Chapter 4 - What Lies Beneath
The pine grove behind the Higgins garage was dark, thick with pine needles and the damp smell of decaying earth. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long, eerie shadows across the overgrown ground.
State police officers rolled out industrial floodlights, bathing the area in stark, blinding white light. A team of four forensic investigators in white protective suits knelt around a heavy, rusted iron plate that sealed an abandoned water well.
Ellis Higgins stood near the garage, handcuffed behind his back, flanked by two Federal Marshals. His arrogant composure was finally fracturing. Sweating profusely through his linen shirt, he glared at Paige with venomous fury.
"You miserable little snitch," Ellis spat, his voice low and bitter. "After everything I paid for... your private school, your clothes, your trust fund! You throw it all away for a loser soldier and his bastard kid!"
Paige didn't look back at him. She held tightly onto my arm, her small body shivering despite the warm evening air. "I'm not doing it for him, Grandpa," she said softly. "I'm doing it for Chloe. And for Anna."
"Commencing lift," the lead forensic officer announced through a respirator mask.
Using a mechanical tripod hoist, two technicians hooked heavy chains to the handles of the iron plate. With a loud, metallic screech of rusted iron against stone, the cover was slowly hoisted off the well shaft.
A foul, stagnant odor burst from the deep opening, making several officers step back, coughing.
The forensic team lowered a high-definition tactical camera attached to a fiber-optic cable down into the dark shaft. The live video feed was displayed on a large monitor set up on the tailgate of a police truck.
I stepped closer to the monitor, my heart pounding in my ears. Beside me, Colonel Cole stared intently at the screen.
The camera moved slowly down the stone walls of the well, passing wet moss and tangled tree roots. Twenty feet down, the camera hit the muddy bottom.
The operator adjusted the infrared lighting on the lens.
The camera panned across the mud.
First, the screen showed a rusted metal toolbox—identical to the one Luke Higgins kept in the back of his Ford F-250.
Then, the camera moved two inches to the left.
Half-buried in the silt lay a small, faded yellow raincoat, its plastic buttons still intact. Entangled within the fabric were distinct human skeletal remains.
Gasps echoed across the clearing. One of the young state troopers turned away and dropped to his knees, vomiting into the bushes.
"God in heaven..." Federal Marshal Hayes whispered, taking off her cap.
I looked over at Ellis Higgins.
The old man’s knees gave out. He collapsed onto the gravel driveway, his head hanging low as the Federal Marshals held him up by his arms. Dahlia, who was standing near the porch, let out a piercing, horrified shriek and fell to her knees, burying her face in her hands.
"We have a confirmed recovery," the lead investigator said quietly into his radio. "Notify the State Coroner and the FBI Evidence Response Team. We have located the remains of Chloe Vance."
Colonel Cole turned to me, placing a heavy, solid hand on my shoulder. "It's over, Marcus. The Higgins empire is dead."
"Not yet," I said, looking toward the main house as a black sedan suddenly accelerated out from behind the estate’s private barn, smashing through a wooden fence and hurtling toward the back exit lane.
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Through the tinted windshield of the fleeing car, I saw the driver: Cheyenne Higgins. And in the passenger seat, clutching a leather briefcase, was Luke Higgins—who had somehow slipped away from his house arrest guards during the commotion at the well.
"They're running!" I shouted.
