On May 18th, 2019, five friends left Paradisa restaurant at 11:47 p.m. Laughing, drunk on champagne. Sophia calling for an Uber while her friends waited by the valet stand. They never made it to the car. No witnesses, no security footage, no bodies, just five women who stepped out of a restaurant and ceased to exist. For 2 years, their families searched.

 

 

 Sophia’s boyfriend offered a $500,000 reward. He cried on television, begged for information, organized vigils every month. The devoted boyfriend who wouldn’t give up hope. Then a construction crew breaking ground on Riverside Drive cracked open concrete that had been poured in the wrong place, an old foundation that wasn’t supposed to be there, sealed with fresh cement 2 years ago when the site was supposed to be vacant.

 Inside were five bodies wearing the same dresses from their final Instagram posts. But it was what Daniela found in her sister Khloe’s clenched fist, a torn piece of monogrammed shirt, the same shirt someone swore they weren’t wearing that night, that revealed why five friends could vanish from a busy street without anyone seeing a thing. The excavator’s teeth scraped against something that made Roy Mendes stop.

 23 years operating heavy machinery, you learned the difference between hitting rock and hitting something that shouldn’t be there. He’d been breaking up the old foundation since dawn, the mayheat already making his shirt stick to his back, even though it was barely 8:00 a.m. “Hold up,” he called to his crew, climbing down from the cab. The concrete here was different, newer.

 It didn’t match the weathered foundation from the original warehouse. Someone had poured a fresh slab maybe 2 3 years ago right where the old basement used to be. The excavator had cracked it open like an egg and through the gap he saw fabric blue fabric silk maybe the kind his daughter wore to prom.

 Royy’s stomach turned. He’d been doing construction since he was 19. Had seen all kinds of things buried where they shouldn’t be. Dead pets, stolen goods, even a car once. But silk didn’t last unless it was protected from the elements. Unless it was buried recently, unless it was wrapped around something.

 He pulled out his phone, hands shaking as he dialed 911. Yeah, I need police at the Riverside Drive construction site, the old Brennan warehouse. He swallowed hard, tasting bile. I think we found something, someone in the foundation. Within an hour, the site was wrapped in yellow tape.

 Detective Patricia Reeves stood at the edge of the broken concrete, watching the forensics team work with brushes and small tools like archaeologists uncovering something ancient and precious. But this wasn’t ancient. The concrete was dated. Someone would analyze it, match it to a specific batch, maybe even find where it was purchased. Five bodies, the lead forensic tech said quietly, climbing up from the hole.

 Young women been here a while, but not decades. Maybe two years based on decomposition. Reeves felt her chest tighten. Two years. May 2019. She knew exactly who these bodies were before they even found identification. The whole city knew. Five friends who vanished after dinner became the subject of podcasts, documentaries, endless speculation.

 The case that haunted her because nothing made sense. No signs of struggle, no witnesses, nothing. Her phone buzzed. Reeves here. We found a wallet. Another tech called from below. Driver’s license is still readable. Khloe Castillo. Daniela was in her Chicago apartment when the call came. She’d been spreading peanut butter on toast, running late for her shift at Northwestern Memorial when her phone lit up with mom.

 She almost didn’t answer. These days, calls from her mother meant crying updates from psychics or new theories about where Khloe might be. Dianiela had learned to protect herself, to compartmentalize. She was a doctor. She dealt in facts, not hope. Miha, her mother’s voice was different, not crying. Something worse.

They found her. They found all of them. The knife fell from Daniela’s hand, peanut butterside down on her clean floor. Where? Her voice came out strangled. A construction site, Riverside Drive. The police said, Carmen’s voice broke. They’ve been there the whole time under concrete. Someone killed them and hid them there.

 Daniela slid down the kitchen cabinet until she hit the floor. Two years. Two years of searching, of their mother lighting candles at St. Augustine’s every Sunday, of Marcus leading search parties through Lincoln Park, putting up flyers in coffee shops. Two years of wondering if Khloe had run away, if she’d been trafficked, if she was somewhere needing help.

 But she’d been three miles from home, dead the whole time. “I’m coming home,” Daniela heard herself say. “I’ll be there in 2 hours. She didn’t remember the drive. One moment she was in Chicago, the next she was pulling into her mother’s driveway in Riverside, the same house where she and Kloe had grown up. The garden was overgrown now.

 Carmen had stopped caring about roses when Khloe disappeared. Inside, her mother sat at the kitchen table surrounded by photos. Khloe’s high school graduation, her college years, that last photo from Paradiso. Five friends glowing with youth and wine. Sophia in the middle with her arm around Chloe. Meredith making bunny ears behind Jenna’s head.

Laurel laughing at something off camera. “The detective wants to talk to us,” Carmen said without looking up. She said they need to identify. They need family to identify. I’ll do it, Dianiela said quickly. You don’t have to see her like that.

 But even as she said it, part of her needed to see, needed proof that this was real, that the searching was over, that her sister was really gone. Detective Reeves met them at the medical examiner’s office. She was younger than Dianiela expected, maybe 40, with tired eyes that had seen too much. I’m sorry for your loss, she said, and Dianiela could tell she meant it.

 I need to ask you some questions, but first, is there anything you can tell me about that night? Anything Chloe might have mentioned? She was excited, Carmen whispered. It was Sophia’s birthday dinner. Just the five of them, like always. They’d been friends since high school. The medical examiner’s office smelled like industrial disinfectant and something else.

 something that reminded Dianiela of her anatomy classes in medical school. Death had a particular smell, even when masked by chemicals. She knew it well, but this was different. This was Chloe. “You don’t have to do this,” Detective Reeves said as they stood outside the viewing room. “We have DNA, dental records. We can confirm identity without I need to see her.” Daniela’s voice was steady, her doctor’s training taking over.

compartmentalize, process, fall apart. Later, through the window, five tables, five sheets. The medical examiner pulled back the second sheet just enough to show a face that had once been her sister. The bones were visible now, the soft tissue gone, but somehow the silver earrings were still there, the ones Dianiela had given her for her 21st birthday. “That’s her,” she managed.

“That’s Chloe.” Reeves nodded to the medical examiner who covered Khloe again. There’s something else. We found something in her hand. She was holding on to it when she died. She produced an evidence bag with a piece of fabric inside. Light blue Oxford cloth expensive with part of an embroidered monogram visible.

 Ma, the rest torn away. Do you recognize this? Reeves asked. Dianiela stared at the fabric. Her mind was racing, but she kept her face neutral. No, I don’t. But she did. She’d seen Marcus wear that shirt a dozen times, the custom Oxford from Brooks Brothers that Sophia had given him for Christmas. He’d worn it to her mother’s Easter dinner just weeks before the girls disappeared.

 Back at her mother’s house, Dianiela found herself in Khloe’s room. Carmen had left it exactly as it was. Clothes still thrown over the chair, makeup scattered on the dresser, bed unmade like she’d just gotten up and would be back any minute. The only thing missing was her phone and purse from that night. Dianiela sat on the bed and opened Khloe’s laptop.

 The password was still the same, their childhood dog’s name. The browser opened to Khloe’s last tabs, Instagram, Gmail, and an Uber receipt from May 18th, 2019, but the Uber had been cancelled at 11:52 p.m., 5 minutes after they left the restaurant. She checked Khloe’s texts synced through iMessage.

 The last conversation was in their group chat, ride or dies, the five of them planning dinner, picking the restaurant, Sophia insisting on Paradiso because she wanted their truffle pasta. Then nothing after 11:30 p.m. when Meredith had written, “Getting the check. Be out in 5.” Daniela’s phone buzzed. Unknown number. Is this Daniela Castillo? Yes. This is Tyler Morrison. I was I was Meredith’s boyfriend. I heard they found them. I need to talk to someone. The police.

 They’re not telling me anything. And I know something wasn’t right that night. They met at a coffee shop downtown. one of those generic chains where no one paid attention to anyone else. Tyler looked like he hadn’t slept in days, maybe years. Meredith was supposed to come to my place after dinner, he said without preamble. We had plans. She was going to stay over.

 We were driving to Vermont in the morning for a weekend trip, but she texted me at 11:48 saying Sophia wasn’t feeling well. Marcus was picking them up, and they were all going to make sure she got home. Okay. Marcus picked them up. Dianiela kept her voice level. That’s what she said.

 Which was weird because Sophia had been posting Instagram stories all night. And she looked fine. Drunk maybe, but not sick. And why would all five of them need to go? Meredith kept saying Marcus gave her bad vibes. Too controlling, you know. She wouldn’t have gotten in his car unless Unless what? Unless Sophia really needed her. They were like sisters, all of them. If Sophia was in trouble, they’d all go.

Tyler pulled out his phone, scrolled through old messages. Look, this is from a week before they disappeared. Meredith sent me this. The text read, “Marcus showed up at Sophia’s work again today. Third time this week.” She says, “It’s sweet, but it’s weird.

 Who sits in their girlfriend’s office lobby for 3 hours? Controlling psycho, if you ask me.” “Did you tell the police this?” Dianiela asked. 2 years ago. Yeah. They said Marcus had an alibi. He was at his apartment. Dorman confirmed he came home at 10 p.m. and didn’t leave. Security footage backed it up. But Dianiela knew that building. She’d been there for Sophia’s housewarming party. The service entrance didn’t have cameras, and the doormen only watched the front.

 Marcus could have easily left and come back without being seen. There’s more. Tyler said. The night before they disappeared, Meredith told me Sophia was thinking about breaking up with him. She’d finally had enough of his jealousy, his showing up everywhere, checking her phone. They were going to dinner to celebrate her being free. The words hit Dianiela like ice water.

 Sophia’s birthday dinner wasn’t just a celebration. It was supposed to be a freedom party. That evening, Dianiela drove to the construction site. The police tape was still up, but the forensics teams were gone. She stood at the fence, staring at the hole in the ground where her sister had been buried for 2 years.

 Her phone rang. Detective Reeves. “We found something else,” the detective said. “Can you come to the station?” The police station’s fluorescent lights made everything look sick and pale. Detective Reeves led Dianiela to a small conference room where evidence bags were laid out on a metal table like artifacts from another life. Five purses, their contents sorted and labeled.

 Five phones, screens cracked, but preserved enough that forensics could work with them. “We’ve been going through their belongings,” Reeves said, pulling on latex gloves. “Most of it is what you’d expect, but there’s something odd about the timeline.

” She picked up an evidence bag containing Sophia’s phone, its rose gold case still visible through the plastic. Sophia sent a text to Marcus at 11:47 p.m. saying, “Heading home, baby. Love you.” But look at this. Reeves showed Daniela a printed log of cell tower pings. Her phone never left the restaurant area. None of their phones did. They all stopped transmitting at 12:23 a.m. within a minute of each other.

 Like someone destroyed them all at once, Dianiela said, “Or threw them somewhere they couldn’t transmit. Water, maybe, or a metal container,” Reeves set down the report. But here’s what’s really interesting. Marcus’ phone shows him at home at 1000 p.m. like his alibi states. But there’s a gap. From 

11:15 p.m. to 2:47 a.m., his phone was either off or in airplane mode. That’s not proof, Dianiela said carefully, even as her pulse quickened. No, it’s not. But it’s suspicious, especially combined with this, Reeves pulled out another evidence bag. A receipt from a hardware store dated May 16th, 2019, 2 days before the girls disappeared. This was in the pocket of one of the bodies.

 The receipt is for concrete mix, plastic sheeting, and a shovel paid in cash. Daniela studied the receipt. The hardware store was in Rogers Park, nowhere near where any of the girls lived. Whose pocket? Sophia’s. Like someone put it there deliberately, or like she grabbed it from somewhere, trying to leave evidence. The door opened, and another detective entered, older, with gray hair and a permanent frown.

 Miss Castillo, I’m Detective Jim Walsh. I was the original lead on your sister’s case. Something in his tone made Danielle tense. You closed the case after 6 months, said they probably ran away. We followed the evidence, Walsh said defensively. Five adult women, no signs of foul play, no bodies. Sometimes people want to disappear. They were murdered, Dianiela shot back. Buried in concrete.

 How is that wanting to disappear? Walsh’s jaw tightened. We’re reopening the investigation, obviously, but I need you to understand something. Marcus Ashford has been nothing but cooperative. He paid for private investigators, offered rewards, kept the case in the media. That’s not typical behavior for a killer.

 Unless he’s smart, Reeves interjected, playing the grieving boyfriend, hiding in plain sight. Walsh shot her a warning look. We deal in facts, not speculation. After Dianiela left the station, she sat in her car and called the one person she’d been avoiding. Marcus, he answered on the second ring. Dianiela. God, I heard. I can’t believe it. I can’t. His voice broke. Sophia. They found Sophia.

 His grief sounded real. But then again, he’d had two years to practice. Marcus, I need to ask you something. She said that night. Did you see them at all after dinner? A pause? Just a bit too long. No, I was home. I told the police. I was tired from work. Went to bed early.

 I didn’t even know they were missing until the next morning when Sophia’s mom called me. Tyler said Meredith texted him that you picked them up, that Sophia wasn’t feeling well. Silence. Then Tyler’s confused. He’s grieving. Meredith never sent that. He has the text Marcus. Then someone else sent it. Someone using her phone because I was home. Dianiela, the Dorman saw me. The camera saw me. I loved Sophia.

 I would never His voice cracked again. I would never hurt her. But Dianiela remembered something else. A detail from that Easter dinner weeks before the disappearance. Marcus had been showing off a new app on his phone. One that could clone text messages, make it look like they came from any number.

 For pranks, he’d said, demonstrating by sending a fake text that looked like it came from Sophia’s phone. Everyone had laughed. Such a funny trick. That night, Dianiela went back to Khloe’s laptop. She searched through every social media post from that last day looking for something, anything, and then she found it.

 On Jenna’s Instagram story posted at 11:15 p.m. a video from inside the restaurant. In the background through the window, a black BMW was visible in the valet area. Marcus’s BMW, the one he claimed was parked in his building’s garage all night. She screenshot it, her hands shaking. Then she went deeper, searching for any mention of Marcus in the weeks before. What she found made her stomach turn.

 Laurel had posted on a private Facebook group 3 weeks before the disappearance. Friend needs advice. Her boyfriend installed tracking apps on her phone, shows up everywhere she goes, accuses her of cheating if she doesn’t text back immediately. She wants to leave, but she’s scared. What should she do? The comments were full of advice. Get a restraining order. Change the locks. Never be alone with him.

 Tell everyone what’s happening. The last comment was from Meredith. We’ve got her back. Planning an intervention. She’s going to be okay. Posted May 17th, 2019, the night before they all died. Daniela couldn’t sleep.

 Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Chloe at that restaurant laughing, unaware that she had hours left to live. At 3:00 a.m., she gave up and drove to Paradiso. The restaurant was closed, dark, but she sat in the parking lot staring at the valet stand where everything had gone wrong. Her phone buzzed, a text from an unknown number. Stop digging or you’ll end up like them. Her blood went cold.

 She screenshot the message, then called Detective Reeves, who answered despite the hour. “Someone just threatened me,” Dianiela said. “Where are you?” Paradiso parking lot. Jesus Christ. Get out of there. Come to the station now. By the time Dianiela arrived, Reeves had traced the number. Burner phone purchased with cash at a 7-Eleven yesterday. But here’s the interesting part. It was activated near Marcus’s apartment.

 That’s still not proof, Walsh said, appearing in the doorway looking rumpled and angry at being called in. Could be anyone in that neighborhood. How many people in that neighborhood have a reason to threaten Khloe Castillo’s sister? Reeves shot back. We don’t know. It’s a real threat. Could be some sick internet troll.

 This case has been all over Reddit for 2 years. Daniela’s phone rang. Her mother. Someone broke into the house. Carmen’s voice was terrified. They didn’t take anything but Khloe’s room. Everything’s destroyed. Dianiela raced home with a police escort. Khloe’s room looked like a tornado had hit it.

 Every drawer emptied, mattress slashed, clothes shredded. But it was the wall that made Dianiela’s knees go weak. Written in red lipstick, Khloe’s lipstick, were the words, “Stop now.” “He’s scared,” Reeves said quietly, photographing everything. “He knows we’re getting close.” “We need protection for them,” she told Walsh. “Round the clock.

” “Based on what?” “We have no proof Marcus Ashford has done anything. You want me to put surveillance on one of the city’s most prominent businessmen because of a theory? Marcus’ family owned half the commercial real estate in Riverside. His father played golf with the mayor. His mother was on the hospital board where Dianiela had done her residency. Walsh was right.

 They needed more than circumstantial evidence. The next morning, Dianiela did something desperate. She called Marcus and asked to meet him for coffee. I need to talk to someone who loved Sophia as much as I loved Khloe, she said. They met at a Starbucks downtown, public safe. Marcus looked haggarded, his usually perfect appearance disheveled. He’d lost weight, his expensive suit hanging loose.

 I know what people are saying, he started before she could speak. That I had something to do with it. It’s killing me, Dianiela. First I lose Sophia, now everyone thinks I’m a monster. Tell me about that night, Dianiela said. The truth. I’ve told the truth a thousand times. I was home. I had a conference call with Tokyo the next morning.

 I went to bed early. Sophia was going to break up with you. Marcus’s coffee cup stopped halfway to his mouth. Who told you that? Does it matter? Was she? He set the cup down carefully. We were having problems. I was I know I was too clingy, too jealous, but I was working on it. I was seeing a therapist. I loved her. Dianiela, I wanted to marry her. Show me your phone from that night.

 What? You said your phone was off in airplane mode. Why? I told you I needed sleep for the conference call. You never turn your phone off. Sophia used to complain about it. You’d check it constantly, even at dinner, even at movies. But that one night, the night she disappears, you turn it off. Marcus’s face darkened.

 I don’t have to listen to this. The BMW in Jenna’s Instagram story. That was your car. He stood up. You’re grieving. I understand, but this has to stop. The hardware store receipt in Sophia’s pocket. The concrete you bought 2 days before. Marcus went very still. What receipt? And there it was, a slip.

 The police hadn’t released that detail. How do you know about the receipt, Marcus? I The detective mentioned it. No, they didn’t. They haven’t released any evidence details to anyone. So, how do you know? Marcus’ hands were shaking now. You’re trying to confuse me. Twist my words. Meredith texted Tyler that you picked them up.

 That’s impossible because you used her phone to send it like that app you showed us at Easter. The one that could fake messages. People were staring now. Marcus leaned in close and for a moment, Dianiela saw something dark flash in his eyes. You have no idea what you’re doing, he whispered. Stop now. Or or what? You’ll do to me what you did to them.

 Marcus jerked back like he’d been slapped. Then he turned and walked out, leaving his coffee untouched. Dianiela’s hands were shaking as she called Reeves. I got him to slip up about the receipt, and he threatened me in front of witnesses. “It’s not enough,” Reeves said. “But it’s something. I’m going to push for a warrant to search his properties.

” The warrant was denied. Marcus’ lawyer, a shark named David Brennan, who’d gotten half the city’s elite out of trouble, filed an injunction, claiming harassment. “He held a press conference on the courthouse steps,” Marcus beside him, looking appropriately wounded. “My client has been nothing but cooperative,” Brennan announced to the cluster of reporters.

 “He’s the one who kept these girls’ faces in the media. He’s the one who never gave up hope. And now in his darkest hour of grief, he’s being persecuted by a family looking for someone to blame. Marcus stepped to the microphones. I loved Sophia with all my heart. I would have done anything to protect her. The real killer is out there laughing while you waste time investigating an innocent man.

 Daniela watched from her car, rage building in her chest. He was good. Oscar worthy. The grieving boyfriend destroyed by loss and false accusations. Her phone rang. Tyler, I found something, he said. Can you meet me? Not in public. My apartment. Tyler lived in a converted loft in the arts district, the kind of place Meredith had loved.

 Exposed brick, huge windows, paintings everywhere. Most of them were hers, Daniela realized. portraits of her friends, including one of all five of them from last summer, faces bright with life. “After you left the coffee shop yesterday, “I remembered something,” Tyler said, pulling out an old tablet.

 Meredith was paranoid about backing everything up. She had this cloud account she thought I didn’t know about. “I remembered the password, her cat’s name, and her birthday.” He opened the account. Hundreds of photos, videos, documents, and a folder labeled evidence. Inside were screenshots of text messages between Sophia and Marcus going back months. The progression was chilling.

 At first, sweet, loving messages, then gradually more controlling. Where are you? Who are you with? Why didn’t you answer immediately? Then from 2 weeks before the murder, Marcus, if you leave me, I’ll kill myself. Sophia, that’s not fair. You need help. Marcus, I’ll kill myself and it will be your fault. Everyone will know. Sophia, I’m calling your therapist.

 Marcus, I don’t have a therapist. I lied. I don’t need one. I need you. The last exchange was from the morning of May 18th. Sophia, it’s over. I’m done. Don’t contact me again. Marcus, we’ll see about that. Jesus, Daniela breathed. This is it. This proves motive. There’s more, Tyler said, clicking on a video file.

 This is from May 17th, the night before. The video was shaky, filmed in what looked like Sophia’s apartment. All five girls were there sitting in a circle on the living room floor. Sophia was crying. “You have to file a restraining order,” Meredith’s voice said from behind the camera. “Show them the texts.

” “He’ll ruin me,” Sophia sobbed. “His family, they own everything. They’ll destroy my career.” “We won’t let that happen,” Khloe said, squeezing Sophia’s hand. We’re your family. We protect each other. Ride or die, remember? Jenna added. Laurel nodded. We’ve got a plan. Tomorrow at dinner, we celebrate your freedom. Then you stay with me for a while. He won’t know where you are. What if he shows up at the restaurant? Sophia asked.

 He won’t, Meredith said firmly. You told him you were going to your mom’s this weekend. He has no idea about the dinner. The video ended. Dianiela felt sick. They’d tried to protect her. All of them had tried and they’d all died for it. We have to get this to the police, she said. I tried, Tyler said, this morning, but something’s wrong. Detective Walsh said it’s inadmissible.

 Fruit of the poisonous tree or something. Said I hacked the account illegally. But you knew the password Meredith would have wanted. Doesn’t matter. Without her written permission, it’s illegal access. None of this can be used in court. Dianiela wanted to scream. They had proof. actual proof and it was worthless. There has to be another way, she said. Something admissible. Tyler was quiet for a moment. Then there might be.

 Meredith had a safety deposit box. She told me about it once, said it had important documents. If she kept physical copies of anything where First National on Monroe, but I’m not on the access list. Only family can. Her sister Emma, Dianiela interrupted. She lives in Boston. I’ll call her. Emma flew in that night.

 Dianiela had met her once at a memorial service 6 months after the disappearance. She looked like Meredith. Same red hair, same fierce eyes. “I always knew it was him,” Emma said as they drove to the bank the next morning. Meredith called me a week before she died. Said Sophia was in trouble with her boyfriend. Said they were going to handle it.

 The bank manager, an older woman with kind eyes, led them to the vault. I remember your sister,” she told Emma. She came in the week before she before she disappeared, added something to her box. Emma’s hand shook as she inserted the key. Inside the box were documents, Meredith’s passport, birth certificate, some bonds, and a Manila envelope labeled just in case.

 Inside were printed emails between Marcus and a friend from college. She’s going to leave me. I can feel it. So, let her go. Find someone else. No. If I can’t have her, nobody can. Dude, that’s psycho talk. I’m serious. I’d rather see her dead than with someone else. The emails were dated a month before the murders. Detective Reeves’s eyes widened as she read the emails.

 They were sitting in the police station’s conference room. Daniela, Emma, Tyler, and Reeves. Detective Walsh was conspicuously absent. “This is it,” Reeves said. This is enough for a warrant. With these emails showing premeditation, plus the receipt, the timeline discrepancies, the door burst open. Walsh stood there, face red with anger.

 What the hell are you doing, Reeves? I told you to drop the Marcus angle. We have new evidence. Inadmissible evidence. Mr. Ashford’s lawyer already called. Those emails were obtained through illegal means. They were in Meredith’s safety deposit box, Emma protested. I had every right. The emails were stolen from Mr.

 Ashford’s private account. Doesn’t matter where they ended up. They’re fruit of the poisonous tree. Daniela stood up. You’re protecting him. Walsh’s face went darker. Watch yourself, Ms. Castillo. How much did they pay you? Or are you just afraid of his family? You’re emotionally compromised. I’m removing you from any involvement in this investigation. You can’t do that. I’m not part of the investigation. I’m a private citizen.

 A private citizen who’s harassing a grieving man. Leave now or I’ll have you arrested for interfering with an investigation outside the station. Reeves caught up with him. I’m sorry. Walsh has connections with the Ashford family going back years, but I’m not giving up.

 He’s going to get away with it, Emma said, tears streaming down her face. He killed my sister and he’s going to walk free. Not if I can help it, Reeves said. But I need to be smart about this. Go home. let me work. But Dianiela couldn’t go home. Instead, she drove to the construction site.

 The hole had been filled in, the foundation work continuing as if five bodies hadn’t been found there. She parked and walked the perimeter, trying to understand. How had Marcus gotten five women here? How had he controlled them all? Even if he had a gun, surely someone would have run, screamed, fought back. Unless they trusted him. Unless even until the end they thought he wouldn’t really hurt them. Her phone rang. Unknown number. She almost didn’t answer then did.

Dianiela. A woman’s voice scared whispering. This is This is Kate. Kate Ashford Marcus’s sister. Dianiela’s breath caught. Kate. I need to talk to you, but not on the phone. Meet me at St. Mary’s Church on Riverside, the old cemetery behind it. 1 hour. The cemetery was overgrown, forgotten headstones dating back to the 1800s.

Kate was waiting by a large oak tree, looking around nervously. She was younger than Marcus, maybe 25, with the same dark hair, but none of his confidence. I know what he did,” she said without preamble. “I’ve always known what he was capable of. Tell me.” When we were kids, I had a cat. Princess Marcus hated that I loved something more than him. One day, Princess disappeared.

He helped me look for her, put up flyers, comforted me when I cried. 3 months later, I found her body in an old freezer in our garage. She’d been strangled. Danella’s stomach turned. He didn’t know I found her. I was too scared to say anything. But I started watching him. Really watching. The way he’d manipulate our parents, playing the perfect son, the way he’d hurt people but make it look like an accident.

 The girlfriends who’d suddenly transfer schools or move away. Why are you telling me this now? Kate pulled out a flash drive. Because I can’t live with it anymore. The night Sophia disappeared, Marcus came to my apartment at 300 a.m. He was covered in dirt, concrete, dust in his hair. He said he’d been helping a friend with construction work at 3:00 a.m. I knew something was wrong, but I was too scared to ask.

 This still isn’t proof. The flash drive has security footage from my building. It shows him arriving the state he was in. And something else. Kate’s voice dropped. He kept trophies from all his girlfriends hidden in our parents’ house. There’s a room in the basement behind a false wall. Our parents don’t even know it exists. He showed it to me once when he was drunk. Said it was where he kept his memories.

 What kind of trophies? Jewelry, clothes, photos, and Kate swallowed hard. Videos. He recorded everything. If Sophia’s things are there, if there’s video from that night, we need to tell the police. No, Walsh will bury it. You need someone else. Someone not connected to this city. Dianiela thought of her med school roommate, now an FBI agent in Chicago. I might know someone.

 That night, Dianiela couldn’t stop thinking about the five of them in Marcus’s car, probably still laughing, still thinking they were safe. When had they realized when he didn’t drive toward Sophia’s apartment? When he pulled into that construction site or not until the very end. Her phone buzzed. A text from Marcus.

 Kate visited you today. Family should stick together. She’s confused, you know, mental health issues. Wouldn’t it be terrible if she had an accident? The threat was clear, but it was also evidence. Daniela screenshot it and forwarded it to her FBI friend with two words, “Help, please.” FBI special agent Rachel Morrison arrived in Riverside at dawn, accompanied by a small team.

 Daniela had sent her everything, the emails, the videos, Kate’s security footage, Marcus’ threatening texts. Federal jurisdiction was thin, but Rachel had found an angle. Marcus’ family company had federal contracts, and there was evidence of using company resources in the commission of crimes.

 “We’re going to need Kate’s testimony,” Rachel told Daniela as they sat in a federal building 30 m from Riverside, away from Walsh’s influence. “Is she willing?” “She’s terrified. He threatened her. We can protect her. Witness protection if necessary.” Dianiela called Kate, but the phone went straight to voicemail. She tried again. Nothing. A cold dread settled in her stomach. “We need to find her,” she told Rachel. “Now.

” They went to Kate’s apartment. The door was a jar. Inside, signs of a struggle. A lamp knocked over, papers scattered, but no blood, no body. He took her, Dianiela said. “He’s cleaning up loose ends.” Rachel’s team immediately put out a BO for both Kate and Marcus.

 Meanwhile, she got a federal warrant for the Asheford family estate, specifically the basement Kate had described. The estate was a sprawling tutor mansion on 10 acres, the kind of old money that owned judges and politicians. Marcus’ parents were in Europe, conveniently traveling when the FBI arrived. The basement was finished, looking like any wealthy family’s recreation room, pool table, bar, vintage arcade games.

 But Rachel’s team had thermal imaging equipment. They found the false wall within minutes. Behind it was Marcus’ shrine. The walls were covered in photos, not just of Sophia, but of dozens of women going back years. Some Dianiela recognized as Marcus’ ex-girlfriends who had supposedly moved away. Others were strangers. Each photo was labeled with a date and initials.

 In a cabinet were jewelry boxes, each labeled with the same initials. Sophia’s emerald necklace, the one she’d worn to dinner that night, was in a box marked ST. May 18th, 1919. But it was the laptop that contained the real horror. Videos, dozens of them. Marcus had hidden cameras in his apartment, in his car, even in Sophia’s apartment.

 The FBI tech specialist went pale as she scrolled through the files. “We’ve got them,” she said. May 18th, 11:58 p.m. Multiple files. Dianiela couldn’t watch. Wouldn’t watch, but Rachel did, taking notes with clinical detachment. “He picked them up outside the restaurant,” Rachel narrated quietly. Told them Sophia’s mom had been in an accident, was in the hospital. They all got in to support her.

 He drove them to the construction site, said he knew a shortcut to the hospital. They didn’t suspect anything until he pulled into the site. How did he Daniela couldn’t finish. He had a gun and he drugged them. The champagne they had at dinner. The video from inside the restaurant shows him near their table earlier when they were in the bathroom. He put something in the bottle.

 So, they were already weakened when they realized the danger. Already slower, confused, unable to fight back effectively. Sophia figured it out first, Rachel continued. She tried to grab the wheel. That’s when she paused. That’s when he shot her. The others saw it happen. They tried to run, but they were already too affected by the drugs.

 Four friends watching their friend die, trying to escape while drugged and terrified. It was worse than Dianiela had imagined. “He hunted them through the construction site,” Rachel said, her professional composure cracking slightly like it was a game. “The video shows everything. We have him. But they still didn’t have Kate. Dianiela’s phone rang. Carmen, Mia, there’s someone at the door. She says she’s Marcus’s sister. She looks hurt.

Dianiela and Rachel raced to her mother’s house. Kate was on the porch, bloody and shaking. She had a gash on her forehead, her clothes torn. I got away, she gasped. He took me to another property, an old warehouse the family owns. He was going to, but I stabbed him with a pen and ran. He’s there.

 He’s hurt. You can get him. Rachel called in all units to converge on the warehouse, but when they arrived, Marcus was gone. Blood on the floor showed Kate had indeed injured him, but he’d escaped. An APB went out nationwide. Meanwhile, the videos were being processed as evidence. There was no question now. Marcus had killed all five women methodically, cruy.

 The federal prosecutor said it was the most airtight case she’d ever seen. But they needed to find him first. Three days passed. No sign of Marcus. His bank accounts were frozen, his passport flagged, but he’d vanished as completely as the five women once had. Then Daniela remembered something. A conversation at that Easter dinner.

 Marcus bragging about a panic room his grandfather had built in the family estate during the Cold War. Completely hidden, he’d said. You could live there for months and no one would know. She called Rachel. Check the estate again. There’s a panic room. They found it behind a bookshelf in the study, accessed by pressing a specific sequence of books. Marcus was inside, the pen wound, festering, fevered, and delirious. He didn’t even fight when they arrested him.

 As they let him out, he looked at Daniela. They were going to leave me, he said, as if that explained everything. All of them. They were going to take her away from me. So you killed them all? I loved her, he said. I loved her more than anything. If she just stayed. You never loved her, Dianiela said. You owned her.

 There’s a difference. Marcus smiled then, a cold, terrible smile. Check the construction site again. There are more than five. The FBI brought in ground penetrating radar to scan the entire construction site. What they found changed everything. Three more bodies buried deeper, older.

 The concrete above them had been poured at different times, 2017, 2015, and 2013. Dental records identified them quickly. Rebecca Chen, Marcus’s college girlfriend, who had supposedly transferred to a school in California. Lisa Rodriguez, a woman he’d dated briefly who had allegedly moved back to Mexico.

 Sarah Peterson, his high school girlfriend, who everyone thought had run away from home. Three women over six years. Practice runs before the main event. Dianiela sat in the FBI field office staring at photos of the three newly discovered victims. They all looked similar, dark hair, brown eyes, pretty in that understated way, like Sophia, like they were all replacements for some original template.

 We need to re-examine everything, Rachel said. Every missing person case in the area for the last decade, every woman who supposedly moved away suddenly. Kate was in protective custody. But she insisted on helping. She provided a list of names. Girls Marcus had mentioned, dated, obsessed over. The FBI cross-referenced them with missing persons databases. 12 more potential victims.

 This is a serial killer, Rachel said quietly. He’s been operating for at least 10 years, maybe more. The media explosion was immediate. The story went national, then international. The handsome real estate heir, who had been killing women for a decade. The five friends were no longer just victims. They were the ones who finally exposed him, their bodies, the evidence that brought him down.

 But for Dianiela, the noise faded to background. She was focused on one thing, justice for Khloe. The trial was set for 6 months out. The federal prosecutor, Janet Williams, was a legend. She’d never lost a murder case. But Marcus had hired an entire team of defense attorneys led by the infamous Robert Sterling, who had gotten billionaires acquitted of seemingly airtight cases.

 “They’re going to claim insanity,” Janet told Daniela and the other families. Or diminished capacity. “The videos are damning, but Sterling will try to get them thrown out.” how they were found legally with a warrant. He’ll argue the warrant was based on Kate’s testimony and that she’s unreliable. She has a history of mental health treatment, anxiety, depression. Marcus’ parents had her committed briefly when she was 17.

 After years of abuse from her brother, Dianiela protested. We know that, but a jury might not buy it. The pre-trial hearings were brutal. Sterling tried every trick, challenging jurisdiction, claiming FBI overreach, arguing the evidence was prejudiced. But Judge Harrison, a federal judge with 30 years on the bench, denied every motion. “The evidence stands,” she ruled.

 “The jury will see it all. Marcus’ parents returned from Europe, hiring a PR firm to manage the crisis. They gave carefully scripted interviews expressing shock and claiming they had no idea their son was capable of such acts. But reporters dug deeper, finding former household staff who told stories of young Marcus’ cruelty to animals, his violent outbursts, the family’s pattern of covering up his behavior with money and influence.

Detective Walsh quietly retired, claiming health issues. Reeves was promoted to lead detective. She called Dianiela the night before the trial. “I’m sorry,” she said, “for Walsh, for the delays. If we’d listened sooner.” “You listened when it mattered,” Dianiela replied. “That’s what counts.

” The trial began on a cold November morning. The courthouse was surrounded by media, protesters, and supporters of the victims. Dianiela sat in the front row with her mother, holding Carmen’s hand as the prosecutor outlined the case. Janet Williams was brilliant. She started with the videos, not showing them in full, but describing them in devastating detail.

 She showed the photos from Marcus’ shrine, the trophies he’d kept. She brought in forensic experts who explained how the concrete matched the receipt, how the bodies were positioned, how the bullets matched Marcus’ registered gun. But it was Kate’s testimony that destroyed any chance of a defense. She took the stand on day three, visibly trembling but determined.

 She told the jury about Princess, about the years of manipulation and fear. She told them about the night Marcus came to her apartment covered in concrete dust. She looked at her brother as she spoke, never wavering. “I should have said something sooner,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “Those women might be alive if I had. I’ll carry that guilt forever.

” Sterling tried to paint her as unstable, jealous of her brother’s success, but Kate held firm. When he brought up her hospitalization, she turned to the jury. Yes, I was hospitalized for anxiety and depression when I was 17. Do you know why? Because I was living with a sociopath who killed my cat and threatened to kill me if I told anyone. My parents didn’t believe me. They chose him over me. So, yes, I needed help.

 But I’m not crazy. I’m not lying. I’m just finally brave enough to tell the truth. The defense’s case was weak. They tried to argue Marcus had snapped under pressure, that Sophia’s rejection had triggered a psychotic break, but the prosecutor destroyed that with evidence of the previous murders. This wasn’t a snap, it was a pattern.

 On the final day of testimony, Marcus himself took the stand against his lawyer’s advice. He was calm, charming, even trying to work his magic on the jury. “I loved Sophia,” he said. “Yes, I was possessive. Yes, I was jealous, but I was working on it. I was getting help.” “Where?” Janet asked. “Which therapist?” “We’ve found no records of you seeking treatment.” “I was doing online therapy,” anonymous.

“How convenient. No records, no proof.” “I don’t need to prove I’m innocent. You need to prove I’m guilty.” Janet smiled coldly. We have your own videos. Prove it. Should we play them for the jury? Let them see exactly what you did to those women. Marcus’s composure finally cracked. They were going to leave me. All of them.

 They turned Sophia against me. So, you killed them. I He caught himself, but it was too late. You killed them because they were helping your girlfriend escape an abusive relationship. You killed five women because you couldn’t control one. The jury deliberated for less than 3 hours. Guilty on all counts. Eight counts of first-degree murder. Sentence.

 Life without parole. Consecutive sentences to be served in federal maximum security. The sentencing hearing was scheduled for a month after the verdict. Each family would have the chance to give victim impact statements. Dianiela had written and rewritten hers a dozen times, trying to capture who Khloe had been, what the world had lost. But the night before the hearing, she got a call from Rachel Morrison.

 Marcus tried to make a deal, she said. He says there are more bodies. He wants life with the possibility of parole in exchange for the locations. No, Dianiela said immediately. He doesn’t get to bargain with their bodies. That’s what the prosecutor said. But the families of the missing women, they want closure. They want to bury their daughters.

 It was an impossible situation. Deny the deal and those families might never find their loved ones. Accept it and Marcus would have the possibility of freedom someday. What do the other families think? Dianiela asked. Sophia’s parents, Merediths, they’re torn. Emma wants to deny the deal. She says Meredith wouldn’t want him to have any hope. But Sophia’s mother, she understands what those other families are going through.

They had 24 hours to decide. Daniela met with the other families at Emma’s apartment. Tyler was there, too, having become part of their strange support group. They sat in a circle much like the five friends had that last night trying to protect each other.

 We can’t let him manipulate us even from prison, Jenna’s mother said. That’s what this is, manipulation. But those other families, Laurel’s father countered, they deserve to know. Carmen spoke up quietly. If it were Khloe still missing, I’d want to know. I’d need to know. They voted. It was close, but in the end, Compassion won. They would support a modified deal.

 Marcus would reveal the locations, but get nothing in return except the possibility of a transfer to a medium security facility after 25 years, not parole. Marcus accepted. Over the next week, he led FBI agents to four more bodies. Women from neighboring states, ones who hadn’t even been connected to him.

 He’d been hunting for longer than anyone had imagined. 14 victims total, though investigators suspected there were more he wasn’t revealing. The sentencing hearing was postponed as new charges were filed. But finally, on a gray December morning, the families gathered in the courthouse one last time.

 Dianiela stood at the podium looking at Marcus in his orange jumpsuit and shackles. He stared back, expressionless. Chloe was 23, she began. She wanted to be a teacher elementary school because she said that’s when you can really make a difference in a kid’s life. She volunteered at the literacy center every Saturday teaching adults to read.

 She made the worst coffee I’ve ever tasted, but insisted on making it every morning when I visited. She could make anyone laugh, even on their worst day. She paused, finding Marcus’s eyes again. You took that from the world. You took her kindness, her laughter, her future. You took the teacher those kids will never have. The aunt my future children will never know. The daughter my mother cries for every night.

 You took four other women just as valuable, just as loved, just as important. And for what? Because you couldn’t own someone? because your ego couldn’t handle rejection. You’re not a monster. Monsters can’t help what they are. You’re worse. You chose this every time. You chose violence over letting go. You chose murder over moving on.

 You chose yourself over five women’s lives. She looked at the judge then. No sentence will bring them back. No amount of years will undo what he did. But I ask you to ensure he never has the chance to choose violence again. He’s forfeited his right to freedom. Let him rot knowing that Khloe, Sophia, Meredith, Jenna, and Laurel are remembered for who they were, while he’s remembered only for what he took from the world.

 Emma spoke next, then Sophia’s parents, Jenna’s sister, Laurel’s brother. Each statement was a testament to the women they’d been, not just the victims they’d become. Marcus was allowed to speak. He stood, cleared his throat. I’m sorry, he said, but the words were hollow, rehearsed. I lost control. I never meant. Stop. Judge Harrison interrupted. Mr.

 Ashford, I’ve reviewed your psychiatric evaluations. Multiple experts agree you show no genuine remorse, only regret at being caught. Your apology is meaningless. She looked at the packed courtroom. This case has revealed a pattern of predatory behavior spanning over a decade. Mr. Ashford targeted women, isolated them, and when they tried to leave, he killed them.

 The five women murdered on May 18th, 2019 died trying to help a friend escape abuse. They died as heroes. Marcus Ashford, I sentence you to life in federal prison without the possibility of parole. You will serve your time in maximum security. The deal regarding medium security after 25 years is noted, but will require extensive review and victim family input if that time ever comes.

 Furthermore, all assets in your name will be liquidated and distributed to the victim’s families and to domestic violence prevention organizations. Your family’s attempt to hide assets has been noted and will be investigated separately. The gavvel came down. It was over. As the baiffs led Marcus out, he turned to look at Dianiela one last time. She expected rage, threats, something, but his eyes were empty, dead, like whatever had driven him to kill had finally burned out, leaving nothing but a hollow shell.

Outside the courthouse, the family stood together. The media shouted questions, but they ignored them. They held each other, cried together, finally able to begin real grieving now that justice had been served. 5 years later, Daniela stood in the cemetery where Khloe was buried. It was May 18th, the anniversary.

 She came every year bringing yellow roses, Khloe’s favorite, and sitting on the grass beside the headstone, talking to her sister like she was still there. The cemetery was different now. All five friends were buried in the same section. their families having decided they should be together. Their headstones formed a circle and in the center was a memorial bench with a plaque.

 Five friends, five lights, forever bright. Hey, Chloe, Dianiela said, arranging the roses. Mom’s doing better. She started volunteering at the literacy center, took over your Saturday shift. She says the kids remind her of you. Carmen had found purpose in continuing Khloe’s work.

 The grief never left, but it had transformed into something bearable, something that honored rather than just mourned. Tyler and Emma got married last month, Daniela continued. I know, weird, right? But grief does strange things. They understand each other. They had the ceremony here, actually, said Meredith would have loved the drama of it. Tyler had become a victim’s rights advocate, using his tech skills to help families of missing persons.

 Emma had gone to law school specializing in domestic violence cases. They’d found love in the ruins of loss. Something beautiful growing from tragedy. Kate’s doing well, too. She’s in therapy. Real therapy. She testified at another trial last month. Turned out Marcus had taught his methods to someone online. They caught the guy before he could hurt anyone thanks to her.

Kate had become an unexpected ally in the fight against intimate partner violence. She spoke at conferences, telling her story, warning about the signs everyone had missed. She carried guilt, but she transformed it into purpose. A shadow fell across the grass.

 Dianiela looked up to see Detective Reeves, now Captain Reeves, holding her own bouquet. “I hope you don’t mind,” Reeves said. “I come every year, too.” They sat together on the memorial bench looking at the five headstones. The news had moved on to other tragedies, other monsters, but here in this quiet space, five friends were remembered. “We found another one,” Reeves said quietly.

 “Construction crew in Indiana,” Marcus won’t confirm, but the timeline fits. “15 victims now.” The number kept growing, even with Marcus locked away, his past crimes surfacing like bodies from concrete. “Does it ever end?” Daniela asked. “The discoveries? Eventually, the impact? Never.” They sat in silence for a while. Then Reeves stood.

 “There’s something else, something I didn’t put in the official report.” Dianiela looked up at her. “Khloe’s phone. We recovered more from it than we initially reported. There was a draft text to you never sent. She was typing it in the car before before everything went wrong. Reeves handed Daniela a printed screenshot.

 Khloe’s words timestamped 12:03 a.m. May 19th, 2019. Danny, something’s wrong. Marcus is driving us, but this isn’t the way to the hospital. Sophia’s mom isn’t sick, is she? If something happens, know that I love you. You were the best big sister. Take care of mom. Don’t let her blame herself. And don’t you blame yourself either. Some people are just broken. We tried to help.

 Remember us for that, not for how it ends. Daniela’s tears fell on the paper. Even in her fear, even knowing something was wrong. Khloe had thought of others. Had tried to protect them from guilt. She was brave. Reeves said they all were. The video show they fought. They tried to save each other.

 Meredith shielded Khloe. Jenna tried to distract him so Laurel could run. They didn’t die as victims. They died as warriors. After Reeves left, Dianiela sat alone with her thoughts. The sun was setting, painting the cemetery in gold light. She thought about the butterfly effect of Marcus’ violence, how many lives he’d destroyed beyond just those he killed.

Parents who would never recover. Siblings who woke up forgetting then remembering. friends who still said extra places at dinner out of habit. But she also thought about the changes that had come from tragedy, the domestic violence laws that had been strengthened.

 The Marcus alert system named after the case that flagged patterns of controlling behavior. The thousands of women who had left abusive relationships after seeing the story, recognizing their own danger in Sophia’s struggle. Her phone buzzed. A text from her husband she’d married two years ago, a fellow doctor who understood her need to visit Khloe, who held her when the nightmares came. Dinner at 7. Your mom’s making Khloe’s terrible coffee recipe.

Daniela smiled through her tears. They’d learned to live with the ghost of Khloe to include her memory in their joy rather than let it poison everything. She stood, touched each headstone, Khloe, Sophia, Meredith, Jenna, Laurel, and whispered their names. Then she walked back to her car to her life, carrying them with her.

 As she drove away, she passed the construction site where they had been found. It was a shopping center now, bright and busy. No plaque marked what had been discovered there. But Dianiela knew. The families knew. The city knew, even if they pretended to forget.

 Marcus was serving his life sentence in ADX Florence, the Supermax prison in Colorado. He’d tried to appeal three times, each attempt failing. He would die in a concrete cell alone, forgotten except as a cautionary tale. The girl who’d wanted freedom had gotten it in death, while the boy who’ tried to own her had lost everything. It wasn’t justice. Justice would have been five women living their lives. But it was consequence. It was accountability.

It was the best a broken world could offer. Dianiela drove home to the living, carrying the dead in her heart. Their last dinner together forever frozen in time. Five friends laughing, unaware they had three hours left, but spending those hours together, protecting each other until the very end.

 The construction site on Riverside Drive had been paved over, built upon, forgotten by most. But sometimes, when it rained, the concrete seemed to remember what it had hidden. Five friends who’d vanished after dinner found two years later their clasped hands and protective positions telling a story of loyalty that even death couldn’t break. They were gone. But they were not forgotten.

 And in the end, that was the only victory the living could claim against someone who’ tried to erase them entirely. The story of Five Friends became a warning, a rallying cry, a reminder that sometimes monsters wear familiar faces, that love can be weaponized, that the person who claims they can’t live without you might be the very person to take your life.

 But also this, that friendship can be stronger than fear, that women will die protecting each other, and that truth, even when buried in concrete, will eventually surface. Marcus had thought he was burying his crimes. Instead, he’d preserved the evidence of their bond. Five friends who’ died as they’d lived together, refusing to abandon each other, proving that some things are stronger than one man’s violence.

 That was Khloe’s legacy. That was all their legacies, and that was enough.