Chapter 9 - The Edge of the Woods
Following Marcus's advice, I drove my rental sedan out to the perimeter of the estate where LOCATION_X had hosted the gala just two nights prior. The glittering string lights and magnolia trees had already been dismantled by a crew of morning contractors, leaving behind flattened grass, tire ruts, and discarded plastic water bottles. I parked the car off the gravel access road and walked along the boundary fence, searching for the point of entry. Lily sat quietly in the passenger seat of the rental, coloring in a notebook I had bought her that morning, but I needed to retrace her steps before my memory of the night faded.
The estate backed up against a sprawling, densely wooded public park that stretched for miles along the river valley. Pushing past a rusted maintenance gate that had been left unlatched, I stepped off the manicured lawn of the venue and into the wild, unkempt underbrush. The transition was abrupt—suddenly the manicured elegance of high society was replaced by towering oaks, damp earth, and the scent of rotting leaves.
About fifty yards into the tree line, tucked beneath a low-hanging canopy of pine branches, I found what I was looking for.
It was a makeshift campsite. A faded canvas tarp was strung between two saplings, weighted down at the corners by heavy river stones. Beneath the shelter lay a soiled sleeping bag, a battered aluminum cook pot, and a plastic milk crate filled with a few changes of oversized, worn clothing. Spread across the damp ground were empty packages of instant ramen and a crumpled, yellowed photograph of a young woman standing outside a roadside motel.
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My chest tightened as I crouched down to examine the site. This was where Lily had come from. Someone had been living here on the ragged edge of the woods, right at the doorstep of the wealthy elite, invisible to the world until hunger drove a four-year-old child across the property line toward the glowing lights and the multi-tiered wedding cake.
I picked up the crumpled photograph, brushing a speck of dirt off the glossy surface. The woman in the picture had the same soft brown hair as Lily, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion and desperation. There was no sign of her here now. The sleeping bag was cold, the ashes in the small fire ring completely gray. Whoever had been tending this makeshift home was gone, leaving behind only unanswered questions and a terrified little girl who had wandered into a garden party looking for a piece of bread.
