Margaret Caldwell’s property sat miles away from town—a sprawling farm surrounded by thick forest.
Floodlights illuminated the yard like the perimeter of a prison.
Margaret stood in the doorway when Daniel arrived. Tall, thin, gray hair twisted into a severe bun.
She didn’t look like a grandmother.
She looked like a warden.
“Daniel,” she said calmly. “Your son is reflecting on his behavior.”
“Where?”
“In the garden.”
Her tone carried no warmth.
Daniel walked past her without asking permission.
The yard stretched into darkness. He switched on the flashlight on his phone and scanned the ground.
That’s when he saw it.
Freshly turned soil.
His heart began pounding.
The beam of light moved downward into a hole in the earth.
And inside it stood his seven-year-old son.
The pit was about four feet deep, its walls slick with frozen mud. The boy’s pajamas were soaked, his small body trembling uncontrollably.
His eyes widened when he saw Daniel.
“Daddy…”
Daniel dropped to his knees and pulled him out instantly.
The boy’s body felt ice cold.
“What happened?” Daniel whispered, wrapping him in his jacket.
His son clung to him tightly.
“Bad boys sleep in graves,” he whispered weakly.
Daniel felt his chest tighten.