For two years, we lived together in a quiet little house—the kind of place where nothing bad was ever supposed to happen. She was vibrant, full of life, the kind of person who made everything feel brighter. Then, one day, she was just… gone.
No warning. No goodbye. Just an empty room, her belongings exactly where she’d left them. The police called it a missing persons case, but as months passed with no leads, the search faded. Her family grieved. I stayed in the house, unable to let go.
Five years later, I finally packed up her room. That’s when I found the hole behind her dresser—small, hidden, like a secret. Inside, folded notes, written in her handwriting. The first one made my blood run cold:
“If I disappear, check Jake’s cabin.”
Jake—her ex. I remembered him too well. Smooth-talking, charming, but with a temper that simmered beneath the surface. She had hinted at his possessiveness, but I hadn’t realized how bad it was.
The police tracked him down—or tried to. He’d left the country years ago, and the cabin had been sold. No evidence. No body. Just unanswered questions.
I sold the house, but I kept those notes. Sometimes, I take them out and wonder—what really happened in that cabin? Could I have stopped it? The worst part isn’t knowing she’s gone. It’s never knowing how.
