Chap­ter 158 begins with Saint trav­el­ing deep into the rugged ter­rain of Quartz Moun­tain State Park, led by a silent sheriff’s deputy. Their route cuts through Cedar Creek Trail, bor­dered by heat-scorched shrubs and jagged slopes, while the near­by Black Jack Pass Trail looms omi­nous­ly. The thick silence between them is heavy with ten­sion, and Saint sens­es that what­ev­er lies ahead will not be easy to con­front. As they approach the site, the deputy remains tight-lipped, offer­ing no assur­ance or con­text, which only ampli­fies her unease. Even though he’s clear­ly a man sea­soned by years of dif­fi­cult duty, his emo­tion­al detach­ment feels chill­ing. The stark­ness of the path, bro­ken only by the crunch of their boots on dry earth, cre­ates a sur­re­al con­trast to the mem­o­ries Saint recalls from her recent dri­ves through Hobart and Lone Wolf. Every­thing about this moment, from the stiff wind to the smell of parched grass, sig­nals that some­thing important—perhaps even final—is about to be unearthed.

Far in the dis­tance, the sheer gran­ite cliffs of Baldy Point glis­ten under the Okla­homa sun, cast­ing long shad­ows across the red dirt and scrub. Saint briefly takes in the ordi­nary sounds of hik­ers near­by, their laugh­ter and calls bounc­ing off the rocks, before her atten­tion returns to the deputy’s words. He men­tions the heat climb­ing steadi­ly, not­ing that soon it will be unbear­able. This small talk does lit­tle to calm her nerves, espe­cial­ly as the site comes into view—a shal­low grave dis­turbed by wildlife and wind, marked only by an out-of-place pile of earth and dried wild­flow­ers near­by. The sense of urgency and neglect is evi­dent; no care was tak­en to prop­er­ly bury the per­son whose bones now sur­face under the sky. Saint feels the emo­tion­al weight of the moment as she kneels, aware that the dis­cov­ery con­firms the fears she had long car­ried but nev­er voiced aloud. Despite the des­o­la­tion, the grave feels sacred, filled with mem­o­ry and grief.

She stud­ies the remains care­ful­ly, not­ing a dis­tinct item among the weath­ered bones—an object undis­turbed by the ele­ments. It is a met­al cru­ci­fix, its blue enam­el still vivid, strung with beads spaced even­ly along the chain. Saint rec­og­nizes it imme­di­ate­ly; it’s not just jew­el­ry, but a par­don cru­ci­fix, sym­bol­iz­ing both faith and a cry for redemp­tion. Accord­ing to Catholic tra­di­tion, these cru­ci­fix­es were often used in acts of penance or worn by the deeply spir­i­tu­al, which makes its pres­ence here more than sym­bol­ic. The deputy informs her that a res­cue dog from the Wichi­ta Moun­tain Climbers Coali­tion had uncov­ered the remains while help­ing trail work­ers, adding that the ter­rain was too rocky for a deep bur­ial. This detail con­firms what she already sus­pect­ed: who­ev­er buried this girl didn’t have the time, strength, or will to do it prop­er­ly. It wasn’t just an act of disposal—it was like­ly a bur­ial made in des­per­a­tion, haste, or pan­ic.

As she takes a long breath, Saint reflects on how many times she had imag­ined this moment in the qui­et hours of the night—when intu­ition screamed loud­er than any evi­dence ever could. The cru­ci­fix clenched in her palm now echoes the lin­ger­ing voic­es of oth­er lost girls she has inves­ti­gat­ed, each one tug­ging at her con­science. When the deputy final­ly asks if this is the same girl con­nect­ed to pre­vi­ous dis­ap­pear­ances, Saint sim­ply nods, her voice steady but sub­dued. “Yes,” she con­firms, “I knew before I got here.” Her con­fir­ma­tion doesn’t stem from the phys­i­cal evi­dence alone—it’s root­ed in months of research, gut instinct, and the bur­den of mem­o­ry that she’s car­ried. This girl, now bones under an open sky, is more than a name on a list. She’s a chap­ter in a much larg­er story—one of silence, secrets, and sys­temic fail­ures that allowed her dis­ap­pear­ance to hap­pen unno­ticed.

The chap­ter clos­es on a note of qui­et dev­as­ta­tion. Saint remains beside the grave long after the deputy steps away, the hot wind stir­ring the dust into lit­tle spi­rals at her feet. Her hand remains over the cru­ci­fix, not in prayer, but in solidarity—a silent vow that this girl, unlike so many oth­ers, will not be for­got­ten. There’s no spo­ken promise, but it’s clear Saint has already made one to her­self: to keep search­ing, keep uncov­er­ing, and keep telling the sto­ries of the girls whose voic­es were tak­en from them. As she ris­es and turns back toward the trail, she doesn’t look over her shoul­der. What’s behind her is tragedy; what lies ahead is the relent­less pur­suit of truth.