The Investigation Begins
The sirens came first, sharp against the quiet of morning. Then the cruiser, blue lights strobing faintly, pulling into the street where neighbors already gathered in clusters of whispers. Curtains twitched. Porch doors opened. Everyone was watching.
The mother sat rigid on the couch, twisting a dish towel until it frayed. Her husband paced the room like a caged animal, every few seconds glancing through the window where the oak tree brooded at the end of the street.
Two officers entered, their voices calm, professional. "Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell? We understand your daughters are missing."
"Yes," the mother said quickly, rising to her feet. Her words tumbled over each other. "They weren't in their beds this morning. Elena always gets up early, but her room was…too clean, like she hadn't slept there. Mara's was a mess, but empty. Their shoes are gone. They never take off without telling me, never."
The older officer gave her a reassuring nod, already pulling out his notepad. "When was the last time you saw them?"
The father's voice cut in, low, heavy. "Last night. We argued. About school. About rules. It got heated." He swallowed hard. "But they went to their rooms afterward. We thought that was the end of it."
The younger officer glanced up. "Teenagers fight with parents all the time. Maybe they just…needed space. Sometimes kids take off after arguments."
"No," the mother snapped, her eyes flashing. "Not my girls. Elena doesn't miss school. She's perfect. And Mara—" her voice faltered, softened—"Mara follows her. They wouldn't just run."
Upstairs, the officers examined the rooms, notebooks out. Windows latched. Closets empty. No backpacks missing, no money, no jackets. Just the shoes.
Downstairs, the father showed them Mara's sketchbook. He opened it to the drawing—two figures beneath the twisted oak tree, their outlines almost swallowed by dark roots.
The older officer frowned but shook his head. "Kids draw strange things. It doesn't mean anything."
The father bristled. "It means something."
Out in the yard, the younger officer crouched by the grass. Two faint sets of footprints pressed into the dew, side by side, heading straight for the street.
"They left together," he murmured.
"Heading where?" the father asked. But his eyes were already fixed on the oak tree.
It loomed at the end of the block, roots thick as rope, branches clawing the sky.
The officer followed his gaze, then gave a dismissive shake of the head. "That tree? It's just a tree. They probably walked past it, not to it." He straightened, dusting his hands. "Look, with that argument last night, the simplest explanation is they ran. Kids don't just vanish without cause."
The father's jaw clenched. "You don't know that tree."
The officer's pen scratched against his pad. "We'll canvas the neighborhood, check with friends, see if anyone spotted them. That's the logical place to start."
The mother stepped forward, her voice trembling. "Logical? My daughters don't run away. Something's wrong."
The older officer put on a careful smile. "We'll do everything we can, ma'am."
But as they turned toward the street, their radio crackling softly, the father stayed behind, rooted in the yard. His eyes never left the oak tree.
Because while the officers dismissed it, he felt it—something vast and silent, waiting beneath those roots.