Chapter 2 - The Uncounted Child
The rain began as a light drizzle before turning into a sheet of heavy, blinding gray water. Claire’s windshield wipers slapped rhythmically against the glass, barely keeping up with the torrent.
She had been driving for nearly two hours, her eyes straining against the darkness. The highway was largely deserted, save for the occasional long-haul truck spraying clouds of mist into her path. She had called the police twice more from her cell phone, but each attempt was met with bureaucratic stone-walling. Without a specific location or a confirmed crime in progress, the state police refused to set up roadblocks.
"Think, Claire, think," she muttered to herself, gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. "Where would they go?"
She pulled off at a desolate rest stop, her car idling under the flickering fluorescent lights of the vending area. She pulled Noah’s red journal out of her bag and began flipping through the pages under the dim interior light of her car.
Up until now, she had only skimmed the horrifying tallies of missed meals and calculated punishments. But now, she needed a location. She needed a clue.
She turned to a page near the middle of the book, dated three months prior.
Site 4, the entry read in Noah’s neat, tiny handwriting. The old cannery near Blackwood Cove. Mother Evelyn says it is for storage. But there are beds inside. Metal beds. Caleb saw the ledger. There are names on the walls that aren't ours.
Claire’s breath hitched. Blackwood Cove. It was an isolated coastal town fifty miles north, known for its abandoned fishing docks and thick, fog-bound pine forests. The Open Arms Foundation had purchased several commercial properties along the coast years ago, ostensibly for "youth retreats and rehabilitation facilities."
She reached for her phone and searched the property records for the foundation in Blackwood Cove. One address popped up: a retired fish processing facility at the end of an unpaved logging road.
Suddenly, her phone buzzed. It was an incoming call from a number she didn't recognize.
She answered instantly. "Hello?"
"Miss Monroe?"
The voice was faint, accompanied by the heavy static of a weak cellular signal and the distant sound of rushing wind.
"Noah?" Claire shouted, leaning forward. "Noah, is that you?"
"I... I stole Evelyn’s backup phone while they were unloading the bags," Noah whispered frantically. "They took us to the old property. The cannery. Miss Monroe, you shouldn't have come."
"Noah, where are you exactly? Are you safe?"
"No one is safe," Noah said, his voice cracking. "They know someone was behind them on the highway. Mara is angry. She... she unlocked the lower level."
Claire felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. "What lower level, Noah?"
"The drawing," Noah whispered, his breath coming in short, terrified gasps. "The drawing at the end of the book. The eight stick figures."
"You wrote that there were eight figures, but only seven seats in the car," Claire said, her voice shaking. "Noah... who was the eighth person?"
Before Noah could answer, a loud, metallic bang echoed through the line, followed by the sound of a door being kicked open.
"Who are you talking to?" Mara’s voice boomed over the speaker, terrifyingly calm and close.
"No one! I was just—"
There was a scuffle, the sound of a body hitting a wooden floor, a short, sharp cry of pain, and then Mara’s voice came clearly through the phone speaker.
"Miss Monroe," Mara said smoothly, as if she were addressing a parent at a school open house. "You are trespassing in family matters."
"Put him back on the phone, Mara," Claire demanded, her voice trembling with rage. "I have the journal. I know what you’ve been doing to those kids. I’ve already contacted the authorities."
A light, chilling laugh came from Mara’s end of the line.
"The authorities?" Mara asked softly. "Miss Monroe, who do you think funds the local police department’s youth athletics league? Who do you think sat on the board that appointed the district judge? Do you really believe a few scribbles in a notebook written by a child diagnosed with severe reactive attachment disorder will hold up against our reputation?"
"He isn't lying, Mara. And you know it."
"It doesn't matter what he wrote," Mara whispered into the receiver. "What matters is what people see. And by tomorrow morning, the world will see a tragic story about a dedicated charity worker whose life was cut short by an unhinged school teacher chasing wild theories."
"What are you talking about?" Claire’s blood ran cold.
"Come to Blackwood Cove, Miss Monroe," Mara said gently. "Come and save him. If you don't... Noah will finally find out what happened to the eighth child."
The line went dead.
Claire sat frozen in her car, the silence of the night heavy around her. Her hands were shaking violently against the steering wheel. Mara was laying a trap. She was inviting her to the cannery, drawing her away from safety and into an environment where the Reeds controlled everything.
Claire looked down at the red journal resting on her passenger seat. She opened it to the page with the drawing of the eight figures.
Beneath the drawing, hidden in the crease of the binding, was a tiny name written in faint blue ink that she hadn't noticed before.
Oliver Reed. Age 9. August 14th.
Claire’s mind raced. Public records for the Open Arms Foundation had always stated that the Reeds had adopted six children. There was never any mention of a seventh child named Oliver.
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If Oliver existed—if Oliver had been part of this family—where was he now?
Claire put the sedan in drive and slammed her foot on the accelerator, tearing out of the rest stop and hurtling down the dark highway toward Blackwood Cove.
