The officers reached the abandoned property just after sunset.
Rain had turned the dirt road into a strip of mud, and the police vehicles had to stop near the gate. Beyond it stood a small, neglected house surrounded by weeds and black trees.
Detective Alvarez arrived with the state police team.
I remained at the hospital with Renata.
She watched the rain sliding down the window.
“That's where she is,” she said.
I didn't ask how she knew.
The detective had already promised to call.
Within twenty minutes, my phone rang.
“We found the entrance,” Alvarez said.
“To the underground room?”
“Yes.”
“Is Daniela there?”
A pause.
“We haven't reached the room yet.”
“Why?”
“There's a steel door.”
“Locked?”
“From the outside.”
My stomach tightened.
“Open it.”
“We are.”
I heard metal striking metal in the background.
Renata looked at me.
“Tell them to hurry.”
“They're working on it.”
“They have to hurry.”
I pressed the phone closer.
“What does she mean?”
Renata whispered, “The water.”
I turned toward her.
“What water?”
“She told me the room floods when it rains.”
I repeated that to Alvarez.
There was silence.
Then the detective said, “Tell her to explain.”
Renata leaned toward the phone.
“There was a pipe.”
“Where?”
“Behind the wall.”
“What happens?”
“If it rains too much, water comes through.”
Alvarez immediately relayed the warning to the officers.
Minutes later, she called again.
“The door is open.”
I stopped breathing.
“What did they find?”
“A narrow concrete stairway.”
“Anything else?”
“Footprints.”
“Fresh?”
“Yes.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“Child-sized?”
“Some are.”
Renata closed her eyes.
“She was there.”
The officers descended.
Their body cameras recorded everything.
The stairway was barely wide enough for one person. Water ran along the edges, carrying dirt toward a drain.
At the bottom was a corridor.
On one wall, someone had scratched dates into the concrete.
1998.
1999.
2000.
2001.
2002.
2003.
The newest date was from three days earlier.
Beside it were two initials.
D.M.
Detective Alvarez sent me a photograph.
Renata saw it.
“That was her.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
A few seconds later, Alvarez called.
“We've reached the room.”
I couldn't speak.
“Detective?”
“There's a mattress.”
My chest tightened.
“Is anyone on it?”
“No.”
“What else?”
“Food wrappers. Water bottles. A blanket.”
“Daniela?”
“Not here.”
Renata covered her face.
I felt the disappointment move through the room like cold air.
Then Alvarez said, “Wait.”
“What?”
“One of the officers found something beneath the mattress.”
“What?”
“A bracelet.”
“What kind?”
“Plastic.”
Renata looked up.
“Daniela's.”
The detective examined it.
Her voice changed.
“It has a name.”
“What name?”
“Daniela.”
I began crying.
Not because we had found her.
Because we had found another piece proving she had been there.
The search continued.
The officers photographed every wall.
One contained children's drawings.
Another held a row of pencil marks.
There were thirty-one.
Most had dates beside them.
Two did not.
Alvarez called again.
“We found boxes.”
“How many?”
“Seven.”
“Open them.”
“We're doing it carefully.”
The first contained old photographs.
The second contained notebooks.
The third contained attendance records.
The fourth contained medical forms.
The fifth contained photographs of children.
The sixth was empty.
The seventh had only one item.
A red scarf.
Renata stared at the photograph Alvarez sent.
“That isn't Daniela's.”
“Whose is it?”
“I don't know.”
The detective opened the notebook from the second box.
Its pages contained names.
Some had been crossed out.
Others had notes beside them.
“Transferred.”
“Withdrawn.”
“Family notified.”
But some names had only one word.
“Missing.”
There were eleven.
I felt sick.
“How long?”
“Some are from decades ago.”
“Children?”
“Yes.”
The detective's voice became quieter.
“This wasn't created recently.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the people we're dealing with may have been doing this for years.”
I looked at Renata.
She had gone very still.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“There's something else.”
“What?”
“Daniela told me not to trust the list.”
“Why?”
“She said some children weren't missing.”
I stared at her.
“What did she mean?”
“She said some of them came back.”
“Then why were their names crossed out?”
“I don't know.”
The detective heard everything.
“Renata, did Daniela ever mention where those children went?”
“She said some went home.”
“And the others?”
Renata swallowed.
“She said some stayed.”
“Where?”
She pointed toward the floor.
“Here.”
The detective went silent.
Then an officer shouted something in the background.
Alvarez moved away from the phone.
I heard footsteps.
Then her voice returned.
“We found another passage.”
My heart sank.
“Where does it lead?”
“Up.”
“Where?”
“We're not sure.”
A minute later she said, “It opens beneath the retreat house.”
The same property.
The same building where the camp had continued operating.
A hidden network beneath it.
I asked the question I was afraid to ask.
“Could Daniela have been moved through it?”
“Yes.”
“Could she still be there?”
“We don't know.”
Renata suddenly stood.
“She is.”
I turned toward her.
“How do you know?”
She stared at the phone.
“Because she told me.”
“When?”
“Before they took her.”
“What did she say?”
Renata's voice trembled.
“She said if she ever disappeared, she'd leave a trail.”
Detective Alvarez heard.
“What kind of trail?”
Renata looked toward the rain.
“Red.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: A Trail of Red Marks Led Investigators Beneath the Camp, Where a Hidden Passage Revealed the Meaning Behind Daniela’s Final Warning
The Bus Arrived Late, and One Small Detail Made Me Realize My Daughter Had Come Home Carrying Something No Child Should Have
Part 9 of 27
