Chapter 2

The next morning, the house felt wrong. "David" was up before us, sitting in the dim living room with all the curtains drawn. The AC was blasting, making the air frigid. He hadn't touched the breakfast Linda had nervously prepared.

He just sat there, with that fixed smile, his eyes following us.

Linda cornered me in the hallway. Her face was drawn, eyes wide with a terror I'd never seen in her.

"Maya," she whispered, her voice trembling, grabbing my arm so tight it hurt. "That... that is not your father. Do you hear me? That is not David."

Her words sent a fresh wave of ice through me. I knew it, deep down, but hearing her say it made it real, terrifying.

"What do we do?" I whispered back.

"I... I don't know yet. But don't trust him. Don't be alone with him."

Later that morning, Linda was gone.

She left a note on the kitchen counter, hastily scrawled. "Have to visit Aunt Carol's sister, she's sick. Out of state. Be back soon."

Aunt Carol was my biological mother, Linda's twin. She died on the trail, around the same time Dad disappeared. She didn't have another sister.

A thick wad of cash was tucked under the note. Hundreds.

As I read it, Linda's car pulled away. I ran to the window, saw her glance back, her face a mask of fear and urgency. She mouthed the words again, "Not him. Don't trust him."

Then she was gone.

Leaving me alone. With it.

The silence in the house was heavy, broken only by the hum of the AC he'd cranked up even higher. The earthy, musty smell was stronger now.

I couldn't stand it. The journal. Dad's real journal.

The warning from Linda, the wrongness of "David," it all pushed me.

I waited until "David" went into Dad's old study, the door clicking shut. He spent hours in there, just sitting in the dark.

I grabbed a shovel from the shed. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold it.

The backyard felt too open, too exposed. I kept glancing at the house.

The dirt was still loose over the memorial plot. It didn't take long to unearth the small wooden box we'd buried.

Inside, the backpack was damp, the journal even more so.

I took them to my room, locked the door.

The early entries were Dad. His familiar handwriting, his way of describing things. He wrote about the hike, the beauty of the trail, his excitement about exploring an off-trail cave system near Widow's Peak. He mentioned he was meeting up with Carol, my biological mother. That was a surprise. I thought he'd gone alone.

Then, about halfway through, the writing changed. It became frantic, spidery.

"Carol acting strange. Says she feels sick. Wants to turn back but also wants to push on to the caves. Something's not right with her."

A few more entries, increasingly disjointed.

"She's not herself. Keeps talking about Linda... about Maya."

Then, a large section of pages was ripped out. Gone.

The very last entry, scrawled in what looked like dried mud, or maybe... blood. It was barely legible.

"MAYA! IF YOU READ THIS, RUN! LINDA ISN'T YOUR MOTHER! SHE'S..."

The rest was a smear, unreadable.

My blood ran cold. Linda isn't my mother? What did that mean? She raised me. She was my mother.

A faded Polaroid photograph slipped from between the last pages. It fluttered to the floor.

I picked it up with a trembling hand.

It was a picture of a woman's body, lying near what looked like a cave entrance. The face was obscured by shadow and debris, matted hair.