They didn't speak as they walked back to the car. The air outside was brittle with morning cold, the kind that made every breath sting a little. Devon fumbled with the keys, dropping them once before finally unlocking the doors. They slid in, the slam of the doors breaking the fragile quiet of FairHaven's waking streets.
Devon gripped the steering wheel, knuckles pale. "City Hall opens in twenty minutes," he said, his voice low but edged with nerves. "We can still make it."
John nodded, staring out the window. His mind was a storm—Eli's voice, the photos, the flyer. Each piece of the puzzle felt heavier now, pressing down on him until it was hard to breathe.
As Devon pulled onto Main Street, FairHaven passed by in blurs of brick and faded paint. The town looked almost normal in the daylight, its secrets neatly tucked behind familiar storefronts and polite smiles. But John couldn't shake the feeling that something unseen was stirring beneath the surface—something that had waited ten long years to wake.
They parked in front of City Hall just as the clock tower struck eight. The old building loomed over the square, its stone façade streaked with years of rain and neglect. A banner flapped lazily from the balcony: "FairHaven Forward: Building a Brighter Future."
"Brighter future, my ass," Devon muttered as they climbed the steps.
Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of coffee and paper dust. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A receptionist looked up from her desk, offering a professional smile that faltered slightly when she saw their faces—two college-age guys looking like they hadn't slept in days.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
John took a step forward, clutching the folder of copies like it was armor. "Yeah," he said, trying to sound casual. "We're doing a research project on local redevelopment. We saw the notice about the park renovation. Could we get information on who's funding it—or maybe the project lead?"
The receptionist blinked, then started typing. "That'd be under Public Works," she said after a moment. "Director's name is Mr. Grayson. He's usually in by now. Third floor, Room 312."
"Thanks," Devon said quickly, already heading for the elevator.
The doors slid shut, and for a moment, the hum of the machinery was the only sound. John stared at his reflection in the metal paneling—pale, drawn, eyes hollow with something between fear and determination.
Devon glanced over. "You really think we'll find something?"
John's gaze stayed fixed ahead. "I think Eli wanted us to."
The elevator dinged softly as the doors opened.
The third floor was quiet—too quiet. A long hallway stretched before them, lined with closed doors and sun-faded nameplates. Room 312 sat at the end, the door slightly ajar.
Devon gave John a wary look. "Guess we're not the only ones early."
John pushed the door open.
The office was empty. Papers were strewn across the desk, blueprints rolled open and pinned with coffee mugs. On the top of the pile was a document labeled "Ashwood Park Redevelopment Proposal."
John stepped further into the room, the faint smell of old coffee and printer ink clinging to the air. The desk was a mess of folders and half-unrolled blueprints, each one stamped with the town's seal. Devon leaned over one of them, his brow furrowing.
"Look at this," he whispered. "They're not just renovating—they're expanding. Digging new foundations near the lake… right where the old playground was."
John's eyes traced the faded lines of the map, his pulse quickening. Scribbled notes covered the margins—measurements, dates, and one phrase circled three times in red ink: "SUBLEVEL CLEARANCE REQUIRED."
Before he could say anything, a voice broke the silence.
"Can I help you?"
Both boys froze.
John turned, his heart leaping into his throat. Standing in the doorway was a man in his late fifties—neatly dressed, with steel-gray hair and a Public Works badge clipped to his jacket. His expression was calm but sharp, eyes flicking from their faces to the open documents on the desk.
Devon straightened awkwardly. "Uh—we were just—"
"Research," John said quickly, forcing a smile. "We spoke with the receptionist downstairs. She said Mr. Grayson might be able to help us with information about the park renovation."
The man stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. "You've found him," he said. "Though I can't imagine why anyone would be interested in a small-town project like Ashwood Park."
His tone was polite, but there was something about the way he said Ashwood Park—like the words tasted bitter.
John's fingers tightened on the folder. "It's part of a local history study. We noticed the park's gone through a few different names over the years."
Grayson's eyes flickered briefly—just enough to notice. "Yes," he said after a pause. "Old towns like ours have layers. Names change. People forget."
"Some things don't," John murmured before he could stop himself.
Grayson studied him for a long moment. "You're Holden's boy, aren't you?" he said finally. "John."
The sound of his name from the man's mouth felt like a cold knife sliding between his ribs.
"You knew my dad?"
Grayson's gaze softened, the edge of suspicion dulling into something almost reflective. "No," he said quietly. "Not your father. Your mother."
John blinked. "My mom?"
Grayson nodded, stepping closer to the desk. "Yes. Before she… stepped away from public life, she used to work right here in this building. Bright woman. Sharp as they come. She was involved in city planning and redevelopment projects back in the day—long before she decided to trade meetings and policy briefings for PTA bake sales."
Devon shifted uneasily beside John. "Wait—you're saying John's mom worked for the city?"
Grayson gave a small, humorless smile. "Worked with the city. She was part of the early infrastructure committee, right around the time FairHaven was modernizing its records and zoning. She had a knack for seeing patterns—connections other people missed. We all thought she'd run for office eventually." He paused, studying John with a look that bordered on pity. "Then Eli disappeared. After that, she… changed. Stopped coming around. Stopped answering calls."
John felt his throat tighten. His mother had never talked about her old job. Never mentioned working here, not once.
The air in the room seemed to thicken, charged with something unspoken. Devon shifted his weight, the faint creak of the floorboards the only sound between them. John's heart thudded in his chest, a dull, heavy rhythm that matched the hum of the fluorescent light overhead.
Grayson's expression lingered in that uneasy space between sympathy and scrutiny. Then, suddenly, his demeanor shifted—like a mask sliding into place. The lines around his eyes smoothed, and a polite smile returned to his lips.
"Well," he said briskly, straightening the blueprints on the desk, "this is actually perfect timing."
Devon glanced at John, uncertain. "Perfect timing for what?"
Grayson ignored the question, pulling a fresh folder from a drawer and spreading several pages across the desk. Among them was a color rendering—a modernized map of Ashwood Park, complete with paved walkways, a new playground, and a circular garden marked near the lake's edge.
At the top, bold letters read: FAIRHAVEN MEMORIAL INITIATIVE – DEDICATION TO ELI HOLDEN AND THE MISSING CHILDREN OF ASHWOOD PARK.
John froze. "What… what is this?" he asked, voice barely audible.
Grayson adjusted his glasses, speaking in the tone of a man reciting from a prepared script. "The town council approved the addition a few months ago. The new renovation will include a memorial—an official recognition of the tragedies tied to the park's history. Your brother's name will be featured prominently. A way for the community to finally find closure."
Devon stared at the rendering, his mouth slightly open. "You're building a memorial on top of it?"
Grayson's smile didn't waver. "We're honoring the past while moving forward. Healing requires progress, gentlemen." He tapped a finger against the paper, right over the spot labeled Memorial Garden. "And this time, we're making sure what's buried stays buried."
John's stomach turned. There was something in Grayson's tone—too smooth, too deliberate. He wasn't talking about healing. He was talking about containment.
"You already started digging?" John asked quietly.
Grayson's gaze flicked to him, a spark of amusement—or warning—in his eyes. "We begin next week."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Devon swallowed hard, glancing between the two men. "John," he whispered, "maybe we should—"
But John didn't move. His eyes were locked on the blueprint, on the words Eli Holden Memorial Garden, printed in neat, sterile font. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out everything else.
He remembered Eli's voice in the dark—Find the key, Johnny. Free us.
And for the first time, he realized what the town was really trying to do.
Grayson slid a thick manila folder across the desk, the corners worn soft from handling. "Here," he said, his tone even but his eyes watching John carefully. "Take this home. Have your parents look it over before we move forward. I can't do anything official until I get their approval."
John frowned, glancing at Devon before pulling the folder closer. "Approval? For what exactly?"
"Renovations like this go through a citizen review process," Grayson explained. "Especially when there's a historical designation involved. If your family owns property bordering the park—or if they were involved in any of the old committees—they'll need to sign off before I can release certain files. Privacy protocols."
John's stomach turned at the mention of old committees. His parents had always brushed off questions about Ashwood Park, claiming they barely remembered the place. But now…
Devon leaned forward. "So you're saying there are files—real ones—about what happened there?"
Grayson hesitated. "Files about what the city said happened," he corrected softly. "Whether that's the truth or not… well, that's another story."
John tucked the folder under his arm. "I'll get you that approval," he said, though his voice felt distant to his own ears.
John tucked the folder under his arm. "I'll get you that approval," he said, though his voice felt distant to his own ears. He paused at the door, meeting Grayson's gaze with quiet resolve. "And when I do… I want to see those records. All of them."
Grayson studied him for a long moment, the faint hum of the office lights filling the silence between them. Finally, he nodded. "If your family signs off, I'll open the archive myself. But be sure, John—once you start digging into this, you might not like what you find."
John's jaw tightened. "I stopped liking what I found in that park ten years ago."
Devon gave a faint, uneasy laugh as they turned to leave. "Guess we're not stopping now, huh?"
John didn't answer. His fingers tightened around the folder, feeling its weight—thin, but heavy in a way paper shouldn't be. He just pushed through the glass doors into the gray afternoon light, muttering under his breath, "No… we're just getting started."