Page 29 of A Sister's Secret

Lisa's fingers trembled as she held the phone with the digital recorder app open, its red light glowing like a beacon in the dim morning light. She replayed the last few seconds of Ramirez’s testimony, ensuring every word had been captured—a lifeline in the storm that was surely coming. This way, if anything happened to him, she would be able to keep the evidence. With each harrowing detail preserved in the device’s memory, she felt the weight of the truth and the burden of her next steps.

"Michelle's boy… he deserves to know," Lisa whispered to herself, her gaze hardening with resolve.

As she returned to her car, Lisa's mind raced with the implications of what she'd learned. Sheriff Jim—the fatherly figure who'd patted children’s heads and led the town's Fourth of July parade—was a predator masked by his badge. The magnitude of his betrayal was unfathomable, yet here in her hands lay the fragile beginnings of his undoing.

Ensuring every piece of evidence was securely saved, Lisa made sure to save the recordings to her cloud. Her heart thudded against her ribs; every sound in the secluded clearing felt amplified, every rustle of leaves a potential alarm. She needed to move, to put distance between herself and this place before the world woke up to discover her meddling.

Like a shadow melting into the underbrush, Lisa took one last look around the clearing. She couldn't let fear take root; she thought of her children’s faces and Oliver’s unwavering trust and steeled herself for the road ahead.

She retraced her steps with practiced care, avoiding the patches of soft earth she’d memorized on her way in. Each footfall was placed with precision, leaving no trace of her passage. Her breaths came in controlled whispers, blending with the cool breeze that stirred the trees into hushed conversation.

Pausing at the edge of the woods, Lisa peered back toward the meeting spot, now just a distant enclave of shadows and secrets. Her eyes danced over every possible vantage point, searching for signs of movement, of being watched. But there was only the serene stillness of nature, unaware and indifferent to the human treachery it harbored.

Convinced of her solitude, Lisa turned away from the site. Her movements were swift and silent as she hurried toward her car in the parking lot out front of the mill. The adrenaline pumping through her veins sang a song of both triumph and trepidation. She knew the battle had only just begun, but armed with the truth, Lisa Thompson was a force that even Sheriff Jim would soon reckon with.

The first light of dawn found Lisa in her kitchen, the gentle hum of the refrigerator offering a soothing counterpoint to the thunderous beat of her heart. As she sipped her coffee, the steam curled upwards, mingling with the resolve etched into the furrows of her brow. She knew what needed to be done—confronting Sheriff Jim was a gambit fraught with peril, but it was one she could not shy away from.

She settled into a chair, the creak of the aged wood beneath her a familiar comfort. Her mind raced through scenarios, each potential conversation with the sheriff playing out like a chess match where every move could lead to checkmate. She needed incontrovertible proof of his guilt, something that would stand up beyond the shadow of doubt… or his admittance of guilt.

"Protect and serve," she whispered to herself, echoing the very oath Jim Coleman had taken. The irony was not lost on her; she would protect her family and serve justice, even if it meant facing down the man who had sworn to do the same for their town.

Lisa's fingers danced over her phone, typing out the message with deliberation. "Sheriff, there's something about Michelle's case we didn't see before. Can you meet me at the old mill ASAP? There’s privacy, and I can show you what I've found."

After hitting send, she placed the phone on the table, feeling its weight as though it were an anchor in the storm of her thoughts. She rehearsed her expressions in the reflection of the dark window pane, schooling her features into a mask of innocence and ignorance. She was sure—or at least she hoped and prayed—that he believed she hadn’t seen his face when he attacked her at Maggie’s house.

The phone vibrated, its movement small but significant. She read the reply: "Lisa, I'll be there. We need to get to the bottom of this."

A mirthless smile touched her lips. If only he knew how deep the bottom was.

For one suspended moment, she allowed herself to feel the warmth of the sun streaming through the window, the golden rays casting patterns across the tabletop. It was a simple pleasure, a reminder of life's quiet beauty amidst the chaos she was about to invite.

She dressed in layers, practicality dictating her choices, and pocketed a small recording device. It was her backup plan—insurance in the form of technology in case he took her phone.

Before stepping out, she paused at the threshold of each of her children's rooms, watching them sleep in peaceful oblivion. In those silent sanctuaries, she renewed her vow to fight for their future, no matter the cost. Oliver was lost in sleep in their mutual bed, which she had come back to after the attack. He would only try and stop her. He no longer thought it was worth the fight, not after she was attacked. So she decided not to tell him.

With a deep breath, Lisa closed the door behind her, the click of the latch sounding like the starting gun of a race, at least in her ears. The thrill of the chase pulsed through her veins as she drove toward the old mill, a place where history stood still amid the whispers of the past.

The rendezvous point loomed ahead, its weathered timbers and silent machinery the witnesses to what would unfold. Lisa parked her car, the crunch of gravel under the tires breaking the hush of morning. She stepped out, her eyes scanning the tree line for any sign of Sheriff Jim's arrival.

The old mill loomed over them like a silent sentinel, its walls etched with secrets of the past. Lisa stood in the shadow of its vast entrance, her breath condensing in the crisp morning air. Sheriff Jim's imposing figure approached, his footsteps deliberate and cautious on the frost-kissed ground.

"Morning, Lisa," he greeted, tipping his hat with a practiced courtesy that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Heard you had something urgent to discuss?"

Lisa's heart hammered against her ribs, but her voice was steady as she replied, "Yes, Jim. It's about Michelle."

The sheriff's posture stiffened, his hands instinctively clasping behind his back—a defensive gesture that did not escape Lisa's perceptive gaze. She reached into her coat, producing an envelope swollen with potential ruin for the man before her.

"Michelle deserved better," Lisa said, her words edged with cold determination. She handed him the envelope. "And I intend to ensure she gets justice."

Sheriff Jim's fingers hesitated before taking the offering, his expression unreadable. As he tore it open, his eyes scanned the contents: the Polaroid photographs, the written testimonies from the town where she had lived, where they said they had seen him and her together, the witness's account written out as Ramirez had told it to her—all painting a damning picture of the night Michelle died.

“What is this?” he asked.

She also showed him the print of the newspaper article she carried with her. “It was this that led me to Enistown, where Michelle was living, or rather hiding with her son.”

He sighed. “What are you talking about? Could you make it quick? I have places to be.”

“The article is a story about a young woman from Enistown who was arrested for speeding between Mapletown and Enistown by a certain Sheriff Coleman. And then she was raped. In the middle of the road, she was pulled out of her car and raped in the grass on the cold ground. She reported it, but nothing came of it. The story was hushed because of who the perpetrator was—you. She went to the newspapers with the story, but still, no one dared to touch you. That’s how big you are around here. Right? So, you did it again. A few years later, Michelle was driving the same stretch of road, and she was stopped. She was 17 at the time. She was also drunk and known as a party girl around town. So, you raped her, then took her home to her parents, telling them that next time you’d have to take her in. You thought she wouldn’t remember, or at least no one would believe her if she did. But she wrote it all down in her diary, Jim. She remembered every little nasty detail, down to your smell and the look in your eyes, as is common for rape victims.”

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