The wind pushed through the empty playground, creaking the swings like they were whispering secrets. I pulled my jacket tighter and adjusted my notebook. This wasn’t really how I thought I’d be spending Saturday afternoon standing in the place where a girl vanished fifteen years ago.
Her name was Jessica Hilton. The papers called her “The Girl in the Green Hoodie.” Last seen walking home from the library, she never made it back. My parents say they still remember the flyers stapled to every pole. But to me, she’s just a name in dusty files I found in our attic.
I crouched by the slide, brushing away dead leaves. But something about the spot felt … wrong. The ground was softer here, like it had been disturbed. I pulled out my phone and took a picture.
A crunch of gravel made me freeze.
“Looking for something?”
The voice belonged to Mr. Kane, the janitor at our school. He was holding a trash bag, but his eyes were locked on my notebook.
“Just … working on a history project,” I said. My voice sounded way too casual.
“Uh-huh.” His gaze flicked toward the corner of the playground, then back to me. “Best stay away from this place. Bad things happen here.”
He walked off, but my heart kept pounding long after his footsteps faded.
That night, I’d spread the photos across my desk. The slide. The corner of the fence. The way Mr. Kane looked at me like I stepped into something dangerous.
One file in the attic had mentioned a witness, someone who saw Jessica that day. It didn’t give a name, just M.K. My stomach twisted.
I couldn’t just accuse him. But I could look closer.
The next afternoon, I sat on the playground bench with my notebook open, pretending to sketch. I watched as Mr. Kane collected trash from the far side of the park. He moved slowly, like he was listening for something.
When he disappeared behind the storage shed, I hurried toward the fence corner. The dirt was uneven there, and tucked between roots of old oak was a small metal bracelet. The clasp was broken, but the charm was still attached to a tiny silver book. My breath stopped. The articles had said Jessica loved reading.
I slipped it into my pocket.
At home, I cleaned the bracelet under my desk lamp, turning it on. Scratches marked the bracelet, but one letter was clear—J.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The bracelet felt heavy in my pocket, like it was pulling me toward answers.
By Monday morning, I knew what I had to do. I went to the police station before school. My hands shook as I slid the bracelet across the counter.
The officer’s eyebrows lifted. “Where did you find this?”
I told him about the playground, about the files, about Mr. Kane’s warning. He listened without interrupting, his pen moving fast.
When I finished, he leaned forward. “You might have just given us the lead we’ve been waiting for.”
