The car door thumps dully behind me, an underwater sound far from my ears. With shaking hands, I fish the manila envelope from my pocket and hold up the first photo from the pile. I’m seeing double as the signs inform me:
Windy Pines 2.6 miles.
Other than the time of day, the images are identical. The trailhead signs are weathered in the same places and an ancient pine tree looms behind them, ready to topple with the right gust of wind. Splotches of bird droppings are crusted in the same place, confirming my suspicions. It rained two days ago, so these photos were taken in the last 48 hours. The air is still, but a chill runs through me anyway, sneaking beneath my windbreaker and wrapping my arms in goosebumps.
“Shall we?” Deputy Phillips asks, her lips pressed in a thin, bloodless line.
I nod, and follow her up the trail. Thirty yards ahead, we find the origin of the second photo — a pine tree with a missing branch and a tangle of purple flowers wilting at its base. When the photo was taken, the flowers were in full bloom. So much can change in so little time.
A lump rises in my throat. I know what we will find at the top of this mountain if we are lucky, and I’m praying we aren’t. The work we do is bittersweet. We provide closure, often at the expense of people’s hopes.
My deputy pulls out her personal cell phone and takes a picture of the photo side by side with the tree. Our pace increases as we make our way forward, following the switchback trail.
We almost walk right past the third photo: a trio of boulders poking out of the ground. In the picture, harsh midday sunlight casts shadows from the peaks, making the rocks appear larger than they are. We both squint, but confirm the location is the same.
“Is that…?” asks Phillips, trailing off as she points.
A small, dried dot of rust. I pull a swab and evidence bag from my pocket and collect the sample. When the swab comes away red, we have to expect the worst.
There are 38 pictures in the envelope, each printed on glossy paper in perfect clarity. Our lab analyzed them for DNA, but we aren’t that lucky. Whoever did this is diligent, careful to only reveal what they want us to see.
I grabbed a handful of evidence bags from the lab before we left, but with 35 locations ahead of us, I’m afraid it isn’t enough. Worse, I’m afraid what we’ll find is too large for an evidence bag.
The winding path up the side of the mountain yields something new every three to four stops — some strands of blonde hair here, a few shirt fibers there. My head spins from the elevation and the implications. With three stops to go, I know we should turn back. This trail should be blocked from visitors and a team of forensic analysts should be combing the mountainside.
But I can’t let her stay there that long. Alone.
Phillips seems to agree with me, because she doesn’t suggest going back to the cruiser either. We take our photo, collect the shoelace that dangles from a twig, and move on down the trail. We keep going until we reach the summit. It’s too far. The previous clues were clumped together, no more than 150 yards apart. We’ve gone more than triple that distance and have nothing to show for it.
For the first time today, we come up short. The photo shows a bulbous mushroom reigning over a pile of dried pine needles. We go back to the previous clue and start our search again. It’s Phillips who steps off the trail and takes her flashlight around the forest floor.
“Here,” she bellows.
The wind shifted the needles, hiding away the mushroom. A series of brown dots and a chunk of dark flesh underneath the cap confirm this is the same one from the picture. We continue straight into the trees, leaving the gravel behind us.
Two photos left, and we discover a silver earring on a bed of moss. When I press down on a similar patch nearby, the moss holds its shape. Based on the way the earring is balanced just so, I think it was placed here intentionally, not dropped. The girl’s mother confirmed this morning Gretta owned a pair exactly like it. They were a graduation gift from her grandfather. She was planning to go to grad school in the fall, but now I’m worried someone else will have to take her place.
The final picture shows only the fabric of the t-shirt Gretta Hanson was believed to be wearing when she left for a hike two days ago. While there are no clues to the location of the final photo, we press forward wordlessly. Between two large pine trees, we win this perverse treasure hunt.
In less than 48 hours, her body has changed. While mornings like this one are cold, the afternoon sun burns away the clouds and bakes the mountainside with hundred degree days. What flesh remains on Gretta’s body is red from the abuse. The rest has been ravaged by animals, or so we hope. The lab will give us more answers, and our missing persons report will become a homicide.
The hardest part of a case like this isn’t finding the body. The worst thing that ever happened to Gretta has already happened, but her mother’s worst fear will be confirmed. That’s the part I hate the most. But that will come later.
Maire E. Brown graduated with a degree in writing in 2022, and hasn’t stopped typing since. When she isn’t writing fiction, she’s working as a proposal writer or escaping into someone else’s stories. Maire and her partner live in the Pacific Northwest with their dog, Rigby, and spend time exploring the world around them.
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