Father Mike, a pragmatic man in his mid-thirties with a sharp mind, nodded and followed the contractor outside. The rest of the crew had gathered around the bags. Danny was kneeling, examining the closure on one of them. “Check this out. These aren’t tied with rope. They’ve got heavy-duty zip ties and old luggage locks.”
The metal locks were tarnished but still held firm. “Open them,” Father Mike said, his curiosity piqued.
“Maybe it’s old silver or church records someone hid away.” Alex Morris grabbed a pair of heavy-duty snips from his tool belt and stepped forward. With one quick snap, the lock gave way.
Alex pulled back the heavy burlap and froze. A heavy silence fell over the group. Alex slowly looked up, his face drained of color. He swallowed hard. “It’s purses.”
“Women’s handbags.” Father Mike stepped closer. Inside, neatly stacked, were dozens of purses. Leather, fabric, designer brands, and cheap knock-offs.
On top sat a red patent-leather clutch, a style straight out of the nineties. Next to it was a beige crossbody bag with a brass buckle. Beneath them, the outlines of many more. “Open the others,” the priest said quietly.
His throat felt suddenly dry. Danny and Vic cut the remaining bags open. Every single one was the same. Purses, wallets, makeup kits.
In one bag, piled on top of the leather, were cell phones. Old flip phones and early Blackberries—models from the early 2000s. In another, a tangle of jewelry. Earrings, necklaces, rings.
It was a chaotic jumble of personal lives. “Lord have mercy,” Father Mike whispered, taking a step back. Alex Morris reached into one of the bags and pulled out a brown, weathered purse with a long strap.
Inside, he found keys, a dried-up lipstick, a crumpled tissue, and a wallet. He pulled out a driver’s license. The plastic was yellowed, but the name was clear: “State of Pennsylvania.” Alex stared at the card.
The photo showed a young woman, maybe 25. Blonde hair, a bright smile, a slight upturn to her nose. Susan A. Miller. Date of birth—1976.
“What is this?” Danny’s voice cracked. Alex silently handed the license to the priest and reached for another bag. He pulled out another ID. Sarah P. Jenkins.
Born 1982. Then a third. A fourth. Within thirty minutes, they found 14 different IDs. Fourteen names, fourteen faces—some smiling, some serious, all young.
The oldest ID was from 1991. The most recent was from 2019. Thirty years. These items had been collected over three decades.
Father Mike walked a few paces away and pulled out his phone. “I need to call the Sheriff,” he said, his voice strained. “Don’t touch anything else.” But Alex Morris wasn’t listening.
He was sitting on his haunches, staring at a pair of earrings he held in his palm. Small gold studs with green stones. Cheap costume jewelry, the kind you’d find at any mall. But he would know them anywhere.
He had bought these earrings for his sister, Mary, for her 16th birthday. She had disappeared in 2005. Alex Morris was born in 1991. He grew up in a normal home. His dad worked at the local dairy plant, and his mom was a nurse at the county hospital.
His older sister, Mary, six years his senior, was his hero. She was vibrant, full of life, always dreaming of bigger things. She wanted to be an actress, starred in every high school play, and joined the local community theater. After graduation, she stayed local for a bit.
She worked at a clothing boutique, saving money to move to New York or Chicago. In August 2005, Mary turned 22. In September, she vanished. Alex was only 14 then.
He never forgot the night his mother started calling everyone they knew, asking if they’d seen Mary. She had left for work that morning and never came home. Her phone went straight to voicemail. Her manager said she’d left at lunch, saying she had an errand to run. No one ever saw her again.
