Chapter 4: Ashes and Evidence

By the time we drove to Oak Hollow, more than six miles away, it was already 6:35 in the morning.

The sky was barely light, but it was enough to see the grim scene ahead.

Frost clung to the brittle grass, and squad cars idled at the edge of the woods, red and blue lights strobing against the gray.

Beneath a thick, low-hanging oak tree, a charred corpse dangled.

A hush fell over the crowd—a mix of police, volunteers, and family—everyone holding their breath as if the world itself might shatter at a wrong word.

Inside the police cordon, large stones, a lighter, and several empty bottles were scattered about.

The acrid smell of burnt flesh and gasoline hung in the air, cutting through even the strongest winter wind. Someone in the crowd gagged and turned away.

A bearded police officer stepped forward, telling us to stand outside the cordon to identify if the deceased was Rachel.

But the distance was too great, and the body was burned beyond recognition. There was no way to tell.

In the crowd, Rachel’s father saw this and, overcome with anxiety, fainted on the spot.

While everyone rushed to carry him to the car to take him to the hospital, I seized the chaos to slip past the cordon, running straight toward the corpse.

My shoes slipped on the icy ground. Heart hammering, I ducked under the yellow tape, lungs burning, desperate for a closer look.

I didn’t understand. I couldn’t believe it.

How could the woman I’d just seen yesterday suddenly be a cold corpse?

No. This couldn’t be real.

I had to see for myself.

She couldn’t be my fiancée.

“Hey! What are you doing? Stop right there!”

The bearded police officer was closest. In a few quick strides, he tackled me to the ground.

His eyes blazed with anger as he pinned me down:

“Destroying a crime scene is a crime, you know that?”

“Haha… hahahaha…”

My laughter startled him. He flipped me over, his sharp gaze full of confusion:

“What’s wrong with you?”

I didn’t answer. I just lay there, smiling foolishly as tears washed the dust from my face. My mouth tasted like copper, my hands numb from the cold and from hope refusing to die.

Yes, I’d seen it.

Even though the corpse’s legs were badly burned, on the inside of the right ankle, the skin wasn’t completely charred.

There was no butterfly wing tattoo.

She wasn’t Rachel.

That tiny detail, invisible to everyone else, was a lifeline—a whisper of hope in the heart of darkness.