John's arrival took longer than I anticipated.

I paced the dirt more times than I could count until I finally convinced myself to walk back up the hill and sit on the edge of the trail. My refusal to leave this area of the hiking trail was growing by the second. Not just because the butterfly led me here, but because the feeling in my gut urged me to stay.

For twenty minutes, I stared at the soil. The pink material was still knotted into the confinement of the space between the roots down the hill. As tempting as it was to grab it, I couldn't. There was a risk of contamination if I laid a hand on it before John got here. Though, the earth itself might've done that already.

"Angie! I got here as soon as I could. What's the emergency?" John speed-walked in my direction. I tried to jump up. When he realized this, he reached me fast enough to grab my hand and help me.

"Look, I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think there's something buried down there. I don't know what exactly. But I saw traces of something. Maybe a lead that could help you guys," I rushed out.

"What?" He blinked several times, eyes widened at my outburst. His eyes searched my face for answers. But he found nothing more than panic, fear, and doubt.

"Look"—I grabbed his shoulders, turning him to the side where we could both see down the hill—"down there."

"Angie, how would you know that?"

"I found. . . Just follow me." I rushed down the hill, ignoring John's pleas for me to come back. When I saw the torn piece of clothing come into view, I paused. Twigs and leaves snapped behind me as John's weight sped down the hill.

"Jesus, Angie. You're going to give me a heart attack one of these days—"

"Look there," I interrupted.

"What? What is it?" He threw his hands in the air. A scowl covered his face. But as soon as his eyes landed on what I found, he halted. His features began twisting from anger to something indescribable. He didn't say anything at first, only squinted.

"Is that what you were talking about? That looks like. . ." He swallowed, balling his fist at his side. "That looks like material from a little girl's shirt."

"I know," I said quietly. "It looks like familiar material. . ."

"Shit," he spat under his breath, "okay, let's get back up there."

"What? But—" I began.

"I mean it, Angie. Come on. Please." His tone said enough.

I didn't bother opening my mouth to try and retort. He looked anxious and scared. My heart skipped a beat the longer we took to walk back up the hill. He was quiet the entire way. Meanwhile, I couldn't stop myself from glancing back every few seconds.

When we reached the trail again, he pulled his walkie-talkie from his belt and began saying codes into the speaker, followed by, "I'm going to need backup."

"Are you going to search the area?" I asked.

He didn't answer my question, instead avoided it. "Angie, you shouldn't be out here. You should go home."

"But I want to stay!" I huffed.

"Angie, please. Just please, for the love of God, do not argue with me on this one. It'd make me feel much better if you were home, safe and sound. The longer you're out here, the worse the feeling in my gut gets. When the cops get here, it'll be really busy. I can't keep an eye on you. And you're not even supposed to be beyond the crime scene tape." He sighed heavily, clearly frustrated with my lack of cooperation.

My frown deepened. "Do you think that could've belonged to one of the missing children? Like for sure?" I knew it was true. It had to be. The butterfly led me here. Even if the child was not buried in that specific spot, the piece of clothing proved she was in close proximity. I wanted to pick at John's brain, though, to see what he was thinking.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "But, please, please go home, Angie."

"I-I . . . I don't want to be home alone," I admitted.

I thought back to the incident that happened the last time I was home alone. Whether someone was really trying to break into the backdoor or not still remained a mystery. Or whether it was even a person still hung in the air too. I was convinced otherwise.

John studied my face closely. His mouth parted slightly as if he was trying to find the right words to say.

Finally, he spoke, "All right, listen, Angie. When the chief gets here, I'll have him have an officer escort you home. Or you can wait in the car for me until I'm done here, then we can drive home together, and an officer can just drive your car home behind us. Does that sound good?"

"Mhm." I nodded. We stood in silence before static from his walkie-talkie cut through.

"Roger that," a voice spoke. Before the voice could say anything else, the static was back. This time, it hadn't stopped.

"What the hell is wrong with this walkie-talkie now?" John muttered and turned the switch on the walkie-talkie. His attempts to fix the channel weren't working.

I furrowed my eyebrows. Then, I heard breathing. John continued to fight with the walkie-talkie as if it weren't even there. Could he not hear it? Maybe it was too low. My eyes widened when the breathing grew heavier. I could almost hear cries slipping out from under the breaths.

The pit of my stomach collapsed at the realization. His walkie-talkie wasn't going through dysfunction. It was a message for me.

"John, it's getting really cool out here. I'm going to go sit in the car."

His gaze found mine. Then, he eyed the barely thick sweater I was wearing. "Okay, come on, I'll walk you to the car. Let's hurry." He reached his hand out, grabbing mine. I took it without hesitation.

* * *

I had lost count of how long I'd been twisting my wedding band around my finger. It was a subconscious habit I formed when John and I married. But I guess it was better than scratching open my skin. That was another bad habit of mine.

John and Cory tried to help me break that habit, but the only thing that worked was to keep my hands busy with something like a stress ball. My therapist gave me one when I was in the seventh grade. I didn't think it helped much. But my parents saw the change in my behavior, so they insisted I continue using it.

Policemen and detectives surrounded my car. They walked in and out of the park. I couldn't really tell what was going on. But it must've been something big because there were quite a few of them.

Suddenly, I felt small. I'd always been a measly five foot, six inches. It confused me when I was younger. I was two inches above the average female height, so I'd been called short by taller people and tall by shorter people. I was stuck in the middle. And there was no way out.

"The search for little nine-year-old Helena Byers continues. She was last seen on August 17th at a birthday party in West Greenbush Park, reported missing by her mother. If you have any information, please call crime stoppers—" The radio station turned on, causing my head to whip away from the window.

The noise had been so loud I nearly jumped out of my skin. Wait, on August 17th? We were in the middle of October, nearly working our way into Halloween next week. I hadn't heard about any missing children reports during that week. I kept quiet and listened closely to the radio.

The more the voice spoke, the more I began to think. There was something odd about that person's voice. It sounded familiar. It almost sounded like . . . Matthew Turner! I remembered watching him on my TV every morning before John and I left for work. But Matthew Turner was fired last year for drug abuse. He, himself, became a highlight on the news. So, there was no way he could have been reporting this incident right now.

Then, the static switched the station.

"I can't believe s-someone would take our little girl. That someone would . . . harm a child. Why would anyone do that? What the hell is wrong with people!?" There were sniffles followed by a woman's voice. It sounded as if she was speaking on a microphone, the way her cries muffled in and out.

"Please, please, please"—the woman's voice strained—"bring my little girl back to me. I just want my little girl home. And if you're out there, Helena . . . Mommy loves you. We miss you so much." The radio shut off.

I still wasn't understanding the dates. Could this have possibly been an old report? My head found the window again as I let my eyes gaze at the entrance of the park.

"Mary. . ." I whispered under my breath. I shot up as what I said sunk in. "Mary, you're here! Okay, okay, so Helena Byers. Is that what you're trying to tell me? That Helena Byers' remains are buried here?"

When it was clear I wasn't going to get more of an answer than the radio station switching back and forth, I pulled out my phone. This was as insane as my thoughts were ever going to get. My father used to scare me with stories about spirits when I was younger, but as I got older, I brushed them off. I never believed a word he said again. But I knew when someone was trying to grab my attention. Or something in this case.

So far, it was always the same form of contact, something having to do with static and/or radio frequency. Whether it be a cellular device, a car radio, a television, or something else. I'd heard what I assumed was her voice once before, but everything else came in the form of riddles. And they were pieced together by past events.

If this truly was her spirit, she could have chased after her parents and warned them of whatever this was. I couldn't figure out why I, of all people, had been chosen to bear the bad news. None of this started until I found . . . her bones. The realization settled in. Mary's spirit is attached to her bones, my mind yelled. It wasn't the most insane thought, right? There was also the butterfly. Was it a signal? Was it a sign?

A sigh slipped past my lips.

"Helena Byers was last seen in a pair of light blue overalls with a bun in her hair and a pink shirt. . ." I stopped reading as I noticed the familiar pink shirt. I knew I recognized it. It was much cleaner but had the same design drawn across it as the one buried in the roots.

"Wait a second. This would mean Helena Byers' body was buried in the same place she was snatched from. What?" I mumbled aloud. Shit, that made no sense. And if that was the case, it was fucked up to another extent.

Cory's notes were right. He must not have known which little girl was here, but somehow, he'd known one of them would be here. It made me wonder what other notes he had stored away might've been correct. Wait. This meant there was a chance to finish the map. . .

I could finish what Cory started. He had a list of possible suspects, clues, and possible locations. They were all written in his journal. The locations seemed to connect in some way, somehow. Damn, John specifically asked me not to insert myself any further in this case, though.

Guilt began to stir in my chest. Tucking my bottom lip in between my teeth, I breathed out a low sigh. This was my only chance, though. I could fulfill what Cory had his heart set on figuring out if I did this. And then, there were Mary's bones, which was a little girl counting on me as I saw it. It didn't seem like she was going to go away any time soon either.