The video went live at dawn.
By the time the sun cleared the ridge, half the town had seen it. Screens in cafés and shop windows replayed the same grainy footage—Collins turning away, the red-badged man behind him, the last line of Emily’s voice: “You’re hiding behind contracts you don’t understand.”
Reporters flooded Hollow Creek like birds after a storm. Some came for the scandal, some for the story, most for the noise.
Emily sat in the corner of Grace’s studio, hair still damp from the fog. The phone on the table buzzed without pause. Messages stacked faster than she could read them.
Grace muted the notifications. “You’re a headline now.”
“I didn’t want to be.”
“Too late for that.”
Liam entered with two cups of coffee, his jacket still wet from outside.
“They’re questioning Collins downtown,” he said.
“Who’s questioning him?” Emily asked.
“City police. But he won’t say much. He’s too practiced.”
Grace turned the monitor toward them. “Look at this.”
On the screen was a still image from the video—zoomed in on the red badge. The emblem was sharp now, hexagonal, divided by a single diagonal line.
“I found it in an old contractor database,” Grace said. “It’s not city issue. It’s from a private firm—Redvale Industries.”
“Never heard of it,” Liam said.
“Neither have I,” Emily said. “But my father’s letters mention a company with that name. He called them silent investors.”
Grace frowned. “Investors in what?”
“In everything,” Emily said.
The room fell quiet.
Liam said, “If they funded the redevelopment, they own more than just the mill.”
“They own the story,” Emily said. “And they don’t like losing control of it.”
Outside, a crowd was forming again. Voices rose with the same rhythm as rain.
Grace checked her camera battery. “We should move. They’ll trace the upload back here.”
“Where do we go?” Liam asked.
“My father’s warehouse,” Emily said. “If these people existed, he would’ve kept proof there.”
“That place has been locked for years.”
“I still have the key.”
Grace packed the drives and cameras. Liam drew the blinds.
They stepped out the back door into the narrow alley. The air smelled of wet concrete and engine fumes.
“Car’s around the corner,” Liam said.
They walked fast, heads down. Every sound seemed to follow them—the echo of shoes, the hum of distant generators, the click of a camera lens.
Emily looked over her shoulder. “Don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Grace said.
“Yes, you were.”
A van rolled slowly past the mouth of the alley. The same hexagonal emblem was painted near the bumper—red against white.
Liam swore under his breath. “They’re here already.”
“How did they—” Grace began.
“They watched the livestream,” Emily said. “We told them where to look.”
She tightened her coat. “Let’s move.”
They reached Liam’s car, an old blue sedan that coughed before starting. Grace climbed in back with her gear. Emily sat in front, the folder of documents on her knees.
Liam started the engine. “Where exactly is this warehouse?”
“North side of the river, near the old quarry.”
“That’s out of range.”
“Perfect,” Emily said.
The car rolled onto the empty road. The town fell behind them, replaced by fields still heavy with mist.
Grace leaned forward. “What are you expecting to find?”
“My father’s handwriting,” Emily said. “And something he didn’t trust anyone else to see.”
No one spoke after that. The road narrowed, winding through pines. The river appeared beside them, gray and slow, carrying the night’s debris.
By the time they reached the warehouse gate, the sun had thinned the fog to ribbons.
Liam cut the engine. “You sure about this?”
“No,” Emily said. “That’s why we’re doing it.”
She stepped out, the gravel crunching under her boots.
The warehouse stood silent, a long shape of corrugated steel. A lock rusted on the door. She fit the key into it; it turned easier than expected.
Inside, the air smelled of oil, dust, and something colder—like metal left too long in the dark.
The warehouse swallowed their footsteps.
Grace switched on the flashlight. Dust motes spun through the beam like pale insects. Rows of old machines stood under tarps, silent and waiting.
Emily brushed her fingers across a workbench. The dust came away thick. “He used to spend nights here,” she said.
Liam stayed near the door. “It feels like he still does.”
Grace filmed quietly, the red light of the recorder blinking steady.
They moved deeper inside. Files and blueprints were stacked on metal shelves, tagged with dates that stopped ten years ago.
Emily opened a drawer. Inside were notebooks, their covers warped with damp. She flipped one open—sketches of the mill, lists of names, and a drawing of the same hexagonal emblem.
“My father drew this,” she said.
Liam stepped closer. “So he knew them.”
“He knew, and he hid it.”
Grace zoomed in on the page. “That mark again.”
“Redvale Industries,” Emily said. “They were here long before Collins.”
Thunder murmured far away though the sky was clear.
Emily turned another page. Between the notes was a small envelope sealed with wax. She tore it open. Inside lay a key wrapped in tissue.
Grace asked, “Another warehouse?”
“No. Something smaller.”
Stamped on the tag was a single word: *Vault.*
Liam frowned. “You ever hear of that?”
“Only in his stories,” Emily said. “He called it the room that remembers.”
They followed the aisle to a locked door at the back. The key fit perfectly. The hinges screamed when she turned it.
A faint hum drifted out—machines still alive after years of silence.
The vault was a narrow room lined with filing cabinets and reels of film. On one table sat a projector, still plugged in.
Emily hesitated, then pressed the switch.
Light sputtered and caught. A white square appeared on the wall. The first image flickered—a younger Collins shaking hands with a man wearing the red emblem. Behind them stood Arthur Rhodes.
Grace whispered, “He was there.”
Emily’s face drained of color. “He worked with them.”
“No,” Liam said softly. “He was surrounded by them.”
The reel clicked to another scene—contracts being signed, boxes labeled *Redvale Property*, men loading crates into trucks marked with the same symbol.
Then a final frame: Arthur turning toward the camera, his expression somewhere between defiance and regret.
The film burned out. Smoke curled from the projector lamp.
Emily stood frozen. “He tried to stop it.”
“How do you know?” Grace asked.
“Because he left this.”
She pointed to a note taped beside the machine.
*If you find this, finish what I couldn’t.*
Liam said, “He knew someone would come.”
“He hoped it would be me.”
Grace turned off the camera. “We have enough.”
Emily shook her head. “Not yet. There’s one more box.”
In the corner, under a tarp, was a crate marked *Personal Archive.* She pried it open. Inside were audio tapes, each labeled with dates and one word: *Meetings.*
Grace looked at the stack. “Can we play them?”
“There’s a recorder.”
Emily set the first tape. The reel spun. Her father’s voice filled the room, rough with fatigue.
*Day 134. They’ve started construction under the mill. Redvale wants it hidden—calls it the foundation chamber. I told them it’s unstable, but Collins agreed anyway. I think they’re storing something, not building.*
Liam muttered, “What the hell were they doing?”
“Not building,” Emily said. “Burying.”
The tape clicked off. She inserted the next.
*Day 140. I’ve decided to seal the vault if anything happens to me. Whoever finds this—trust the noise, not the silence.*
The reel stopped. The room went quiet except for the slow tick of cooling metal.
Grace said, “We have to go public.”
“Not yet,” Emily said. “We need to find what they buried.”
“Under the mill,” Liam said.
She nodded. “Under the town.”
Outside, wind picked up, slamming the loose door against the frame.
Grace packed the tapes. “Then we start tomorrow?”
Emily looked at the projector, the burnt reel still smoking. “Tomorrow,” she said. “Before they bury us too.”
Liam turned off the last light. The door closed behind them with a hollow echo that sounded like a promise.
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