Chapter 6 - The Unmarked Cabin
The tires hydroplaned slightly as Miller jerked the truck off the state route, cutting deep into the logging roads of Blackwood Ridge. Branches whipped violently against the windshield, stripping pine needles and rain into the wipers. If Vance had already surrounded Judge Alvarez’s residence, the corruption ran far deeper than the local precinct; it meant the county prosecutor’s office had already signed off on Marcus’s silence.
Liam sat frozen, his miniature combat boots tucked under his knees. ""Are we going to Aunt Sarah’s?""
""No,"" Miller answered, his eyes scanning the pitch-black treeline. ""Aunt Sarah’s house is the first place they’ll check. We’re going somewhere nobody looks anymore.""
Three miles up an unpaved logging grade stood an abandoned fire lookout cabin Marcus and Miller had used during their hunting trips years before the department fractured. It had no electricity, no running water, and no cellular footprint—a dead zone in the satellite grids.
Miller killed the engine fifty yards from the cabin, allowing the truck to coast silently beneath a canopy of dense weeping hemlocks. He killed the dashboard lights and sat in complete darkness for two minutes, listening over the rhythmic patter of rain on the cab's tin roof. Nothing moved. No headlights appeared in the valley below.
""Out, quiet as a mouse,"" Miller whispered.
He lifted Liam down into the mud. The boy didn't complain, didn't whimper; he simply grabbed Miller’s index finger with his small, freezing hand. Inside the cabin, the air was musty with dry rot and old woodsmoke. Miller drew the heavy canvas curtains across the windows before flicking on a low-lumen red tactical penlight.
He set Liam on an old wooden cot and knelt before him. ""Let me see the picture again.""
Liam handed it over carefully. Miller examined the border under the red beam. In the lower corner, etched faintly in the chemical emulsion, was a time stamp: 02:14 AM - OCT 14. That was twelve hours before the evidence locker fire was reported, but more importantly, there was a reflection in the sedan's side mirror.
Miller leaned closer, squinting. Reflected in the glass was a face holding the camera.
It wasn't Marcus Vance.
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It was Officer Miller’s own rookie partner, Tommy Cole, who had allegedly died inside the fire that very afternoon.
Before Miller could process the revelation, a floorboard groaned directly above them in the dark attic loft.
