(nw) Their daughter vanished in 1990 at her graduation…

Steven Larson was heading into a hardware store. Moments later, he appeared at the checkout, holding a shovel and a small wooden box. John froze.

His eyes were glued to Steven as he loaded the items into his car. John ducked into his vehicle, not wanting to be seen. Through the rearview mirror, he watched Steven enter a flower shop next to the hardware store.

Minutes later, Steven emerged carrying a bouquet of white hyacinths. White hyacinths—Mary’s favorite flowers. A chill ran down John’s spine.

It could be a coincidence, of course. Plenty of people liked white hyacinths, but paired with Steven’s behavior and the shovel… John’s heart pounded as Steven placed the flowers in his car and drove off.

Without letting himself overthink the consequences, John started his car and followed at a safe distance. Steven drove through town, then turned onto a road leading to Windy Ridge, an area known for its dramatic river views and scattered vacation cabins on the hilly slope. John stayed back, careful not to be noticed.

Eventually, Steven turned onto a private driveway leading to a small cabin perched at the edge of a cliff. John drove past, then parked farther down the road where trees provided cover. He watched as Steven unlocked the cabin door and went inside.

A few minutes later, Steven emerged, carrying a water canister. He placed it in a small garden cart along with the shovel, wooden box, and bouquet of white hyacinths. Steven began walking away from the cabin, following a narrow trail toward the cliff’s edge.

John slipped out of his car and moved through the brush down the slope toward the cabin, staying hidden among the trees. A growing inner urge pushed him forward. John waited until Steven was a good distance away before cautiously following.

The trail wound through scraggly pines and blooming shrubs, eventually leading to a secluded overlook with a breathtaking view of the river. The afternoon sun hung low, casting long shadows across the rugged landscape. From behind a large boulder, John watched as Steven chose a spot near the cliff’s edge.

The man glanced around cautiously, as if ensuring he was alone, then began digging with the shovel. The rocky soil resisted his efforts, suggesting the ground hadn’t been disturbed in years. After digging a hole about a foot and a half deep, Steven set the shovel aside and knelt beside the hole.

He opened the wooden box and stared at its contents for a long time. From his hiding spot, John couldn’t see what was inside, but Steven’s expression was pensive, almost reverent. His lips moved silently, as if reciting or reliving memories.

He sifted through papers in his hands, reading each one carefully, taking his time. Finally, Steven closed the box, but before he could secure the lid, a sudden gust of wind swept across the ridge. Papers from the box scattered in every direction.

Steven cursed and quickly shut the box to prevent more from escaping, then scrambled to gather the scattered sheets. After collecting them, Steven placed the wooden box in the hole. He laid the bouquet of white hyacinths on top, then began filling the hole with dirt.

He worked methodically, tamping down the soil and pouring water to compact it. When finished, Steven stood over the unmarked grave for a few moments. Then, in a voice loud enough for John to hear over the sound of the river, he said, “I think you can keep these memories now, Mary.”

The name hit John like a physical blow. He jerked back in shock, his foot slipping on loose pebbles. He grabbed a tree trunk to steady himself, clamping a hand over his mouth to stifle any sound.

His heart pounded so loudly he was sure Steven would hear it. Steven’s head snapped up, scanning the surrounding brush. “Hey!” he shouted, his voice sharp with suspicion.

“Someone out there?” John stayed frozen, barely breathing. Steven grabbed the shovel and took a few steps toward the bushes where John hid. He paused, listening intently, then took another step forward.

John pressed himself against the tree trunk, praying it concealed him. After what felt like an eternity, Steven stepped back. “Just the wind,” he muttered, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced.

He cast one more suspicious glance around before gathering his things. Instead of returning the way he came, Steven circled the clearing, as if ensuring no one was watching. Finally satisfied, he headed back to the cabin, carrying the empty canister and cart…