

I didn’t mean for this to happen.

Tyler was apologizing.

Lynn said softly.

He felt responsible.

He was the oldest.

He was supposed to protect them.

Dr.

Hollis nodded.

Based on the position of the remains and the evidence of the CPR attempt, I believe Tyler was the last to die.

He watched his brother and sister die, tried to save them, failed, and then wrote that final message before succumbing himself.

Sarah had to step outside for a moment, overcome by the tragedy of it.

Three children trapped in darkness, dying slowly while their parents searched desperately.

Tyler Merik bearing the unbearable weight of responsibility, trying to keep his siblings alive, blaming himself when he couldn’t.

And somewhere Gary Pike had lived with the knowledge of what he’d done.

When she returned inside, Lynn was on the phone.

She hung up and turned to Sarah, her expression urgent.

Facial recognition got a hit.

Gary Pike was captured on security footage at the Harmon building demolition site on April 3rd, the day the bodies were discovered.

He was in the crowd of onlookers.

Sarah’s pulse quickened.

Is he still in the area? We don’t know.

But Sarah, there’s more.

We ran his photo through traffic cameras and security systems throughout Pinewood for the past week.

He’s been here for at least 5 days, possibly longer.

And we’ve placed him near three locations multiple times.

What locations? The Harmon building, the police station, Lynn paused.

And Rachel Merik’s apartment.

April 7th, 2024.

Rachel Merik’s apartment building stood on Elm Street, a modest three-story structure with 12 units.

Sarah and a team of four officers arrived just after midnight, moving quietly to avoid alerting anyone who might be watching.

“Agent Web had insisted on setting up a protective detail, but Rachel had refused to leave her home.

“I’ve run from this for 27 years,” she’d said.

“I’m not running anymore.

” Sarah knocked softly on apartment 2B.

Rachel answered immediately as if she’d been waiting by the door.

Her face was pale but determined.

“Is he out there?” she asked.

“We don’t know, but we have evidence that someone matching Gary Pike’s description has been in this area multiple times over the past week.

” Sarah entered the apartment, checking the windows.

“We’re positioning officers in the building and on the street.

If he comes back, we’ll know.

” Rachel moved to the window, looking out at the darkened street below.

Why would he come here after all these years? Why now? The discovery of the bodies, Sarah explained.

For someone like Gary Pike, if our profile is correct, the secret has defined his entire life.

Now that it’s been exposed, he might feel compelled to face it, to face you.

What does he want? We don’t know.

Maybe absolution.

Maybe he wants to explain himself, justify what he did, or maybe Sarah hesitated.

Maybe he wants to finish what he started, Rachel said quietly.

Sarah didn’t contradict her.

They discussed this possibility in the briefing that Gary Pike might view Rachel as unfinished business, the mother who’d escaped the fate of her children.

They sat in Rachel’s living room, the lights dimmed, waiting.

The apartment was filled with photographs of Tyler, Sophia, and Owen at various ages.

School pictures, vacation snapshots, casual moments captured in time.

Rachel had built a shrine to her lost children, their frozen smiles watching over her from every wall.

Hours passed.

Sarah’s radio crackled periodically with check-ins from the officers positioned around the building.

Nothing.

No movement.

No sign of anyone matching Pike’s description.

At 3:00 in the morning, Sarah’s phone buzzed.

A text from Lynn.

Security footage from library parking lot.

Pike was there 20 minutes ago.

The library.

Helen Pike’s former workplace.

Sarah stood abruptly.

I need to go.

Officer Martinez will stay with you.

Don’t open the door for anyone.

She drove to the Pinewood Library with her siren off, not wanting to alert Pike if he was still in the area.

The library had closed at 9, but the parking lot was illuminated by tall street lights.

Sarah parked and scanned the area, her hand on her weapon.

A figure stood near the library’s entrance, barely visible in the shadows, male, approximately 6t tall, wearing a dark jacket.

Sarah approached slowly, calling out, “Gary Pike, this is Detective Sarah Vance, Pinewood Police Department.

I need you to show me your hands.

” The figure turned and in the street lights glow, Sarah saw his face clearly for the first time.

Gary Pike had aged considerably from his last photograph.

His hair gray and thinning, his face deeply lined.

But his eyes, those intense hollow eyes were unmistakable.

I knew you’d find me eventually, he said, his voice from disuse.

His hands remained at his sides.

Put your hands where I can see them, Gary.

I’m not armed.

He raised his hands slowly, palms out.

I just wanted to see it one more time.

The library.

My mother worked here.

Sarah kept her distance.

Her weapon drawn but not aimed.

You’ve been watching the news.

You know we found them.

I saw the demolition on TV.

I thought I thought maybe enough time had passed that maybe they’d just tear it down and never know.

His voice broke.

But you found them.

Why are you here, Gary? I don’t know anymore.

I’ve been driving around Pinewood for days, trying to remember why I did it, trying to understand.

He looked at Sarah with eyes full of anguish.

I was supposed to protect them.

Protect them from what? From everything, from the world.

It’s not safe out there, you know.

People get hurt, children get taken, bad things happen.

He was rambling now, his words tumbling over each other.

I saw them playing in their yard and they were so happy, so innocent.

I wanted to keep them that way, safe.

Sarah’s radio crackled.

Backup was arriving, but she held up her hand, signaling them to stay back.

So, you took them.

You locked them in that room.

It was supposed to be temporary, just until I could make a better place for them, somewhere clean and bright and safe.

I brought them water, food.

I talked to them through the wall, told them it would be okay.

But it wasn’t okay, Gary.

They died.

All three of them.

His face crumpled.

My mother found out.

She went through my things, found the floor plans I’d drawn.

She said I was sick, that I needed help.

She threatened to go to the police.

He wiped at his eyes.

I couldn’t let her do that.

They would have taken the children away, put them back in the dangerous world.

So, you killed her.

I didn’t mean to.

We argued in her car.

She was driving to the Harmon building.

Said she was going to get them out.

I grabbed the wheel just to stop her.

The car went off the road.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

I sat there and watched her die.

And then I went back to the room, but I couldn’t open it.

Couldn’t face what I’d done.

You left them there.

You sealed them in and walked away.

I thought if I disappeared, if I just went away, maybe someone would find them.

Maybe they’d still be alive.

I checked the news every day for months, waiting to hear they’d been rescued, but there was nothing.

And I realized he broke down completely, falling to his knees.

I realized they were dead and it was my fault.

Sarah approached him carefully, her weapon still drawn.

Gary Pike, you’re under arrest for the murders of Tyler, Sophia, and Owen Merik, and for the murder of Helen Pike.

He didn’t resist as she handcuffed him.

I’ve been dead for 27 years, he said.

Ever since I sealed that wall.

In the back of Sarah’s patrol car, Gary Pike stared out the window at the passing streets of Pinewood.

Are you going to tell their mother? He asked.

Tell her what? That I never meant to hurt them.

That I thought I was saving them.

Sarah met his eyes in the rear view mirror.

She already knows her children are dead, Gary.

Nothing you say will change that, but maybe knowing why, knowing what happened to them will help her find some peace.

I used to watch her, you know, after I’d see her putting up missing posters, talking to reporters, searching.

I wanted to tell her so many times, but I couldn’t.

The words wouldn’t come.

They arrived at the station where Agent Webb and Chief Porter were waiting.

As Sarah led Gary inside, she saw Rachel Merik standing in the lobby, Officer Martinez beside her.

Rachel had insisted on coming despite Sarah’s protests.

Gary Pike saw her and stopped walking.

For a long moment, Mother and Killer faced each other across the station’s fluorescent lit space.

“I’m sorry,” Gary whispered.

“I’m so sorry.

” Rachel’s face was unreadable.

She studied him with the same intense focus she’d once used to memorize her children’s faces.

Then she spoke, her voice clear and strong.

You don’t get to apologize.

You don’t get to make this about your guilt or your pain.

My children died alone and terrified because of you.

You don’t get absolution.

Gary’s head dropped and he began to sob.

Sarah led him away to the holding cells where he would await formal charges.

In the conference room, Rachel sat with Sarah and Agent Lynn, listening as they explained what Gary had confessed.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t speak.

She simply listened, absorbing every detail of her children’s final days.

When they finished, she asked only one question.

Did they know I was looking for them? Sarah thought of Sophia’s diary entries, the desperate hope in every line.

Yes, they knew.

Tyler told them you’d come.

They believed in you until the very end.

Rachel nodded slowly.

Then they didn’t die thinking I’d abandoned them.

That’s something.

As dawn broke over Pinewood, Sarah stood at her office window, watching the town wake up.

For 27 years, a monster had walked these streets, carrying an unbearable secret.

Now he was in custody, and the Merrick children could finally rest.

But the question that haunted Sarah, the question she knew would haunt everyone involved, was whether justice served after 27 years meant anything at all.

Would Gary Pike’s conviction bring Rachel peace? Would it ease the pain of a mother who’d spent more than half her life searching for children who’d been dead all along? She didn’t have answers.

She only knew that the truth, however terrible, was better than endless uncertainty.

June 15th, 2024.

The psychiatric evaluation of Gary Pike took place over six weeks at the Colorado Mental Health Institute.

Dr.

Benjamin Cross, a forensic psychiatrist with 30 years of experience, conducted the interviews in a sterile white room with reinforced glass windows and a guard stationed outside.

Sarah attended several of these sessions, watching from behind one-way glass as Dr.

Cross methodically unraveled the psychology of a man who had killed four people and lived with that knowledge for nearly three decades.

“Tell me about the first time you saw the Merrick children,” Dr.

Cross said during the third session.

“Gary sat motionless in his chair, his hands folded on the table.

He’d lost weight since his arrest, his face gaunt and hollow.

It was summer, July, maybe August of 1997.

I was driving past their house and saw them playing in the yard.

The little boy, Owen, was laughing, just laughing at something his brother said.

And I thought, “That’s what innocence sounds like.

What did you do?” I started driving by every day, watching them, learning their routines.

The older boy, Tyler, was responsible, protective.

The girl, Sophia, was always reading.

Owen played with his cars.

Gary’s voice took on a distant quality.

I started thinking about how fragile they were, how easily they could be hurt.

And you wanted to prevent that? I wanted to preserve them, keep them safe from everything that could damage them.

He looked up at Dr.

Cross, his eyes pleading for understanding.

Have you ever seen something so perfect you wanted to put it in a glass case? Keep it exactly as it is forever.

Is that how you viewed the children? as objects to be preserved.

Gary flinched.

No, not objects.

They were real.

They had voices, personalities.

Sophia would sing sometimes in that room.

Owen would cry for his mother.

Tyler would tell them stories to keep them calm.

You could hear them.

I’d put my ear against the wall.

I’d listen to them.

Sometimes I’d talk back through the small panel.

I’d tell them it would be okay, that I was keeping them safe.

Dr.

Cross made a note, but you knew you were hurting them.

I didn’t think I was.

Not at first.

I brought them water, food.

I made sure they had a toilet, blankets.

I thought I was caring for them.

When did you realize they were dying? Gary’s composure cracked when I stopped hearing Owen’s voice.

It was day six, maybe seven.

Tyler was crying, begging me to help.

He said Owen wouldn’t wake up.

I wanted to open the wall, let them out, call for help, but I couldn’t.

My mother was getting suspicious.

She’d found drawings I’d made of the room.

She confronted me.

Tell me about your mother’s death.

The room fell silent for a long moment.

Gary stared at his hands as if seeing blood on them.

She said she was going to the Harmon building.

Said she knew what I’d done.

I followed her in my truck.

When she stopped at a red light, I got in her passenger seat.

We argued.

She was driving and screaming at me, saying I was sick, that I needed to be locked up.

His voice dropped.

I reached for the wheel.

I just wanted her to stop the car to listen.

But she jerked away from me, and we went off the road.

The car hit a tree.

Did you try to help her? She was already gone.

Her head.

There was blood.

Gary’s hands began to shake.

I sat there for maybe 10 minutes just staring at her.

Then I heard a car coming and I ran.

Made it looked like she’d been alone, like it was just an accident.

And the children.

And I knew I couldn’t go back.

If I opened that wall, if anyone found out what I’d done, I’d be arrested for my mother’s death, too.

So, I left Pinewood that night, drove to Boulder and started a new life, changed my name to Gary Brennan, paid cash for everything, took jobs that didn’t require background checks.

Dr.

Cross leaned forward.

For 27 years, you lived with the knowledge that three children died because of you.

How did you cope with that? I didn’t.

I just existed.

Every day was the same.

wake up, go to work, come home.

I didn’t have friends, didn’t have relationships.

I’d see children playing and I’d have to look away because all I could see was their faces.

Tyler, Sophia, Owen.

Tears streamed down his face.

I thought about suicide probably a thousand times, but that felt like an escape I didn’t deserve.

What made you return to Pinewood? I saw the demolition on the news.

The Harmon building was coming down.

I thought I don’t know what I thought.

Maybe that I needed to see it one last time to say goodbye to them.

Or maybe I wanted to be caught.

Maybe I’ve wanted that all along.

Sarah watched as Dr.

Cross concluded the session.

In his evaluation report, which she read later that day, he wrote, “Gary Pike presents with severe obsessive compulsive tendencies, delusional thinking characterized by a pathological need to protect through control and containment, and profound guilt that has resulted in a form of self-imposed psychological imprisonment.

His crimes were driven not by sadism or sexual gratification, but by a fundamentally broken understanding of care and safety.

He is in essence a man who destroyed what he claimed to love through the very act of trying to preserve it.

The trial began in August, drawing media attention from across the country.

The small Pinewood courthouse was packed daily with reporters, true crime enthusiasts, and local residents who remembered the Merrick children.

Gary Pike pleaded guilty to all charges.

Three counts of first-degree murder for Tyler, Sophia, and Owen Merik, and one count of seconddegree murder for Helen Pike.

His attorney argued for leniency based on mental illness.

But the prosecution, led by District Attorney Patricia Morrison, presented a devastating case built on Sophia’s diary entries, forensic evidence, and Gary’s own confession.

Rachel Merik attended every day of the trial, sitting in the front row with her sister beside her for support.

She never looked at Gary Pike directly, but he couldn’t stop looking at her.

Several times, he tried to speak to her across the courtroom, mouthing words that Sarah couldn’t make out.

Rachel’s face remained impassive, carved from stone.

On the fourth day, the prosecution presented Sophia’s diary entries, read aloud by a victim advocate.

The courtroom fell into absolute silence as the child’s words echoed off the walls.

Owen isn’t moving anymore.

Tyler says he’s just sleeping, but I know he’s not.

The man hasn’t come in 3 days.

We have one bottle of water left.

Tyler gave most of it to me.

He says, “Mom will come.

She has to come.

Please, Mom, please find us.

” Rachel’s composure finally broke.

She sobbed openly, her sister holding her as the words of her dying daughter filled the courtroom.

Several jurors were crying.

Even the judge had to pause the proceedings to compose himself.

Gary Pike sat with his head bowed, his entire body shaking.

The defense called Dr.

Cross to testify about Gary’s mental state, arguing that his delusional thinking at the time of the crimes should be considered as a mitigating factor.

But under cross-examination, Dr.

Cross had to admit that Gary had known his actions were wrong, evidenced by his elaborate planning, his attempts to hide what he’d done and his flight after his mother’s death.

He may have rationalized his behavior, Dr.

Cross testified, but he understood it was criminal.

That’s why he concealed it so carefully.

The jury deliberated for less than 4 hours.

Guilty on all counts.

At the sentencing hearing two weeks later, Rachel Merrick was given the opportunity to make a victim impact statement.

She stood at the podium, a frail woman in her 70s who had carried unbearable grief for more than half her life.

And she spoke directly to Gary Pike for the first time.

“You took everything from me,” she said, her voice steady and clear.

“You took my children, my husband, my life.

For 27 years, I searched for them.

I put up posters.

I called the police every week.

I never gave up hope that somehow somewhere they were alive and waiting for me to find them.

Gary tried to meet her eyes but couldn’t.

And all that time they were dead.

They were 2 miles from my house, sealed in a wall, and I walked past that building a hundred times, never knowing they were there.

Never knowing they’d called for me.

Never knowing my Tyler tried to save his brother and sister with his own hands.

Her voice broke, but she pushed forward.

You didn’t preserve them, Mr.

Pike.

You didn’t keep them safe.

You tortured them.

You murdered them.

And then you stole 27 years of my life by letting me hope they might still be found alive.

She paused, wiping her eyes.

My husband died without ever knowing what happened to our children.

That guilt is yours, too.

You killed him just as surely as if you’d put a gun to his head.

She took a breath.

I hope you live a very long life in prison, Mr.

Pike.

I hope you wake up every day and remember what you did.

I hope it haunts you the way it’s haunted me.

And I hope that when you finally die, you face those three children and have to explain yourself to them.

She returned to her seat, and the courtroom remained silent for a long moment.

Judge Raymond Carile looked down at Gary Pike from the bench, his expression stern.

Mr.

Pike, you have been found guilty of four counts of murder.

The evidence presented at trial reveals a crime of extraordinary cruelty, not through violence, but through prolonged suffering inflicted on three innocent children.

Your actions deprived those children of their lives, their futures, and their mother’s love.

You deprived Rachel Merik of the chance to say goodbye to her children, to bury them, to grieve properly.

The judge paused.

In consideration of your guilty plea and your cooperation with the investigation, I am sentencing you to four consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole.

You will spend the rest of your natural life in the custody of the Colorado Department of Corrections.

Gary Pike showed no reaction.

He simply nodded as if he’d expected nothing else.

As the baiffs led him away, he stopped near Rachel’s row and whispered, “I’m sorry.

” Rachel looked at him, then truly looked at him and said, “I know you are, but it doesn’t matter.

” September 21st, 2024.

The burial took place on a cool autumn morning.

The aspens around Pinewood Cemetery brilliant with gold.

27 years after their deaths, Tyler, Sophia, and Owen Merik were finally laid to rest.

Dr.

Hollis had completed her examination of the remains, and they’d been released to Rachel for burial.

Three small caskets, white with brass handles, were positioned over three graves next to David Merik’s headstone.

Rachel had chosen a plot with a view of the mountains, a place where the morning sun would reach them first.

Nearly 300 people attended the funeral.

Former classmates of the children, now adults with children of their own.

Teachers who’d never forgotten their missing students.

Neighbors from Ashwood Lane who’d searched the streets 27 years ago, and media representatives, though Chief Porter had insisted they remain at a respectful distance.

Sarah stood near the back, watching as Rachel approached each casket, placing a hand on the gleaming white surface.

She spoke to her children quietly, words meant only for them, making up for 27 years of stolen conversations.

Father Miguel from St.

Catherine’s Church conducted the service.

He spoke of innocence lost, of the mystery of suffering, of the hope of reunion in a better place.

His words were beautiful and inadequate, as all words were in the face of such tragedy.

When the caskets were lowered into the ground, Rachel threw a single rose onto each one.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t find you,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.

” Sarah felt tears on her own face.

She’d spent 27 years searching for these children.

And now that search was over.

The case was closed.

Gary Pike would spend the rest of his life in prison.

Justice, such as it was, had been served.

But standing in that cemetery watching a mother bury her children decades after their deaths, Sarah understood that closure was an illusion.

Some wounds never truly healed.

They just became part of who you were.

Scar tissue woven into the fabric of your life.

After the funeral, Sarah returned to the station to finalize the last of the paperwork.

The Merrick case file had grown to three thick binders documenting every aspect of the investigation from 1997 to 2024.

She added her final reports, then closed the last binder and placed it in the archive room.

Chief Porter found her there standing among rows of shelves containing decades of Pinewood’s history.

“You okay?” he asked.

Sarah nodded.

Just thinking about all the cases in here.

All the lives reduced to paper and photographs.

You gave Rachel answers.

That’s more than most families get.

Is it enough? Porter was quiet for a moment.

I don’t know, but it’s what we can do.

We can’t bring them back.

We can’t undo what happened.

We can just find the truth and hold people accountable.

Sarah thought about Gary Pike in his cell, about Rachel Merik going home to an empty apartment, about three children who never got to grow up.

Sometimes the truth is just more pain.

Maybe, but it’s real pain.

Honest pain, not the kind that comes from wondering and imagining and hoping for things that will never be.

The next day, Sarah drove to Rachel’s apartment.

She’d called ahead and Rachel had agreed to see her one last time.

The apartment was different.

Rachel had taken down many of the photographs of her children, though a few remained.

On the mantle sat three urns containing the ashes Rachel had chosen to keep before the burial.

She divided each child’s remains, she explained, so part of them would always be with her.

“I wanted to thank you,” Rachel said as they sat in the living room.

for never giving up, for remembering them when the rest of the world forgot.

I couldn’t forget, Sarah admitted.

I’ve carried this case with me for my entire career.

Those three faces were always in my mind.

Do you think they suffered? Rachel asked the question she’d been holding back.

At the end, Sarah had anticipated this and had consulted with Dr.

Hollis about how to answer honestly but compassionately.

The final stages of dehydration cause confusion, disorientation.

They likely slipped into unconsciousness before death.

Dr.

Hollis believes they didn’t suffer as much as we might fear.

“It was a small mercy and possibly not even entirely true, but it was what Rachel needed to hear.

” “Tyler tried to save them,” Rachel said, touching the urn that held her oldest son’s ashes.

“That’s so like him.

always the protector, always taking care of his brother and sister.

He loved them very much.

That much is clear from everything we found.

Rachel was quiet for a long moment, then asked, “Did you read the full diary?” Everything Sophia wrote.

“Yes,” she mentioned me, asking for me.

In almost every entry, she believed you’d find them right until the end.

They all did.

Fresh tears spilled down Rachel’s cheeks.

That makes it worse somehow.

Knowing they had faith in me, and I let them down.

You didn’t let them down, Rachel.

Gary Pike took them where you couldn’t follow.

He hid them where no one could find them.

You searched everywhere possible.

You never stopped looking.

But it wasn’t enough.

It was everything you could do.

And that has to be enough because it’s all any of us can do.

Before Sarah left, Rachel gave her something.

A small photograph of the three children taken in the summer of 1997.

Tyler, Sophia, and Owen smiled at the camera, frozen in a moment of happiness before the darkness came.

I want you to have this, Rachel said.

So you remember them the way they were, not the way he made them.

Sarah accepted the photograph, promising to keep it always.

That evening, Sarah sat in her own living room, the photograph propped on her desk.

She thought about the case, about all the pieces that had finally fallen into place, the hidden passage in the Merrick house, the secret room in the Harmon building, Gary Pike’s obsessive delusions, and his mother’s fatal attempt to stop him.

She thought about how close they’d come to never knowing if the Harmon building had been demolished without that wall being discovered.

If Marcus Chen’s sledgehammer had struck a few feet to the left or right, the Merrick children might have remained hidden forever.

Rachel would have died without ever knowing what happened to them.

Sometimes truth arrived by the thinnest margins.

Her phone rang.

It was Agent Lynn.

Sarah, I thought you’d want to know.

Gary Pike tried to hang himself in his cell last night.

The guards found him in time.

He’s in the prison hospital now.

Sarah absorbed this information without surprise.

Will he survive? Yes, they’re putting him on suicide watch.

After hanging up, Sarah wondered if Gary Pike’s survival was a mercy or a cruelty.

He’d said he wanted to die, that living with what he’d done was unbearable.

But Rachel had wanted him to live, to face his guilt every day, was forcing him to live its own form of justice.

She didn’t have answers.

She just knew that the case was over.

The truth was known and three children could finally rest.

Outside her window, the autumn evening settled over Pinewood.

In the cemetery on the edge of town, three white headstones caught the last light of the setting sun.

Their inscriptions were simple.

Tyler James Merik, 1983, 1997.

Beloved son and brother Sophia Grace Merik 1986 1997 forever in our hearts Owen Michael Merik 1989 1997 Gone too soon.

And beneath each name, Rachel had added the same epitap.

You were loved.

You were searched for.

You are remembered.

The pinewood vanishing had finally been solved, but its echoes would resonate through the small Colorado town for generations.

A reminder that darkness could hide in the most ordinary places, that evil could wear a human face, and that some losses were so profound they changed the very landscape of a life.

Sarah closed the case file one final time.

27 years, three children, one truth, finally revealed.

One year after the discovery of the Merik children’s remains, Pinewood held a memorial ceremony at the new community center that now stood where the Harmon building once was.

Rachel Merik had worked with the town council to ensure the building included a remembrance garden, a quiet space with three cherry trees planted in honor of Tyler, Sophia, and Owen.

Sarah attended the dedication ceremony on a bright April morning, watching as Rachel unveiled the memorial plaque.

It bore the children’s names and a simple inscription in memory of those who were lost and those who never stopped searching.

Rachel had aged visibly over the past year.

But there was a piece in her face that hadn’t been there before.

The desperate, hunted look had faded, replaced by a quiet acceptance.

She would never be whole again.

No parent who’d lost a child could be.

But she’d found a way to carry her grief without letting it destroy her.

“She’s doing better,” Chief Porter said, standing beside Sarah.

“She volunteers at the community center now, works with missing children’s organizations, turns her pain into purpose.

” Sarah nodded.

It was what survivors did.

They found meaning in the meaningless built light from darkness transformed suffering into service.

Gary Pike remained in the maximum security unit of the Colorado State Penitentiary, isolated for his own protection.

Other inmates had a particular hatred for child killers, and he’d already survived two attempts on his life.

He spent 23 hours a day in his cell, alone with his thoughts and his guilt.

Dr.

Cross visited him periodically, documenting his psychological deterioration for a book on the long-term effects of guilt.

Gary had stopped speaking almost entirely, sitting in silence and staring at the wall.

When he did speak, it was only to ask if Rachel Merrick was all right, if she’d found peace.

He would never receive an answer.

The house on Ashwood Lane had been torn down 6 months after the trial.

the property purchased by the town and converted into a small park.

Rachel had insisted on this, not wanting another family to live in the place where her children had spent their last morning.

The park featured a playground where children laughed and played, their joy a counterpoint to the tragedy that had occurred there.

Sarah had retired from the Pinewood Police Department in January, her 28 years of service concluded.

She’d solved her last case, the one that had haunted her longest.

There seemed no better time to step away, but she couldn’t quite leave it behind.

She’d started working with cold case organizations, applying her experience to other families, still searching for answers.

Every case reminded her of Rachel Merik, of the desperate hope that sustained people through impossible circumstances.

As the memorial ceremony concluded and the crowd dispersed, Sarah approached Rachel.

They’d maintained contact over the past year, meeting for coffee occasionally.

Two women bound together by a case that had defined both their lives.

How are you? Sarah asked.

Rachel smiled softly.

Some days are harder than others, but I know where they are now.

I can visit them.

I can talk to them.

That’s more than I had for 27 years.

You’ve done something remarkable with this memorial.

I wanted something beautiful to come from something so terrible.

I wanted their names to mean more than just a tragedy.

Rachel looked at the three cherry trees, their branches covered in delicate pink blossoms.

Every spring these trees will bloom.

Every spring people will sit here and enjoy the beauty.

and maybe they’ll read the plaque and remember three children who deserved so much more than they got.

Sarah placed a hand on Rachel’s shoulder.

They’re remembered.

You made sure of that.

As Sarah drove out of Pinewood that afternoon, heading back to Denver and the next chapter of her life, she thought about all the people touched by this case.

the construction worker who’d found the room.

The medical examiner who’d treated the children’s remains with such care, the document examiner who’d recovered Sophia’s words, the FBI agents who’d helped track down Gary Pike, the entire community that had rallied around Rachel Merik.

Evil had visited Pinewood on an October evening in 1997, and it had stolen three innocent lives.

But it hadn’t won.

Love had proved stronger.

A mother’s love that sustained her through 27 years of searching.

A community’s love that never forgot.

And the love of three children for each other that had sustained them even in their darkest hours.

The photograph Rachel had given Sarah sat on her dashboard.

Three smiling faces frozen in time.

She’d keep that photograph always, a reminder of why she’d become a detective.

Why she dedicated her life to finding the lost and speaking for the dead.

Tyler, Sophia, and Owen Merrick had been found at last.

Their story had ended in tragedy, but their memory would live on in the cherry trees that bloomed each spring, in the children who played in the park built where their house once stood, and in the hearts of everyone who’d fought to bring them home.

The case was closed.

The children were at rest, and somewhere in the mountains of Colorado, the autumn sun continued to rise and set, indifferent to human suffering, but beautiful nonetheless, a reminder that life persisted even in the face of unimaginable darkness.