Chapter 4 - The Quarry of Lost Things
The old quarry warehouse sat on the northern edge of Cedar Hollow, a rusted corrugated-iron structure surrounded by chain-link fencing and overgrown weeds. The rain beat a relentless tattoo against the metal roof as Caleb parked his car in the shadow of a decaying crane.
He carried a heavy iron crowbar from his trunk and a flashlight. The gate was locked with a heavy chain, but the lock was rusted, and with a few hard strikes of the crowbar, the link snapped with a metallic clang.
Caleb slipped inside the dark warehouse. The air inside was cold, thick with the smell of motor oil, damp concrete, and old cardboard. Rows of chain-link cages stretched into the gloom.
He shone his flashlight on the unit numbers until he found Unit 112, registered to M.E.M. Holdings.
Unlike the other cages, this one was completely solid, sheeted in heavy plywood to prevent anyone from looking inside. The door was secured with a high-security digital deadbolt.
Caleb stared at the keypad. Six digits.
What code would Preston use? He wouldn't use his own birthday—too obvious. He wouldn't use Caleb’s.
Caleb thought back to the diary. Mara Elaine Mercer. 1998–2026.
He tried Mara’s birthday. 041298.
The lock beeped, a red light flashing. Incorrect.
He tried the date of their wedding. He remembered seeing it on their marriage certificate in Preston's office. 101518.
Incorrect.
Caleb closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cold wood. He thought of his mother's grave. The headstone his father had erected, the monument of lies.
MARA ELAINE MERCER. 1998–2026.
No. The death date on the headstone was wrong. She had died in November of 2025, but the official death certificate hadn't been signed until January of 2026 due to the "investigation" Preston had bought and paid for.
He typed in the date she actually died, the date of her final diary entry: 111125.
A sharp click echoed through the silent warehouse. The deadbolt slid back, and the heavy wooden door creaked open.
Caleb stepped inside, raising his flashlight.
The unit was a surreal museum of his mother's existence. Her clothes hung on a rack, still smelling faintly of lavender and rain. Her paintings, her books, her old college trunk—all preserved in a dust-covered tomb. Preston hadn't destroyed her things because he wanted to keep her trapped, even in death.
In the corner sat a large cardboard box labeled NURSERY - DO NOT OPEN.
Caleb’s heart hammered as he sliced through the packing tape with his knife. Inside were baby clothes, a faded blue blanket, a collection of wooden blocks, and there, at the very bottom, buried beneath a layer of tissue paper, was the plush giraffe.
One of its button eyes was gone, leaving a ragged hole. But the other eye was a perfect, tiny glass dome.
Caleb pulled the toy out, his hands trembling. He turned it over, searching the seams. Near the neck, he felt a hard, rectangular shape embedded deep within the stuffing.
He didn't want to tear the toy, but he had no choice. He used his pocket knife to carefully slice the thread along the giraffe's spine.
He reached inside, his fingers brushing against a small metal casing. He pulled it out.
It was an old, first-generation micro-camera, its battery long dead, but sticking out of the side was a tiny, blue 2GB micro-SD card.
"I knew you couldn't let it go," a voice said from the darkness outside the cage.
Caleb spun around, dropping the giraffe, but keeping his grip on the micro-SD card.
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Preston stood in the doorway of the unit, a heavy silver flashlight in one hand and a small, black revolver in the other. His face was completely devoid of the warmth he showed the world. He looked hollowed out, desperate, and entirely lethal.
"You always were too smart for your own good, Caleb," Preston said, stepping into the small room. "Just like your mother."
