“Yes. The other six haven’t been identified yet.”
“Maybe no one reported them missing. Or they were from out of state. We’re working on it.” Alex was silent for a moment, then asked: “What about the Garretts? Are you investigating them?” Jenkins looked at him for a long time.
“Mr. Morris, I understand how you feel. Losing a sister, years of not knowing, and then this. It’s a shock. But I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation with you. All I can say is that we are looking at everyone who had access to that attic. Everyone.”
“Father Bill was there for forty years. His brother was the main donor. His nephew is the Sheriff who handled at least one of these cases—my sister’s.” “I hear you.” “And?” “And we’re working. That’s all I can say.”
Alex realized he wouldn’t get anything more. He thanked her and left. Outside, he lit another cigarette and thought. Jenkins was a pro, that was clear. But the system was the system. The Garretts were respected, wealthy, and connected.
Even if the investigation pointed to them, how long would it take? Months? Years? In the meantime, they could scrub any remaining evidence. He had to do something himself. Not instead of the police, but alongside them.
Gather info, find witnesses, dig into the Garretts’ past. And Alex knew where to start. The local paper, the *Oak Creek Gazette*, had been around for decades. He remembered his mom subscribing to it when he was a kid. It was mostly local news and high school sports. Но it had an archive.
Thirty years of stories. If girls were going missing, it had to be in there. Even if it was just a small blurb in the police blotter. Back in Oak Creek, Alex went to the newspaper office. It was in a small two-story building near the town square. Inside, it smelled of old paper and coffee.
A woman in her mid-thirties sat at the front desk, thin, with short hair and tired eyes. Folders were piled high on her desk. “Hi,” Alex said. “I’m looking for access to the archives.” The woman looked up and scanned him. “For what?”
“Research. I’m interested in local history.” “The archives are in the basement, but they aren’t digitized. You’ll have to go through the physical copies. It’ll take a while.” “I’ve got time.”
The woman shrugged. “Fine. I need to see an ID.” Alex handed it over. She looked at the name, and her expression changed. Recognition?
Interest? “Morris,” she said slowly. “Alex Morris. You’re the one who found the bags at the church.” Alex tensed. “How do you know that?”
“Small town. Everyone knows everything. Plus, I’m a journalist. It’s my job.” She held out a hand. “Ellen Garrett. Editor-in-chief.”
Garrett. Alex shook her hand mechanically, his stomach dropping. “You’re…?” “Jim Garrett’s wife,” she said calmly. “Yes, the Sheriff.”
Silence filled the room. Alex didn’t know what to say. Going into the archive now seemed like a mistake. She’d tell her husband. Но Ellen surprised him. “Don’t go,” she said quietly.
“I know why you’re here. And I want to help.” “Help? You?” She gave a bitter laugh.
