“Mom, wake up.” My eight-year-old daughter shook me in the middle of the night. “Dad and Grandma are burying something in the garden.” I looked out the window and saw my husband and mother-in-law holding shovels, lowering a large bag into the ground. The next morning, my daughter and I dug it up. The moment I saw what was inside, I grabbed her hand and ran from the house.

Harper sat beside me quietly while pushing cereal around her bowl and glancing at me every few seconds as if she needed confirmation that the memory had not been a dream.

Brandon leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

“You okay, kiddo?” he asked casually.

Harper flinched slightly and lowered her eyes.

“I’m fine,” she whispered.

Brandon looked toward me with a brief sharp expression before chuckling lightly toward his mother.

“She’s dramatic sometimes,” he said. “She gets that from her mom.”

Judith laughed softly.

“Sensitive girls imagine things,” she said sweetly while stirring her tea.

My stomach turned but I forced myself to smile politely.

“We both slept badly,” I replied calmly. “Just strange dreams.”

Brandon seemed satisfied with the explanation and pushed his chair back.

“I need to run a few errands,” he said while grabbing his keys.

Judith looked up. “I’ll stay here and keep things organized.”

Brandon left around ten in the morning.

The moment his car disappeared down the street Judith began cleaning the kitchen counters with unusual intensity while humming quietly.

Her eyes kept drifting toward the garden through the back window.

I waited patiently until she finally went upstairs with a basket of laundry.

Then I turned toward Harper and spoke in a low voice.

“Put on your shoes.”

Her eyes widened with fear.

“Are we going outside?” she asked.

“We need to look,” I answered quietly.

We slipped through the side door instead of the back entrance.

The grass was still wet from the morning dew while my heart pounded louder with each step toward the lilac bushes.

The spot of disturbed soil was exactly where I remembered it.

Leaves covered the surface carefully, but the ground beneath them remained slightly uneven.

I grabbed a small hand trowel from the garden shed and knelt down beside the patch.

Harper crouched next to me with pale cheeks.

“What if they come outside?” she whispered.

“Then we leave immediately,” I replied.

The soil gave way easily under the metal blade because it had been freshly turned only hours earlier.

After several minutes the trowel struck fabric.

I froze.

Harper inhaled sharply beside me.

I brushed dirt away carefully until the zipper of the duffel bag appeared beneath my fingers.

My heart pounded wildly.

I should have called the police right then, yet fear pushed me toward needing to see the truth with my own eyes.

I slowly pulled the zipper open a few inches.