They Cut My Sister Open

Alison

When the door of the military cargo plane slid open, the Alaskan wind sliced across my face like a razor.

Thirty-five below—this godforsaken hellhole was still just as brutal as I remembered.

But I couldn't care less.

For ten years, I'd only seen my sister once every two years.

She was all I had left.

The runway's patchy ice glittered in the fading sunset as I squinted, searching for that familiar silhouette.

Madison was always there first, always waiting with that warm smile to whisk me home. But today, only a stranger stood there, his eyes darting away from mine.

"Ms. Black?" He stepped forward, voice unsteady.

I ignored him, still scanning the area. "Where's Madison? Why isn't she here?"

"She's... waiting at the research outpost. Caught up in work—her research, you know."

Bullshit.

In ten years, Madison had never missed picking me up. Not during blizzards, not during her most critical experiments. That was our pact.

I studied the driver. His movements were awkward—definitely not Tom, our family's driver for years. His hands trembled slightly on the wheel, eyes constantly checking the rearview.

Fear. It rolled off him in waves.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"New driver at the outpost. Tom's... Tom's out sick."

Another lie.

I might've spent a decade in the psych ward, but my bullshit detector still worked perfectly. This guy was lying through his teeth, and he sucked at it.

As we drove through Aurora Bay, the emptiness of the streets hit me. Usually at this hour, people would be clearing driveways, kids would be pelting each other with snowballs. Today, it felt abandoned.

Even stranger—nearly every window had someone watching. But the moment I looked their way, they disappeared.

The research outpost's main building was dimly lit, its corridors deserted. Only the low hum of equipment broke the silence, like a whispered warning.

I pushed Madison's office door open.

And my world imploded.

Grant—my sister's husband—was wrapped around a blonde woman. Her lipstick was smeared across his collar, his hand still resting on her hip.

They jumped apart at the sound of the door, like kids caught stealing cookies.

"Where's my sister?" My voice could've frozen hell over.

Grant fumbled with his shirt, guilt written all over his face. "Alison... you should sit down. I have something to tell you."

The blonde stepped toward me, her face a mask of practiced sympathy. "I'm Caitlin Stone, military liaison. Wish we were meeting under better circumstances."

I scanned the room. Madison's things—her favorite mug, her photos, the succulent she'd kept alive for years—were gone. Like she'd been erased.

"I asked where the hell my sister is!" My voice bounced off the walls.

Grant couldn't meet my eyes. "She... disappeared three months ago."

"Disappeared?" My blood turned to slush. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"She tried to rescue an injured fox during a storm. Her car went through the ice on Blackwater Lake. We searched for weeks, but..." He shook his head, playing the grieving widower.

Liar.

"Alison..."

"She's terrified of storms—she'd never go out in one!" My knuckles popped as I clenched my fists. "And she was eight months pregnant! Where is she?"

Caitlin moved closer, her voice honey-sweet poison. "Alison, you need to accept what happened."

Accept what? That my sister had vanished, her husband was screwing around barely three months later, and everyone was putting on this pathetic charade?

I turned to leave. Grant called after me: "Alison, wait..."

I didn't look back. Every person in this room was lying—including that bitch masquerading as military personnel.

But deep down, I knew what they were too chickenshit to say: my sister was probably dead.

The reek of cigarettes in the police station reminded me of the psych ward's antiseptic stench. The sheriff sat behind his desk, and when I demanded they investigate my sister's murder, his face went white.

"I'm reporting a homicide!"

"Alison, I understand you're grieving, but it was an accident. Cut and dried." He flipped open a folder with the words clearly visible: [Madison Black Missing Person—Accidental Death, Case Closed.]

Closed? They hadn't even found her body, and they'd closed the damn case?

"You just got out of psychiatric care," the sheriff continued. "Maybe... you need some more time."

There it was. Whenever someone wanted me to shut up, they waved my medical history like a flag. As if my "crazy past" could erase reality.

"Show me the evidence."

"There isn't much. Just the overturned vehicle and blood samples."

Blood. My heart stuttered.

"How much blood?"

"Alison..."

"I said, how much fucking blood!"

The sheriff exhaled heavily. "Enough to indicate she couldn't have survived."

I stared him down—and saw that same fear I'd spotted in the driver. Everyone in this town was terrified of something. They were all part of this cover-up, right down to the cops.

But what were they hiding? What had Madison discovered that made them kill a pregnant woman?

Back at the Black family estate, I felt like an intruder. This place used to be home for Madison and me, but now it reeked of strangers.

Someone had searched my old bedroom.

The signs were subtle, but unmistakable. The books on my shelf were slightly rearranged; items in my drawers shifted by fractions of an inch. What were they hunting for?

Moonlight sliced through the blinds onto my bed, and I caught movement outside. Multiple shadows. They thought I couldn't spot them, but a decade in the psych ward had taught me to see in darkness.

I was under constant surveillance.

Why would they monitor a psych ward graduate this intensely? Unless... unless they feared I'd uncover something I wasn't supposed to know.

Among Madison's belongings left for me, I found a small box. Inside were letters written in the secret code we'd invented as kids.

[Eli, if you're reading this, something's happened to me. They want my baby, and I'm terrified, but I can't drag you into this mess. Remember, trust your instincts—don't trust anyone.]

My hands trembled. She knew. Madison had known she was marked for death.

The final line made my skin crawl:

[They're not just after me. They're after what's inside me—and what's inside you.]

I folded the letter, and something within me died permanently. Not love, not hope—my last thread of humanity.

Madison had spent ten years trying to make me normal, make me good. She'd taught me to smile, to show kindness, to cage the darkness inside me.

But now she was missing and might even be dead!