The Concrete Crypt of Lies
Language: en
I was standing with my wife on her family’s sprawling estate, watching the contractors pour the final layer of concrete for the new ancestral mausoleum, when my stomach dropped. Sammy was gone. I was spinning in circles, my heart hammering against my ribs, scanning the manicured lawns. That was when Ken—my wife’s childhood friend, a twenty-eight-year-old man who claimed to have a "highly sensitive, child-like soul"—strolled over. He was popping a bubblegum bubble, a sly, sickening smirk playing on his lips. He casually mentioned that he’d told my five-year-old son to play hide-and-seek…