Chapter 3- The Names They Buried
2348 Words
Ava
The library opened at nine. Ava was waiting for eight-thirty.
She didn’t pace. She didn’t rehearse. She just stood there, arms folded, watching the mural fade in the morning light.
The girl painted on the wall—Aelia—had her face. But not her name. Not anymore.
Inside, the librarian from yesterday was shelving returns. She looked up, startled, then nodded. “You’re back.”
“I need the newspaper archives,” Ava said. “June 2015. The week I disappeared.”
The woman hesitated. “They’re on microfilm. I’ll show you.”
Ava followed her past the children’s section, past the genealogy binders, to a small room with a humming machine and a drawer full of reels.
“Here,” the librarian said, sliding one out. “Let me know if you need help.”
Ava didn’t answer.
She loaded the reel. The screen flickered. Headlines scrolled past.
Local Girl Missing After School Event
Search Continues for Aelia White, Age 13
Community Holds Vigil for Missing Teen
She stopped.
The article was short. Aelia had last been seen near the edge of the Davies property. No witnesses. No suspects.
Her parents were named in the piece.
Jonathan White and Marissa White declined to comment.
Ava stared at the names. Her hands trembled.
Jonathan. Marissa.
She whispered them aloud.
They didn’t feel familiar. But they felt real.
She printed the article. Folded it carefully. Slipped it into her jacket.
Then she searched the rest of the week.
There was a photo from the vigil. Candles. Posters. Faces.
She zoomed in.
The mural had borrowed from this image.
Aelia in the center. But behind her—five others.
A boy with a scar over his eyebrow. A girl with braids. A woman with a wolf pendant.
She printed that too.
She left the microfilm room and returned to the mural.
The faces matched.
The boy with the scar was painted near the bottom, half-hidden by ivy. The girl with braids was faded, her outline barely visible.
Ava traced her fingers over the wolf pendant.
She didn’t know their names. But she knew they mattered.
She took out the photo. Circled each face.
She would find them.
She would name them.
Her phone buzzed. Not hers—Ian’s.
He was leaning against the truck, scrolling through something. He answered without looking.
“Taylor,” he said. “Hey.”
A pause.
“Yeah, we’re still in Evergreen.”
Another pause.
“She remembered her parents’ names. Jonathan and Marissa White.”
Ava turned toward him.
“She found the mural,” Ian continued. “And the cops reopened the case.”
Taylor’s voice was faint through the speaker. Concerned. Steady.
Ava stepped closer. Ian handed her the phone.
“She wants to talk to you,” he said.
Ava hesitated. Then took it.
“Hi,” she said.
“Ava,” Taylor said. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
“I’m not,” Ava said. “But I’m here.”
“That counts.”
Ava didn’t know what to say.
Taylor filled the silence. “I’ve been checking the databases. There’s no record of Kaleb after 2017. He vanished.”
“Of course he did.”
“But Elias didn’t. He’s still listed as a contractor for the state. I’m digging.”
Ava nodded. “Thank you.”
“I’ll keep you posted.”
Ava handed the phone back. Ian ended the call.
They stood there, facing the mural.
“I want to find the others,” Ava said. “The ones in the photo.”
Ian nodded. “We’ll start with the pendant. Maybe it’s a pack symbol.”
Ava looked at the wolf.
It wasn’t just a symbol. It was a promise.
She folded the photo again.
Evergreen had buried her name. Her parents. Her pack.
But she was digging.
And she wasn’t alone.
The librarian didn’t ask questions this time.
She just unlocked the archive room and left Ava alone.
Ava sat down with the photo from the vigil, the one she’d printed yesterday. Jonathan and Marissa White. Her parents. Their names felt like they were borrowed clothes—familiar in shape, foreign in fit.
She scanned the article again. No funeral. No memorial. Just a vigil and silence.
She searched for next week’s papers.
There was a follow-up: Search for Aelia White Suspended Pending New Leads.
No new leads came.
But the article mentioned something else.
Local contractor Kaleb R. assisted in search efforts. No comment from law enforcement.
Ava’s stomach turned.
She printed it. Circled his name.
Then she turned back to the mural.
The girl with braids. The boy with the scar. The woman with the pendant.
She searched the archives for community events from that spring.
There was a photo from a school fundraiser. The girl with braids was there—labeled as Maya Lin, age 14.
Another article listed a local youth group. The boy with the scar was named Jesse Alvarez.
The woman with the pendant appeared in a town council photo. Ruth Delgado, community liaison.
Ava wrote their names down.
Maya. Jesse. Ruth.
She didn’t know if they were alive.
She didn’t know if they remembered her.
But they were real.
She folded the paper and left the library.
Outside, Ian was pacing. His phone buzzed again. He answered.
“Taylor,” he said. “Yeah, she’s inside.”
A pause.
“She found three names. Maya Lin, Jesse Alvarez, Ruth Delgado.”
Another pause.
“No, we haven’t reached out yet. We’re trying to confirm they’re still in town.”
Ava stepped closer. Ian handed her the phone.
Taylor’s voice was sharper this time. “Ava, listen. I pulled Kaleb’s employment records. He was listed as a state contractor for ‘containment and recovery.’ That’s code for hunter work.”
“I know,” Ava said.
“There’s more. He filed a report the day after you disappeared. Said he found ‘an infected juvenile’ and relocated her for safety.”
Ava’s breath caught.
“He used your birth name,” Taylor continued. “But the report was sealed. No follow-up. No oversight.”
Ava didn’t speak.
Taylor lowered her voice. “He made you disappear on paper before he ever changed your name.”
Ava handed the phone back.
Ian ended the call.
They stood in silence.
Then Ava said, “We need to find Maya.”
Ian nodded. “Start with the school.”
They drove to the high school. It was still open. Still standing.
The receptionist looked up. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Maya Lin,” Ava said. “She was a student here in 2015.”
The woman frowned. “She graduated in 2019. Moved to Pittsburgh, I think.”
“Do you have a forwarding contact?”
“I’m not allowed to give that out.”
Ava didn’t argue.
She left her name. Her number.
They tried the town hall next.
Ruth Delgado was still listed as a liaison.
But her office was empty.
A clerk said she retired last year. No forwarding address.
Jesse Alvarez was harder. No records. No listings.
They checked the cemetery.
He wasn’t there.
But someone had scratched his name into the back of the mural.
Ava traced it with her fingers.
Jesse.
She didn’t know what happened to him.
But she knew this:
Kaleb had erased more than her.
And she was done being silent.
The mural was fading faster than Ava expected.
She stood in front of it again, tracing the outlines with her eyes. Maya’s braids. Jesse’s scar. Ruth’s pendant.
She’d written their names down. Folded the paper twice. Slipped it into her jacket like a promise.
The library had nothing more. The school had given her a forwarding city. The town hall had given her nothing.
But the mural gave her something else.
A signature.
Near the bottom corner, half-covered by ivy: Painted by L. Delgado, 2015.
Not Ruth.
L.
Ava stepped back. Looked again.
The style was different from the town’s usual signage. Softer. Personal.
She walked to the clerk’s office. Asked for any records on local artists.
The woman frowned. “You mean Lena Delgado?”
Ava nodded. “Where can I find her?”
“She runs the community center now. Down on Maple.”
Ava didn’t wait.
The center was quiet. A few kids in the back room. A bulletin board with faded flyers.
Lena was in the art room, sorting brushes.
She looked up when Ava entered.
Her eyes widened.
“You’re her,” she said. “You’re Aelia.”
Ava didn’t answer.
Lena stepped forward. “I painted you. After the vigil. I didn’t think you’d ever come back.”
“Why did you paint the others?” Ava asked.
“They were part of you,” Lena said. “Your pack. Your people. We didn’t know their names, but we remembered their faces.”
Ava pulled out the photo. “This was from the vigil.”
Lena nodded. “I used it as a reference.”
“Do you know what happened to them?”
Lena hesitated. “Jesse disappeared a week after you did. Maya moved away. Ruth stopped coming to council meetings. It was like the whole pack was scattered.”
“Did anyone look?”
“No one wanted to.”
Ava folded the photo again. “I do.”
Lena reached into a drawer. Pulled out a sketchbook.
“I kept records,” she said. “Drawings. Notes. Faces.”
She flipped to a page. Jesse. Maya. Ruth. Two others Ava didn’t recognize.
“Who are they?” Ava asked.
“Twins,” Lena said. “They were always quiet. I never got their names.”
Ava stared at the sketches.
She felt something shift.
Not memory. Not recognition.
But weight.
She copied the drawings. Took Lena’s number. Promised to return.
Outside, Ian was on the phone again.
Taylor’s voice was louder this time. Urgent.
“She found the artist,” Ian said. “Lena Delgado. She sketched the whole pack.”
A pause.
“What do you mean sealed again?”
Ava stepped closer.
Ian looked at her. “Taylor says Kaleb’s report was reclassified last year. Someone buried it deeper.”
Ava’s jaw tightened. “Who?”
“She’s checking.”
Another pause.
Ian’s face darkened. “It was flagged by a private contractor. Name redacted. But the timestamp matches Elias’s last employment record.”
Ava didn’t speak.
Taylor’s voice crackled. “He didn’t just watch. He helped erase it.”
Ava took the phone.
“Find out who paid him,” she said. “Find out what else he buried.”
Taylor nodded. “I will.”
Ava ended the call.
She looked at Ian. “We’re not done.”
He nodded. “Not even close.”
They walked back to the mural.
The ivy had shifted. A new face was visible.
One Ava hadn’t seen before.
A boy. Pale eyes. Freckles.
She didn’t know his name.
But she would.
She would name every face.
And she would make Evergreen remember.
The twins haunted her.
Not because they were missing.
Because they were unnamed.
Ava sat at the motel desk, Lena’s sketches spread out in front of her. The twins were drawn in charcoal—one with a birthmark near his eye, the other with a braid tucked behind her ear.
Lena had labeled them Unknown 1 and Unknown 2.
Ava stared at them.
She didn’t remember their voices. Didn’t remember if they ever spoke.
But she remembered the way they stood—always behind her, always watching.
Ian came in with coffee. Set it down without speaking.
She pointed to the sketch. “They were part of the pack.”
Ian nodded. “We’ll find them.”
“How?”
He sat beside her. “We go back to the vigil. The photo. There were names listed in the caption.”
Ava pulled it out. Scanned the bottom.
Photo courtesy of Evergreen Gazette. Pictured: Aelia White, Maya Lin, Jesse Alvarez, Ruth Delgado, twins L. and C. Moreno.
She circled the names.
L. and C. Moreno.
She searched the town directory. No listing.
She searched the cemetery again. Nothing.
She called Lena.
“Do you remember Morenos?”
Lena paused. “They lived near the edge of town. Trailer park off Route 9. Moved out after the vigil.”
Ava hung up.
They drove to Route 9.
The trailer park was half-abandoned. Rusted swings. A broken fence.
Ava knocked on the manager’s door.
An older man answered. “You looking for someone?”
“Morenos,” Ava said. “St. and C.”
He frowned. “They left years ago. No forwarding address.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
He hesitated. “One of the kids got sick. The other disappeared. Parents packed up and left.”
Ava didn’t ask more.
She walked back to the truck.
Ian didn’t speak.
She sat down slowly.
“They were infected,” she said.
Ian nodded. “Like you.”
She looked at him. “But I survived.”
He didn’t answer.
Her phone buzzed. Taylor again.
Ian answered.
“Yeah,” he said. “We found the twins’ names. Moreno.”
A pause.
“What do you mean there’s a second report?”
Ava turned.
Ian handed her the phone.
Taylor’s voice was tight. “Kaleb filed another report. Same day. Different subject.”
“Who?” Ava asked.
“C. Moreno. Said she was ‘unrecoverable.’ No body. No follow-up.”
Ava’s throat closed.
“She was thirteen,” Taylor said. “Same age as you.”
Ava didn’t speak.
Taylor continued. “The report was sealed. But it was flagged by Elias. He signed off.”
Ava ended the call.
She looked at Ian.
“They erased her.”
He nodded. “But you remembered.”
She opened Lena’s sketchbook again.
C. Moreno.
She traced the braid behind her ear.
She didn’t know her voice.
But she would speak for her.
- Writer
