I bought the used sedan because it was cheap, clean, and came from a dealership I trusted. Nothing about it seemed strange—until I checked the GPS and saw a single saved address labeled “Home.” I assumed the previous owner, Michael Turner, had simply forgotten to clear it. But after a long week at work, curiosity pushed me to see where “Home” actually was.
The route led me out of Denver, winding through old logging roads toward a mountain overlook I’d never visited. The higher I drove, the more uneasy I felt. The air thinned, the sun dipped behind the ridge, and the signal bars on my phone vanished. Still, I kept going, convinced I’d find nothing more than a forgotten cabin or scenic point.
But when I pulled into the overlook, a man in his seventies stepped out from behind a rusted guardrail. He wore a faded parka, a knit beanie, and an expression that froze me in place.
He walked toward my window. “You’re not Michael,” he said.
“No,” I answered, pulse hammering. “I… bought his car.”
The man’s jaw tightened. “He said he’d come back. He promised.”
Something in his voice—anger mixed with fear—made my skin crawl. I got out, keeping distance. “Sir, I don’t know what happened. I just found this address in the GPS. That’s all.”
He glanced at the car like it was a ghost. “You shouldn’t be here. He should’ve destroyed that thing.”
My breath caught. “Destroyed what?”
The old man stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Did you look under the driver’s seat?”
My stomach twisted. “No. Why?”
He pointed directly at the car—hand steady, eyes sharp. “Because whatever you find there… it’s the real reason Michael ran.”
Before I could respond, he looked past me at the tree line, like he’d heard something coming. “If you’re smart,” he said, “you’ll leave now.”
The wind kicked up, slamming the car door against my leg. I felt it then—a heavy, unfamiliar dread. Something about this wasn’t a misunderstanding. It was a warning.
And I hadn’t even checked under the seat yet.
My hands shook as I opened the driver’s door and crouched down. The old man stayed several feet back, watching me like he already knew how this would go. The fabric under the seat looked normal, but when I slid my fingers along the metal track, something taped to the underside brushed my knuckles.
A black, dust-covered phone.
Not a modern smartphone—an older, rugged-looking model. Prepaid. Cheap. The kind criminals buy to avoid being traced.
I looked at the old man. “Is this what you meant?”
He nodded. “That’s Michael’s insurance policy.”
I swallowed hard and powered it on. The screen lit up instantly, no password required. There were only two things inside: a call log with one recurring number… and a single video file.
The old man’s voice cut through the cold air. “If you’re going to watch it, do it here. And then decide what kind of trouble you’re willing to inherit.”
I hit play.
The video showed Michael in the same car I was standing beside now. He was sweating, breathing hard, whispering into the phone. “If anything happens to me, this is proof. I did what you told me. I picked her up. But I didn’t know what you planned to do with her.”
My chest tightened. “Her?”
The video jumped. The next frame was Michael holding the camera closer. “I left her at the overlook. She was alive. I swear she was alive.”
Then the clip ended.
I stood there, frozen. “Who was she? What happened to her?”
The old man exhaled slowly, like the answer cost him something. “My granddaughter. Emily. She disappeared two years ago. Last seen getting into a car that matches yours. The police couldn’t prove Michael took her. But that”—he pointed at the phone—“that could’ve changed everything. And he knew it.”
I felt the ground tilt beneath me. “So why didn’t he delete it? Or destroy the phone?”
“Because he was scared of the men he worked for. And scared of me.” The old man stepped closer. “But if that GPS address was still saved, it means Michael planned to come back and finish what he started.”
I looked down the road I’d driven up. Empty. Silent. Too quiet.
“Do you think he knows I have the car?” I asked.
The old man’s expression hardened. “I think he will soon.”
A low rumble echoed from somewhere below the ridge. An engine.
Someone was coming.
The old man reacted first. “Turn off your headlights,” he ordered. I did. Darkness swallowed the overlook, leaving only the faint glow from the phone in my hand.
The approaching engine grew louder, steady, deliberate. Not lost. Not casual. Whoever was coming knew exactly where they were headed.
“We need to hide,” the old man whispered.
I crouched behind the car with him, heart jackhammering in my chest. A black SUV rolled into view, its brake lights pulsing red against the snow-dusted ground. A man stepped out—tall, mid-forties, clean-cut, the kind of face you’d forget if you didn’t know better.
The old man murmured, “That’s Carter. Michael’s boss.”
Carter scanned the overlook like he was counting shadows. Then he approached my car. He tested the door handle. Locked. He circled the vehicle, inspecting it with calm precision.
He spoke aloud, almost to himself. “He wouldn’t leave it unattended… unless he’s already here.”
The old man tensed beside me. “We move on my signal,” he whispered.
But Carter suddenly knelt, reaching under the driver’s seat—the exact spot I’d found the phone. His hand hit tape residue. His shoulders stiffened.
And then he turned the flashlight directly toward where we were hiding.
The old man yanked my arm, and we bolted into the trees. Branches scraped my face, the cold air stabbing my lungs. Behind us, Carter shouted, “Stop! I just want the phone!”
A gunshot cracked through the woods, shredding bark inches from my head.
We didn’t stop running until the mountain finally sloped downward toward an old service road. The old man collapsed against a boulder, breathing hard.
“We can’t outrun him forever,” I whispered.
“We don’t need to.” He held out his hand. “The phone.”
I hesitated, then gave it to him. He smashed it against the rock until it cracked open—then pulled out the tiny SIM card.
“This is what he wants,” he said. “Without it, he has nothing to protect himself with. The rest of the phone is useless.”
Another engine sounded—closer this time, coming up the service road.
“We need to split up,” the old man said. “If he catches one of us, the other still has a chance to reach the police.”
My stomach twisted. “He’s armed. You can’t just—”
He gripped my shoulder. “Emily deserves someone who won’t run.”
Before I could answer, headlights burst through the trees.
And I had seconds to decide which way to run.