Danielle Morgan, who was 23 years old at the time, left home for a short drive on a Sunday in June 1998. She never returned. There was no sign of her black Camaro.
There were no witnesses, no wreckage, and no proof that she ever left town. Her family didn’t know what to do for 12 years. In 2010, a sealed storage facility was put up for auction 200 miles distant.
Danielle’s Camaro was inside, covered in dust, with the keys still in the ignition, a bullet hole in the hood, and something hidden within. What they found would upset the whole state and eventually make the cops face the truth about what happened that day. The last picture of Danielle Morgan shows her grinning in the driveway, one hand on the door of her black Camaro and the other holding a Styrofoam cup.
It’s hazy and was probably taken by her brother Mason from across the yard. June 21, 1998. A Sunday.
The sky is clear and there is no wind. Danielle was 23 years old. At about 1:15 p.m., she exited the residence. She was wearing jeans, a white tank top, and her favorite pair of sunglasses, which had tiny red hearts on the sides and black frames.
She informed her parents that she was going to town to get coffee with a buddy. It was a short excursion. She didn’t bring a bag.
She never returned. At first, it was easy to brush off. Her acquaintance might have encountered difficulties with her car.
They might have driven to a different place. It’s possible that she met someone. Her phone rang at 5 p.m.
Mason was strolling along County Road 12 with a flashlight by 7. The sheriff had been called by 10. By dawn, her Camaro was officially gone.
Danielle was too. The first investigation was just what you’d expect in a peaceful southern town where everyone said nothing untoward ever happened. There were no skid marks, no damaged railing, no wallet thrown in a ditch, and no sign of the Camaro.
It was as if she had been deleted in the middle of a sentence. Clay Harrell, the man she was meant to meet, gave a clean testimony. He stated Danielle had never shown up, that they hadn’t spoken in weeks, that they were on good terms even though they had broken up three months previously and Danielle had ceased answering his calls. At that time, Clay was 27.
Son of a businessman, clean-cut, engaged in the church, and managed a small auto body shop at the time. Later, there were rental flats, short-term storage, and political donations. He cried on TV once, gave interviews, put together a candlelight vigil for her birthday, and stated she was the nicest girl he had ever met.
And then time went on, like it always does. By the year 2000, Danielle’s name had gone from the front page to a bumper sticker. By 2004, Clay Harrell owned three homes in two counties and had quietly sold the storage space where her automobile would be recovered later.
Mason Morgan never stopped gazing, not in the sense that TV interviewees and internet poster boys do, but in a slow burn way. He looked through police records, traveled down ancient roads, and took pictures of cars at junkyards. He called every time he saw a Camaro at an impound yard or on the side of the road.
He kept her picture in his wallet till the edges turned yellow. Then, in May 2010, a contractor named Vince Ramirez won a storage site that had been foreclosed on at an overdue tax auction two towns south. He paid $112.60 for the corroded unit and everything within.
He thought he would get old tires and maybe a mattress. He spotted a 1997 black Camaro instead, hidden behind a pile of tarps and rotting cardboard boxes. It was sealed up, covered in thick dust, and locked from the outside with a rusty padlock. The keys were still in the car.
The police were called. Vin’s car matched the one that Danielle was missing. There were no traces of blood or forced entry.
The car is almost flawless, except for one thing. There was a small, clean bullet hole in the middle of the hood, just above the insignia. Next to it, someone had drawn a smiley face in the dust with their finger. Mason didn’t say anything for over a minute after he saw the picture.
He just looked at it and then said, “That’s her.” That’s the automobile. And suddenly it got quieter.
Someone cleaned it because he knew Danielle and the Camaro. She cleaned it every Saturday and kept the inside clean. But that layer of dust wasn’t 12 years’ worth.
It seemed like three or four, at most. This showed that someone had moved the automobile, maybe even cleaned it, and definitely touched it after the official search had concluded. The police checked the automobile for fingerprints and discovered some on the driver’s door and trunk. None of them are conclusive.
The passenger seat belt was fastened. When they let it go, one long golden hair came out. Danielle’s color.
The glove box wouldn’t open. The trunk was empty. Mason spotted something strange under the driver’s seat, deep down in the carpet mat.
A cheap silver lighter. No initials, no marks. Danielle did not smoke.
They ran the plates and looked up who owned them. But there was no record of anyone else ever owning the Camaro. No transfer.
No holding. No logs for towing. And what about the storage unit? A property shell had possessed it.
Blackridge Partners, LLC. Registered to a P.O. Box. Mason drove to the lot himself, walked the gravel rows, and chatted to the maintenance person, who merely shrugged and claimed the unit has been sealed since before I started working here.
He has been there for six years. When Mason knocked on Clay Harrell’s office door, he wasn’t shocked. Didn’t even move.
He said, “I thought they would eventually find it.” Just like that. Clay Harrell relaxed back in his office chair as if Mason hadn’t just put a ghost on his desk.
Clay responded, “That car’s been gone for twelve years.” What do you need from me now? Mason stayed on his feet. He didn’t sit down when he was offered a seat.
Didn’t grin. You told the cops you hadn’t seen Danielle since May and that you weren’t close. Clay nodded once, slowly.
Yes, that’s right. Mason took out a snapshot that he had printed the night before from his jacket pocket. It showed Danielle standing outside a gas station on Route 6 three days before she went missing. Clay Harrell was next to her, with his arm on her shoulder and a smile on his face.
Clay’s face moved. He inquired whether that was supposed to be me. The photo is grainy.
Anyone could be it. Mason said, “You’re wearing the same watch you have on right now.” Clay sighed and didn’t look down.
He stated she asked for a ride that day. Didn’t mean anything. Why did you lie about it back then? Mason wanted to know.
Clay didn’t say anything. Mason moved closer and spoke more softly. Wasn’t she scared? This time, Clay’s smile was tight.
Mason, you know what Danielle loves to do. Make things happen. Talk to people…
She thought she was going to tell on someone. She thought she was important. Mason tightened his jaw.
Yes, she did. Clay told him to go away. Son, I don’t know where she went, but I can tell you what didn’t happen.
She wasn’t killed, and she definitely wasn’t abducted. He rose up and brushed the dust off his pants. She left in her car.
It’s possible that she met someone. It’s possible she didn’t want to be found. He patted Mason on the arm in a way that made him feel bad.
You should stop worrying about it. Mason stayed still. Have you ever been in the storage unit? Clay blinked once and then smiled again.
Why would I? Ten minutes later, Mason was back in his truck with the door closed and his fists on the wheel. His phone rang in the console. A note from Officer Langley, one of the few deputies who still answered his calls.
The findings of the fingerprints came back. Part of the trunk latch matches Danielle. The passenger side matched an unknown man.
The rest was smeared. Mason looked at the TV with a clenched jaw. Man whose name is not known.
Side for passengers. People couldn’t drive Danielle’s automobile. That’s it.
He pulled over to the side of the road and called. “Langley,” came the voice. Mason said it wasn’t parked there the whole time.
That unit was tidy. The tarp that was covering it wasn’t even ripped. Langley let out a breath.
Do you believe someone relocated it not too long ago? I believe someone hit it. I believe someone came back to look at it. There was a break.
Langley then stated, “We can’t reopen the case unless you have something solid.” Mason said, “I’ll get it.” He went back to the storage unit that night with a crowbar.
Police had already unlocked the doors of the Camaro, but the glovebox was still stuck. They didn’t make it happen. Not yet.
Mason turned on his flashlight and got into the driver’s seat. The air smelt like dust and mold, but the leather still looked good. The smell of her perfume had long ago faded, yet the air still felt like it belonged to her.
He pushed the crowbar under the latch on the glovebox and leaned in. With a crack, the compartment opened. A worn-out cassette tape and a folded piece of paper sealed in plastic were inside.
A receipt from a petrol station on June 21, 1998, at 1:42 p.m., only 27 minutes after Danielle left home. The receipt showed $5.43, which was enough to buy one Coke, one snack, and a gallon of gas. There was a name, Clay, scribbled by hand on the back.
Mason looked at the name, the plastic, and the date. He couldn’t breathe. That wasn’t a stranger.
That was Clay Harrell, the guy who just informed him she didn’t mean anything to him. He put the cassette tape in a player he had with him. It made a hissing sound for a short time.
Then a voice came through, soft and shaky, as if it had been recorded in a room with an echo. Danielle. I don’t know if this will go anywhere.
I need people to know that I tried, though. I found things I shouldn’t have. I believe Clay knows.
I think he’s going to do something, I think. Please inform Mason that I didn’t just leave. I didn’t? It sounded like someone yanked the tape out in the middle of a sentence.
Mason sat still, with cold sweat on his neck. Clay had not told the truth. Danielle had known it.
And she had left him proof. And the worst part was that the car had been disguised on purpose. Someone had sealed her last note within, assuming it would never be heard.
He peered up at the dirty windshield of the Camaro. There, in the dirt next to the bullet hole, was the smiley face again, looking fresher than it should have been, as if someone had just been there. That night, Mason didn’t sleep.
He sat in the cab of his vehicle outside the storage building and looked at the Camaro through the chain-link fence. The crowbar hurt his knuckles. The recorder was next to him on the seat.
He played it again every now and again. Danielle’s voice, software certain, still scared. If something happens to me.
He wasn’t merely mad by morning. He was prepared. He drove right to the county sheriff’s office and strolled in with the tape, the letter, and the gas receipt.
Officer Langley met him in the parking lot on the side. You broke into the glove box? Langley asked. Mason said, “I opened my sister’s car.”
Langley heard the tape twice. His foot tapped the floor, but his face didn’t move. He let out a breath when it was over.
Langley says she names Clay. On file. Mason nodded.
And it’s not only her name on the receipt. It’s her dread. You can sense it.
Langley’s forehead wrinkled. We’ll do a vocal analysis, record this, and keep it safe. Mason said no.
They’ll always sit on it, as they always do. I want this to go away. Langley raised a hand.
Mason. Pay attention. Clay has power.
Deals on land. People who work in City Hall are friends. We need more if we’re going to provide this to the D.A.
Mason squinted his eyes. How much more do you need when the girl’s voice tells you who did it? Langley didn’t say anything. That night, Mason went home and took out the box of old family photos.
Three days before she disappeared, he found the original picture of Danielle leaning on her Camaro. A silver SUV was in the background, a car he hadn’t seen before. He scanned it in and got closer.
There were no plates on the SUV parked across the street. But the bumper sticker looked like the ones that Bayline Freight, a trucking company that is no longer in business, used. Danielle had written about them in an old diary. Mason began to cross-reference.
He found it by 1 a.m. Bayline Freight went out of business in 2002. In 1998, Clay Harrell was the only logistics coordinator in town.
Danielle had heard of the company, and Clay had worked there. He had gotten out before they fell apart. He probably deleted his name from every file he could find, but Mason printed everything.
He built a wall. Clay. Danielle.
Bayline. The Camaro. The cassette.
It wasn’t by chance. It was linked. The next morning, Mason got a call from the manager of the storage unit, not Langley or the sheriff.
The man said, “Hey.” There was some movement in the rear last night. Close to Unit 19.
The camera isn’t very good, but someone was there. Mason’s stomach dropped. He drove right over.
The lock was still in place. But there was something different. The tarp inside has been adjusted a little bit.
The door to the driver’s side had been opened. Someone had written two words in the dust on the windshield, directly above the happy face. Stay away…
Mason turned around and went back to his truck. He didn’t call the police. He called Ellie Mazur, the only reporter who had written about Danielle’s case in 1998 and never stopped.
He spoke five words. They’re attempting to kill her. And she said two back.
Not anymore. The last time Mason saw Ellie Mazur, she was standing in their driveway in 1998, shaking her hands and holding a notepad. She met him at the Waffle House along I-90. He still had the same steel eyes and half-broken voice.
Did you bring it? She asked. Mason pushed the envelope across the table. The picture, the receipt, and a digital copy of the tape are all included.
She didn’t ask, she just plugged in her headphones and hit play. It only took a minute. Danielle’s words stood out above the sound of forks clinking and the grill humming behind them.
Ellie’s jaw got tight. She slowly took off the headphones as it was over. She whispered, “Jesus Christ.”
Mason didn’t say anything. She opened the folder and looked at the receipt from the gas station. She bought this just before she disappeared? He nodded.
And what is the name? Clay. Did she write it? I would stake my life on it. Ellie’s eyes moved up.
You already are. They were quiet for a moment. Mason then leaned forward.
Do you recall that old trucking business? Bayline Freight? Ellie lifted her eyebrows. The one that bent? What do you think? There was Clay. Logistics.
Ellie blinked. Danielle was aware. Mason stated.
She was attempting to find out something about them. She thought something was off. Ellie took out her phone.
I still have old clippings. There were stories going around. Shipments that went to the wrong place.
Hires that are not on the books. A driver who couldn’t be found. But it was all blamed on bad record-keeping.
Mason’s voice got lower. Or buried. Mason opened the shoebox that Danielle used to keep under her bed, but now it’s in a closet.
He hadn’t touched it in a long time. There were old pictures, ticket stubs, scribbled comments, one ripped receipt from a used bookstore, and a roll of undeveloped film inside. Danielle wrote the label on the roll.
Bayline. June. His heart raced.
Ellie asked a picture lab in Little Rock for a favor. They made the negatives in three hours. The pictures came back in strips that were hard to see but still there.
Most were pictures of parking lots. Trucks. Trailers.
A few workers. None that I can see right away. Then Mason stopped on the sixth frame.
It showed Danielle’s Camaro parked next to a cargo warehouse. Clay Harrell was leaning against a loading dock across from it. Ellie looked at it.
Where did this come from? Mason claimed it was the lot on Route 9. The old site of Bayline. In 2002, it was taken down.
With her finger, she traced the outline of Clay’s body. Danielle got this. Or someone else gave it to her.
The last photo strip showed something much odd. A man with a security badge and what seemed like a clipboard was standing near one of the trailers. But his face was blurry when he turned.
Danielle had written on the back of the picture, “Same guy again.” I also saw him near Clay’s store. Ellie tapped the line.
Someone was following her. Mason didn’t go home that night. He drove to Clay’s former body shop, which is now closed and overgrown, with weeds growing up to the bumper of a rusty flatbed truck in the back.
He came out with a flashlight and walked around the outside. There was a burned-out storage shed behind the garage. The roof had mostly fallen down.
Mason saw something metal within, under some shattered wood. A file cabinet with a dent in it that is partially melted. He made the drawer open.
There was paper inside that had been ruined by water, which was mostly unusable. There was one sheet that was still there, a Bayline manifest from two days before Danielle went missing. It showed an outgoing shipment traveling via unit number nineteen, which is the same storage number where her Camaro was eventually located.
His hands were shaking. He read it one more time. Clay has utilized that unit earlier.
He backed away from the drawer, his heart racing and his ears ringing in the calm. He froze when he heard a dry crack behind him. Mason turned around slowly.
There was a shadow at the edge of the trees, just past the shed’s broken wall. Too far away to see well, yet still watching. He raised his flashlight, but by the time the light hit the woods, whomever it was was gone.
Mason shut the doors of the truck and looked at the folder on the passenger seat. Danielle’s tape. The bill.
The picture of Clay at the dock. And now this. There is a paper trail from Bayline to the exact unit where her car was recovered.
He spoke it out loud, but no one heard him. He was fully aware of what he was doing. Three days later, at 3:17 a.m., an anonymous email came to Ellie’s inbox. There is no subject line.
No text in the body. There is only one file attached, and it is called you-don’t-know-half-of-it-dot-mp4. She didn’t open it right away.
First, she called Mason. They met at her office on the second floor of the old tax firm. The room still smelled like toner and lemon-scented Lysol. The video was fuzzy.
Shaky. It seemed like it was filmed through a broken phone screen. A woman’s voice murmured behind the camera.
He tells them to use alternative names. Said she was a troublemaker. Said she was too curious.
After after, the frame moved and showed what appeared like the back of a man’s head for a short time. Hair that is gray. Lighting for the warehouse.
A clipboard. There was another voice. Clear.
Calm. Managed. No pictures.
No questions. Just put her in the car. Then static…
Then black. Mason didn’t say anything for almost a whole minute. Ellie leaned forward and held her breath.
That voice? Mason’s jaw was stuck. His knuckles turned white around the arm of the chair. That’s Clay.
Officer Langley got the footage from them. Six hours later, he called them back. Not able to use it.
No date and time. There is no way to find out who videotaped it. But Mason stated you heard his voice.
Langley stopped. It makes you think. But not enough.
What would be enough? Ellie lost it. Langley did not respond. Mason sat in his garage later that night, staring at the open glove box of the Camaro.
He opened Danielle’s cassette again and played the last five seconds. Please tell Mason that I didn’t simply go. No, I didn’t.
The tape made a quiet click. Nothing else. But Mason rewound it and played it again, and this time he heard a slight burst of static immediately before it ended.
Something in the background. He turned up the sound on his laptop and used a trial version of an editing tool that Ellie had supplied him to get rid of the noise. A barely audible click was coming from under her voice.
Metal against metal. Then a voice from far away. Don’t leave that in the car.
Different tone. Not Clay’s voice. Another person.
He put the sound through a transcription. The phrase matched up with a different male voice. Tone: angry.
Older. Southern accent. It wasn’t Clay.
Someone Clay was with. A different accomplice. Maybe the person who locked the glove box.
The person who drove the Camaro to the apartment might be the one. No matter who it was. He was alive in 1998 and committed a mistake.
Mason drove back to the storage facility, parked two blocks away, and walked down the gravel alley behind it. This time, he wasn’t looking at the Camaro. He was keeping an eye on the footprints and the back gate.
Three sets. New. One hefty.
One narrow. One is dragging. Like a limp.
He snapped pictures. Used a tape line to measure the prints. Gave them to Ellie.
She showed them to a forensic expert. The hefty sets Clay. The boot print looks like a picture of him during a groundbreaking event in 2005.
We don’t know who the limped one is. Mason understood what that meant. Clay wasn’t working by himself.
Clay Harrell called him the next day. Number for private use. Mason let it go to voicemail.
Clay’s voice sounded steady, almost funny. Mason, you keep chasing ghosts. You’re going to discover one that fights back.
If you dig up the past, someone will get injured. Mason saved the file and sent it to Ellie. No message.
Just a line in the subject. The mask is slipping. That night, they met again, this time at a closed diner north of town.
Ellie had brought something different. A piece of news from 1995. One Mason had never seen.
Headline: Local Girl Goes Missing After a Party at River Bend Danielle wasn’t her name. Riley DeWitt was 17 years old.
Disappeared following a summer campfire thrown by Bayline freight workers. The case went nowhere. And what about the deputy who took the first report? Cousin of Clay Harrell.
Mason leaned back in the booth. How many are there? Ellie’s voice was soft. Too many.
She pushed a packet toward him. There are two additional reports of missing people inside. Both of them are young women.
Both are inside five counties. They both went missing between 1995 and 1999. Each of them had a loose connection to Bayline, the trucking company, or Clay’s friends.
Like Danielle, they all had “voluntary disappearances” written on their records. Mason looked at the reports. Danielle wasn’t the only thing on their minds anymore.
Clay had not just lied. He had made a pipeline. Mason traveled to Clay Harrell’s old neighborhood the next day, but he didn’t go to see him.
Not yet. He was sitting across the street from the house where Clay grew up and where his cousin currently lives. The same cracked driveway.
Same pole for the flag. New pickup truck out front. Same license plate.
H5A-32T. Mason wrote it down. Then he drove east to a used record store that no one went to anymore.
He met a woman named Sierra inside. Ellie had located her through past blog posts. Sierra had placed a comment on Danielle’s missing persons article in 1998, but it was detected and deleted. He used to follow me around too.
Stop before you become like her. No one listened back then. She was sitting across from Mason with a chipped tea mug and her hands were shaking.
She said she worked at Bayline for six months. Stock. Nothing big.
And you knew Clay? Mason wanted to know. She nodded, looking down. Did everyone do it? She thought for a moment and then said, “He was the kind of person who made you feel seen.”
Until you attempted to go. Mason stood still. Sierra looked up.
Danielle asked me about some of the shipments once, like why we didn’t write down what was in the trailers. I told her to be careful. Mason leaned in.
Did Clay make you feel scared? She took a drink. He didn’t need to. Two days after I quit, his cousin arrived to my flat.
Said it would be safer for me to stay quiet. Mason’s blood ran cold. Sierra took an old notebook with curled edges out of her bag.
The pages turned yellow. She said Danielle gave me this. She told me to keep it a secret if anything happened to her.
Mason took off the lid. There were a lot of notes within. Lists of employees.
Numbers on plates. Nicknames. There were three circles around one entry.
Number nineteen in the unit. If they know about it, don’t trust them. Another page had initials on it.
C-H-B-D. The girl in 95. Then down.
Two more moved. Someone watched. It was more than just a diary.
It was a book of accounts. And Danielle had been working on it for months. Mason looked over the papers.
One entry stood out. C-H stated she was just another cleanup, but he seemed afraid. Said the smile was new? Mason looked at the word.
Smile. He remembered the one on the Camaro, which was drawn into the dust just next to the bullet hole. And the second one, which was two weeks later, was new.
Someone keeps drawing it. Mason went outside and called Ellie. He stated we were mistaken.
This isn’t just about Danielle. He talked about the notebook, the names, and the pattern. Ellie didn’t say anything.
Then she said, “Come see me.” I just seen something you need to see. They met in the parking lot of a supermarket store an hour later.
A public, well-lit, and impartial place. Ellie opened her trunk and gave him a folder. There was a scan of a leasing agreement from a storage firm within.
On June 18, 1998. Signed by Clay Harrell, Unit 19. The payment was made in cash.
Length: one month. Three days before Danielle went missing. Ellie said he signed for it.
With his own name, damn it. Mason’s hands shook. He put her car there before she even left.
Or at least Ellie claimed she would. It wasn’t a panic move in any case. It was planned ahead of time.
Mason looked up with a tense jaw. What if she is still alive? Ellie blinked. Twelve years later? He nodded.
Maybe they didn’t murder her because she knew too much or saw what they were doing. They might have kept her. Perhaps they moved her again…
Ellie didn’t say anything. But she didn’t fight back either. That night, Mason went back to the Camaro one last time.
He was in the driver’s seat with the doors closed and the windows fogging up from his breath. He put Danielle’s cassette back in the deck and listened to her voice again. He then leaned forward and checked under the dashboard.
A thin plastic strip was glued to the bottom with black electrical tape. A compact audio recorder that is smaller than a cassette. He took it off slowly.
There was a sign on the side that said “Back up.” Don’t play. He did it anyhow.
The tape made a clicking sound and then became silent. Then Danielle’s voice, this time closer, whispered. There are more than only Clay.
There is another person. He calls him the middleman. I guess they’re going, girls.
I get a feeling they’re watching me. She stopped for a moment, then said something else in a low voice that was hard to hear. I think he knows I put this here.
Then a sound that wasn’t her voice or Clay’s. A man, low and growling, is right next to the mic. Say goodbye.
The recording was over after that. Mason sat still. Danielle had documented everything up to the time she was taken.
And now he had her last warning and the name that shocked them all. The broker. Someone broke into Ellie’s flat two nights later.
They didn’t take anything. They opened every drawer and cabinet. They turned the cushions over.
They didn’t take anything but the folder with Danielle’s notes. The lock was fine. The person who did it had a key.
At three twelve in the morning, she contacted Mason. Her voice was flat and shaky. They took it. What? Danielle’s ledger, the file with Clay’s rental slip, and everything else.
Mason was already halfway ready. I looked at it all. It has a backup.
Ellie let out a big breath. They knew what to look for. They didn’t even touch the TV.
Mason didn’t get any sleep. Again. By morning, he arrived outside Clay Harrell’s auto shop, which had been sold and renamed under new ownership.
The storage shed in the back, on the other hand, was still there. He walked around the outside by himself, looking at the chain-link fence, the padlock, and the new camera that was put above the alley gate. He knocked on the door to the office and asked to see the owner.
A man named Dustin walked out. He was in his mid-thirties, had oil on his shirt, and was pleasant but cautious. He stated he bought it from Harrell’s company last year. There wasn’t much there, just the building and whatever was already there.
Have you ever looked through the storage shed? Mason asked. Dustin shook his head. What is that? It’s just rat poop and melting plastic.
We store tires in there now. Mason nodded. Do you mind if I look? Mason was alone in the shed ten minutes later.
He looked at every wall and beam. Nothing has changed. Then he looked at the floor.
One corner didn’t appear right; the concrete was darker and irregular. He knelt down and scraped a line with his key, which was fresh cement under dry dust. Someone had fixed a hole.
Mason contacted Ellie again as he got back in his truck. Who put concrete on top of section of the shed? Ellie stopped for a moment. There wouldn’t be any record of it if Clay did it personally.
But what if he paid someone? Mason said to find the contractor. I’ll figure out why. That night, he read Danielle’s notes again.
The ones that were scanned. One page talked about the place with the yellow light behind the freezer and the metal stairs. Mason looked at it.
It has nothing to do with Bayline. The storage unit wasn’t it. It was in a different place.
Another site. He called Sierra. She said she remembered that.
Stairs made of metal, yellow light. There was a spot behind one of the diners. We used to bring things there.
There was a back freezer with a strange stench. Like rust and bleach. Mason’s heart raced.
What was it? I don’t know. We weren’t allowed to go back there. Clay used to claim that was a safe place to keep things.
Only some drivers ever had keys. Do you remember where it was? She stopped. I can handle you.
They met two hours later, after dark. Sierra looked scared, with her jacket zipped up and her hands deep in her sleeves. The building was still standing.
Now it’s empty. Once a diner like a family. Now empty.
Windows went black. The back lot was the only one that was still clear. Sierra pointed.
That’s all. In back of the walk-in freezer. They moved slowly.
The metal stairs were rusty, but they were still there. At some time, someone had broken into the back door. The floor was dirty and sticky inside.
There was a row of freezer units on the far wall that were now unplugged and smelled bad. There was a tiny service hallway behind the final one, and at the end, a steel door. Mason tested the handle.
Locked. He put his ear to the metal. Nothing.
Then, very faintly, something. A thump. Then one more.
Then nothing. He turned around. We need to get in touch with Langley.
But Sierra was already on the phone. What do you want to tell him? She asked. That we uncovered a closed door in an area Clay used to run? Mason didn’t say anything.
He looked down. There were scuff marks in the dirt and dust next to the door. Footprints.
One new. The other one is smaller. A woman’s.
Twenty-two minutes later, Langley showed up. He got out of his cruiser with his hand already on his holster. What am I getting into? Mason stated it was a freezer chamber…
That has been locked since at least 1998, and there are new songs and maybe someone on the other side. Langley didn’t say anything. He took bolt cutters out of his trunk.
At 9:37 p.m., they broke down the door. A small chamber within. It’s cold. Quiet.
And at the very back, a person. A lady. Curled up with her hands tied and her head covered.
Alive. Langley made the first move. Mason came next.
The light made the woman cringe, and her voice was dry and brittle. They took off her handcuffs. She didn’t say anything.
Not yet. Just shook, with big eyes, pale skin, and bruises all over. Then, in a soft voice, one word.
Danielle. The workers at the hospital indicated that Danielle Morgan was 35 years old. But when Mason peered at her through the observation window, he saw a girl who was twenty-three years old.
Her face was pale and thin, her hands were shaking, and her eyes jumped every time a door opened in the hallway. She didn’t say much. Only her name.
And one more sentence, again and over. Please don’t let him find me. Langley had done everything he could to keep it a secret.
There hasn’t been any press or police report yet. Danielle was getting care under a fake name. Ellie stood next to Mason with her arms crossed.
She stated she was still in shock. It could take her days to talk. Mason shook his head slowly.
She told him. One. Ellie turned.
Clay. Mason shook his head. She already knew Clay was involved.
This terror. It’s about another person. Mason went home that night and set out all the pieces again.
Pictures. Storage lists. The book.
The cassette. The quote from the secret recorder that Danielle used. He calls him the middleman.
Clay’s files didn’t have that name in them. No record of it. No lease.
No record of an alias. But Mason remembered one thing. Bayline had drivers who worked off the books.
They utilized bogus names, shifted freight that wasn’t stated, and accepted cash under the table. Ellie had interviewed a man named Ruben years ago, but he disappeared before the trial. Mason called her.
He said that one of the drivers used to leave receipts for the burner. Did any of them have the word “broker” in their tags? Ellie thought for a moment and then responded, “One did.” BKR-47.
I didn’t think it was anything. She gave him a scan of an old gas station receipt two hours later. This letter is from June 22, 1998, the day after Danielle went missing.
$13.11. Money. Truck number: BKR-47.
Line for your signature. Nothing. The diner where Danielle had just been found was six miles from the station.
Mason’s stomach turned. Someone had relocated her. Not just once.
She had been hidden near by the whole time, and the broker was still out there. Danielle started to talk again at the hospital. At 6:43 p.m., Langley called Mason. and responded, “She’s ready.”
The room was hot. Too hot. Danielle’s voice was so quiet that it was hard to hear her.
She told me I wasn’t supposed to go there. I was directly behind a Bayline truck. I believed Clay was going to see someone.
I wanted a picture. Mason didn’t say anything and let her talk. I saw them with a different girl.
Younger. She was in tears. They pushed her into the room with the freezer.
Danielle’s hands were shaking. I ran, but someone caught me. Not Clay.
Someone bigger. Mason leaned closer. Do you know his name? She slowly nodded.
That’s what they called him. The person who sells things. She shut her eyes.
Clay said I could still leave. That he would let me go if I only gave him the movie. I didn’t trust him.
Her voice broke. I still gave him the movie, but I kept the backup. That’s when they found out.
Mason felt it in his gut. A wretched, empty drop. She said they originally locked me up in a different place.
In the woods somewhere. Then they relocated me here because they suspected the police were watching Clay. Said that no one would ever find me.
Said that the world had already forgotten. She said softly. Did they forget? Mason’s voice cracked.
No. A few minutes later, Ellie showed there with her recorder. She kept the question gentle.
When she agreed, Danielle nodded. The session lasted 41 minutes. People were named.
Routines. Dates. Numbers for storage.
Even the name of Clay’s relative. The person who originally threatened Sierra. The next morning, Langley summoned the state police.
The file was too large presently. Too dirty. Too much politics…
They broke into Clay Harrell’s house, but he wasn’t there. People who lived nearby reported he left at four in the morning. in a Dodge pickup that was white. Quickly packed.
Only brought one duffel bag. Someone had cleared out his office. Wiped hard disks.
Shredded paperwork. But there was still one thing remaining. A strip of masking tape with a handwritten sentence was taped to the inside of his desk drawer.
Smile. She is still watching. Ellie looked at the picture Mason took of it.
She answered, “That’s not a threat.” That’s fear. Mason nodded.
Clay wasn’t making fun of them. Was he running? Three days after Clay Harrell went missing, a truck that looked like his was found burned out near a river access road forty miles east of the county border. The V.I.N. was taken off.
There were no tags. No blood. No body.
Only ashes. Glass that has melted. And two things stayed the same.
A used burner phone. Battery taken out. A page that has been folded.
Partly burned. Ellie was the first to read it when she found it in the glove box. There were just two words left that could be read.
Talk to Darren. Mason stood over the photo printout in Ellie’s office, his fingers wrapped around the edges. Who the hell is this Darren? Ellie looked at the storage manifest again.
Danielle, Bayline’s 1998 employee list, has been partially put back together. There it was. Darren K. Harrell.
A cousin of Clay’s. The same one that Sierra had called. The same person who filed the 1995 complaint about a missing girl that went nowhere.
They got all the public records they could find. In 2000, Darren quit his job with the Sheriff’s Department. In 2002, he started a private security company.
Mostly work on buildings. Not in the news. No record of a crime.
He bought acreage five miles outside of town in 2004. Alone. Wooded.
Fenced all around. It was written down as a refuge for training with guns and survival skills. But there is no website.
No school. No advertising. And no one ever saw it open.
Mason turned to Ellie. Do you suppose Clay ran to him? Ellie didn’t move. I believe Clay is dead.
And Darren is finishing up loose ends. They traveled to Langley, who sent the information on to the State Bureau. It took two days to get a warrant.
Another 12 to get the team ready. At 642 a.m., they hit the facility. Full tactical. By 703, the perimeter had been broken.
And what’s inside? There are six rooms. Three freezers that are sealed. A laptop that was buried.
No, Darren. But what they did uncover was even worse. There were 27 VHS tapes in a locked cabinet, each with a number written by hand and simply initials and dates on the label.
And a stack of ID cards and missing person flyers in a steel drawer. Most of them are worn out, and some have blood on the edges. Danielle’s was on top, but so was Riley DeWitt’s.
And another girl, Eleanor Mazur, whose name was circled three times. When Ellie saw it, her face went white. That’s me.
Mason turned around slowly. What? She nodded. Rachel was my middle name, and I used it for my bylines.
She took the flyer. Once in 1999, I got a call. Someone told me to stop talking about the Bayline story.
I didn’t know who it was. I thought it was a joke. Mason’s voice was bland.
They were also looking at you. That afternoon, state investigators gave forensic analysts a digital copy of the tapes. Danielle was on tape number 14.
The girl in tape number 7, which was dark and grainy, was Riley from 1995. But tape number 22 was different. It showed Clay chatting to someone off-camera while standing next to a storage unit.
His voice was easy to hear. This one is too much work. Take her to Darren’s house till we decide out what to do.
A man’s voice said off-camera, “We’ll keep her cold.” Orders from the broker. That was the proof.
Voice matched. Confirmed date. The chain of command was revealed.
Clay had given Danielle to his cousin. The cousin worked for the broker. The system was genuine, but it wasn’t over yet because Darren still hadn’t been located.
And what about the broker? Still no name. No address. No face.
Only whispers. That night, Mason looked at the Camaro one last time, this time when it was in evidence lockup. He went by himself.
No light. Only memory. He opened the trunk and groped around under the carpet.
His fingers touched something hard that was covered in tape. He took it off. A metal key is within.
There are stains, scratches, and a five-digit number on it. 24783. He looked at it…
That wasn’t a key to the residence. It wasn’t meant for the Camaro. It was for a safe deposit box.
Mason opened Danielle’s notebook again when he got home. The version that was scanned. There was a list of numbers on page twelve.
Just one was circled. 24783 adjacent to it. This is the last card if something goes wrong.
The bank was in a different county. Mason didn’t use the front door. He asked for a favor.
This time it’s not from Langley, but from a friend in the Guard. Someone who used to work security for state investigators. They had a warrant by 9:14 a.m.
Mason had the safety deposit box with the number 24783 by 9:31. There was a cassette tape inside. A little folder made of manila.
One photo, with the face down. First, he picked up the folder. There were five pages within.
Not written by hand. Written down. Names.
Addresses. Numbers for storage units. Money transfers by wire.
In the corner, the Bayline Freight emblem faded away, and at the top, there was an Operations Summary. Broker District 3. For use inside only.
Next came the cassette. He didn’t wait. In the evidence room down the hall, they played it.
Danielle was the one. This time, her voice was stronger again. I think I failed if you can hear this.
I guess I didn’t get out. But I preserved everything. The receipts.
The moves. The numbers that Clay used. There was a man who went by the name of The Broker.
But he does have a name. I found it once. He used to be a banker.
A break. She stated it after that. Carl B. Merton is his name.
Mason stopped the tape. He looked at the folder again. Carl B. Merton.
61 years old in 1998. Loan officer for the area. Later, he worked as a consultant with Bayline’s Logistics Division.
No one has seen him since 2001. It’s gone. A few minutes later, Ellie came in, and her face was hard to read.
Are you ready for the picture? She asked. Mason flipped it over. Danielle was the one.
Standing close to a man in a gray shirt with buttons. Put your hand on her shoulder. The same man is seen in the hallway footage of the freezer.
The same blurry face from the original film. Not Clay. No, Darren.
Carl. The name was checked against all of the state police’s records. Carl Merton changed his name legally and moved away from Arkansas in 2002.
A new name. New address. In 2009, he died in an automobile crash in Texas.
There was no autopsy. There is no family listed. He was buried in an unmarked grave with his new name on it.
There would not be a trial. No perp walk. Just dust, paper, and names.
But Clay? He wasn’t a ghost yet. Five days after the deposit box was recovered, a truck was retrieved out of the small river downstream. Underwater for at least a week.
There was a final note inside, taped to the dashboard in plastic wrap. Written by hand. Words from Clay.
I never touched her. I swear to God. But I didn’t stop it.
He scared me, and I let him. I let the broker put that thing around us. We all received our share.
We all stayed quiet. She just kept going. And when she wouldn’t let go, I helped her go away.
I told them she was trouble, but I didn’t want her to die. She was the only one who could see through me. Clay Harrell signed.
Danielle spent three months in a recovery center using a different name. She didn’t flinch once when she ultimately testified in front of a secret grand jury. Not when they presented the pictures.
Not when they played the tapes. Before she exited the courtroom, she wanted to keep one thing. The key to the Camaro.
The first one, which is still scratched. Still covered in dust from the apartment where she was found. Ellie delivered Mason the last copy of Clay’s confession.
He didn’t read it twice. It didn’t come to an end. Just cowardice.
The Camaro is still in an evidence bay, behind yellow tape and chain link. Mason comes by every several months. He never touches it.
It just stands there and stares at the windshield. Now there is no more happy face. They cleaned it off when they worked on the car.
But Mason claims that sometimes, when the light hits the glass just right, it still shines through.
