On Christmas Eve 1998, three teenage girls walked into Denver International Airport to catch a flight home for the holidays.

Security footage shows them laughing, carrying wrapped gifts, their faces bright with anticipation.

They checked in at the gate, passed through security, and were never seen again.

No bodies were ever found.

No ransom was ever demanded.

For 26 years, their families have lived with an impossible question.

How do three people vanish from inside an airport? But when a demolition crew begins tearing down the old terminal in 2024, they discover something hidden in the walls.

Something that suggests the girls never left the building at all.

If you’re fascinated by unsolved mysteries and true crime stories that defy explanation, subscribe to stay with us as we uncover the truth behind the Christmas vanishing.

The snow fell thick and heavy over Denver on December 24th, 1998, coating the streets in white and turning the city into a winter postcard.

Inside the sprawling expanse of Denver International Airport, travelers hurried through the terminals, their arms full of shopping bags and suitcases, their minds focused on reunions and celebrations waiting at journeys end.

Three girls stood together near gate B27, their breath forming small clouds in the perpetually airond conditioned concourse.

Sarah Chen, 17, clutched a carry-on bag decorated with travel stickers.

Beside her, Amanda Morrison, also 17, adjusted the Santa hat perched on her dark curls while 16-year-old Kelly Brennan examined her boarding pass for the third time.

her nervousness about flying evident in the way her hands trembled slightly.

They were heading home to Seattle after spending a semester at a private boarding school in Colorado Springs.

The flight was scheduled to depart at 6:15 p.m.

arriving in Seattle just after 8 in plenty of time for Christmas morning with their families.

“I can’t wait to see my mom’s face when she opens her present,” Sarah said, patting her bag where a carefully wrapped jewelry box was nestled among her clothes.

I saved for 3 months to buy it.

Amanda grinned, her Santa hat tilting to one side.

My little brother is going to lose his mind over the telescope I got him.

He’s been talking about wanting to see Saturn since September.

Kelly finally looked up from her boarding pass, managing a small smile.

My dad doesn’t even know I’m coming.

Mom said she wanted to surprise him.

The PA system crackled overhead, announcing a delay for their flight due to weather conditions.

Groans echoed through the waiting area as travelers checked their watches and pulled out cell phones, the bulky models that were standard in 1998 before smartphones would transform how people waited.

Another hour, Amanda sighed, reading the departure board.

What should we do? Sarah spotted a coffee shop across the concourse.

Let’s get hot chocolate.

My treat.

They gathered their bags and walked together through the terminal.

Three girls in a sea of holiday travelers.

Unremarkable and unmemorable except to those who loved them.

Security cameras captured them entering the coffee shop at 5:47 p.m.

The footage shows them ordering, laughing at something the barista said, finding seats near the window where they could watch the snow fall on the tarmac.

At 6:03 p.m., the cameras show them leaving the coffee shop, their cups in hand, walking back toward their gate.

They pass a bank of payones, a news stand decorated with tinsel and mechanical santaas, a janitor mopping the floor near the restrooms.

At 6:07 p.m., they round a corner near gate B24, just three gates away from where their flight would eventually board, and then nothing.

The cameras lose them in a brief gap in coverage, a blind spot that airport security would later identify as a known issue in that section of the terminal.

When the next camera picks up the view of the corridor they should have walked through, the girls are simply gone.

Their flight eventually departed at 7:45 p.m.

delayed but airborne, carrying passengers to Seattle for Christmas.

Three seats in row 23 remained empty.

Three families waited at SeaTac airport, watching travelers stream past, their smiles fading as the crowd thinned and their daughters never appeared.

By midnight, when the girls still hadn’t made contact, their parents called the authorities.

By morning, when the magnitude of the impossibility became clear, the FBI arrived.

Three girls had vanished from inside one of the most surveiled buildings in America, and no one had any idea how.

Detective Rachel Torres stood in the December cold, watching the excavators tear into the old terminal wing of Denver International Airport.

After 26 years in law enforcement, she thought she’d seen every variation of human tragedy and criminal ingenuity.

But this case had always haunted her differently than the others.

She’d been a rookie patrol officer when Sarah Chen, Amanda Morrison, and Kelly Brennan disappeared.

She remembered the chaos of those first days, the frantic searches, the growing certainty that something terrible had happened in a place where terrible things weren’t supposed to be possible.

Now at 51, she was the lead detective on cold cases for Denver PD, and she’d pulled the Christmas vanishing file more times than she could count over the years, always hoping some new technology or fresh perspective might crack it open.

The demolition of Terminal B’s oldest wing had been planned for months.

The airport was modernizing, tearing down structures that dated back to its opening in 1995 to make way for expanded gates and updated facilities.

Rachel had insisted on being present.

Some instinct she couldn’t name, telling her that if answers existed, they might be buried in the bones of the building itself.

Detective Torres.

A young construction foreman approached, his face pale despite the cold.

You need to see this.

Rachel followed him through the security perimeter, past the excavators and dump trucks into a section of wall that had been partially demolished.

The foreman pointed to an opening that had been hidden behind layers of drywall and insulation.

“We found it about an hour ago,” he said.

“Protocol says we stop work and call you guys for anything unusual.” Rachel peered into the opening.

Behind the wall was a space that shouldn’t exist according to any architectural plans.

A narrow corridor roughly 4 ft wide, extending back into darkness.

The air that wafted out was stale and undisturbed, carrying the scent of old concrete and something else Rachel couldn’t immediately identify.

“Get me lights,” she said, her pulse quickening.

“And call my partner.

Tell him to bring a full forensics team.

Within 30 minutes, the area was flooded with portable lights and specialists.

Rachel, now wearing protective gear and equipped with a flashlight, stepped into the hidden corridor.

The walls were unfinished concrete, the floor covered in a fine layer of dust that showed no footprints except the ones she was making.

The corridor extended about 20 ft before opening into a small room, roughly 10 by 12 ft.

Rachel’s light swept across the space and her breath caught.

Against the far wall sat three suitcases, dusty but intact.

Beside them, arranged almost reverently, were three wrapped Christmas presents.

Their paper faded but still showing recognizable patterns.

Reindeer, snowflakes, candy canes.

Rachel’s hands shook as she crouched near the items, careful not to disturb them.

She recognized these objects from the case file photographs she’d memorized.

Sarah Chen’s black carry-on with the travel stickers, Amanda Morrison’s red duffel bag, Kelly Brennan’s navy blue suitcase with the broken wheel.

But it was what lay scattered across the floor that made Rachel’s stomach turn.

Dozens of Polaroid photographs, their images still visible despite the years.

She picked up the nearest one with gloved hands.

Three girls bound and gagged, their eyes wide with terror, sitting in what appeared to be this very room.

The timestamp in the corner read, “December 24th, 1998, 7:23 p.m.” Rachel’s radio crackled.

“Torres, we’ve got something else back here.

You need to see this.” She stood on unsteady legs and followed another corridor that branched off from the room.

This one was shorter, ending in a heavy metal door that stood slightly a jar.

Rachel pushed it open and found herself looking at a small space that might have been a maintenance closet or equipment room.

Three sleeping bags lay on the floor arranged side by side.

Beside them were empty water bottles, candy bar wrappers, and a batterypowered lantern that had long since died.

And in the corner, carefully folded and stacked, were three sets of clothing.

Jeans, sweaters, shoes, everything the girls had been wearing in the security footage from that Christmas Eve.

Rachel stepped back, her mind racing through the implications.

The girls had been held here in a space that didn’t officially exist, hidden inside the very building where hundreds of people had searched for them.

Detective.

One of the forensic techs was photographing something on the wall.

You should see this.

Rachel approached and followed his pointing finger.

Scratched into the concrete, barely visible but unmistakable, were words carved with something sharp.

Help us.

He comes at night.

B-wing maintenance.

Below that, in different handwriting, more desperate and shaky.

If you find this, tell our families we fought.

Rachel’s vision blurred with tears.

She quickly blinked away.

After 26 years, the girls were finally telling their story.

“Seal everything,” she ordered, her voice rough.

“I want every inch of this space processed, and I want the architectural plans for this entire terminal pulled immediately.

Someone built this space deliberately, and someone had access to it.” As the forensics team began their meticulous work, Rachel stepped back into the main corridor.

her phone already in her hand.

She had three phone calls to make.

Calls she’d imagined making for over two decades, though never in circumstances like these.

Helen Chen, Margaret Morrison, and Patricia Brennan deserve to know that their daughters had finally been found, even if the answers that came with that discovery would break their hearts all over again.

The conference room at Denver Police Headquarters felt too small for the weight of what it contained.

Rachel sat at the head of the table, surrounded by files, photographs, and the three mothers who had waited 26 years for this moment.

Helen Chen looked older than her 63 years, her hair completely white, her hands trembling as they rested on the table.

Margaret Morrison sat ramrod straight, her jaws set in the same expression of fierce determination Rachel had seen in every photograph of her daughter, Amanda.

Patricia Brennan clutched a tissue, her eyes red but dry, as if she’d exhausted her capacity for tears long ago.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” Rachel began, her voice gentle.

“I know this is difficult, but I wanted to speak with you before the media gets hold of the story.” “Are they?” Helen couldn’t finish the question.

Rachel shook her head.

We haven’t found any remains in the hidden space, but we did find their belongings and evidence that they were held there for some period of time after they disappeared.

She laid out the polaroids on the table, selecting only those that showed the girl’s faces clearly, avoiding the ones that displayed their fear and restraint too explicitly.

Even these carefully chosen images made all three mothers draw sharp breaths.

These are dated December 24th and 25th, 1998, Rachel continued.

The latest one we found so far is dated December 31st.

We’re still processing everything, but it appears they were held in that hidden space for at least a week.

And then what? Margaret asked, her voice hard.

Where did they go after that? We don’t know yet, Rachel admitted.

The space connects to several maintenance corridors that run throughout the old terminal.

Someone with knowledge of the building’s infrastructure could have moved through these passages without being seen on security cameras.

Patricia finally spoke, her voice barely audible.

Who would do this? Who would take three children and hide them inside an airport? Rachel pulled out a thick folder.

That’s what we’re working to determine.

I’ve compiled a list of everyone who had comprehensive access to Terminal B’s maintenance areas in 1998.

We’re talking about structural engineers, maintenance supervisors, security personnel with master keys, and construction workers who were involved in lastminute modifications before the airport’s official opening.

She spread out personnel files and security badge records.

Denver International Airport opened in 1995, 3 years before the girls disappeared.

There were still areas being modified and updated in 1998.

That hidden corridor we found wasn’t on any official plans, which means it was either an unauthorized construction or it was deliberately hidden from the architectural records.

Helen leaned forward, studying the documents.

Have you questioned these people? We’re in the process of locating them, Rachel said.

It’s been 26 years.

Some have died, some have moved, but we’re tracking down everyone on this list.

She pulled out one file in particular.

However, there’s one name that keeps appearing with unusual frequency.

Thomas Wayland, who was the night shift maintenance supervisor for Terminal B from 1996 to 1999.

He had master access to all maintenance corridors, and he was one of the last people to see several areas before they were sealed off during renovations.

Margaret picked up Whan’s personnel file, examining his photograph.

“Where is he now?” “That’s the problem,” Rachel said.

He left Denver in January 1999, just a week after the girls disappeared.

His employment file shows he gave notice on December 28th, 1998, citing family emergency.

He collected his final paycheck on January 4th and was never heard from again.

The room fell silent as the implications settled over them.

“You think he took them?” Patricia whispered.

“I think he’s a person of significant interest,” Rachel said carefully.

We’ve issued a nationwide alert for him, though I’ll be honest with you.

After 26 years, finding him won’t be easy.

She pulled out another document.

But here’s something interesting.

In going through the original investigation files, I found a detail that was noted, but never followed up on adequately.

On December 23rd, the day before the girls disappeared, there was a maintenance request filed for gate B27, the exact gate where your daughters were supposed to board their flight.

Helen’s eyes widened.

What kind of maintenance? Electrical issues in the women’s restroom near that gate, Rachel read from the report.

The request was filed by Thomas Wayland and according to the work log, he spent several hours in that area on December 24th, including during the time window when the girls would have been waiting for their flight.

She laid out a map of terminal B marked with the girls last known positions based on security footage.

Look at this.

The restroom where Wayland was working was directly between the coffee shop where the girls were last clearly seen and gate B7 where they were headed.

It’s also adjacent to a maintenance access door that connects to the hidden corridor system.

Margaret traced the route with her finger.

You think he approached them somehow? Lured them? The restroom was temporarily closed that evening due to the maintenance work.

Rachel explained.

We found a notation in the security logs that an out of order sign was posted.

But here’s what doesn’t make sense.

The electrical issue was supposedly fixed by 5:30 p.m., but the sign remained up until after 70s p.m.

Wayand logged out for the day at 7:15 p.m., right around when the last Polaroid was taken.

Helen observed, her voice shaking.

Rachel nodded.

We developing a theory.

We think Wayland may have created a situation that required the girls to use the maintenance corridor.

perhaps told them there was an emergency, a shortcut to their gate because of weather delays, something that would make three young girls trust an airport employee in uniform.

She pulled out the photographs of the messages scratched into the wall.

Your daughters mentioned B-wing maintenance in their message.

That was Whan’s primary responsibility zone and the phrase he comes at night.

Wayand worked the night shift 400 p.m.

to midnight.

Patricia covered her mouth with her hand.

They knew who he was.

They were trying to tell us.

They were incredibly brave, Rachel said softly.

Every piece of evidence we’re finding shows they fought.

They documented what they could.

They left messages.

They did everything right.

But it wasn’t enough, Margaret said bitterly.

It might be now, Rachel countered.

These messages, these photographs, they’re giving us a trail to follow.

We know who we’re looking for and we know he made mistakes.

People who commit crimes like this, they often can’t help but leave traces.

Wayand worked in that airport for 3 years.

He had colleagues, friends, habits.

Someone knew something, even if they didn’t realize its significance at the time.

Helen straightened in her chair.

Something hard and determined settling over her features.

What do you need from us? I need you to remember, Rachel said.

Did your daughters ever mention airport employees? Any adults who approached them at the terminal? Any detail, no matter how small, that seemed odd about that day? The three mothers exchanged glances, then slowly began to speak, their memories of that terrible Christmas surfacing after years of trying to bury them.

And as Rachel listened, taking notes, she felt the case beginning to shift from impossible mystery to solvable crime.

Somewhere out there, Thomas Wayland existed and Rachel was going to find him.

Rachel sat across from Gerald Finch in the small visiting room of the Sunset Meadows Assisted Living Facility.

At 78 years old, Finch was frail and relied on an oxygen tank that hissed softly beside his wheelchair.

But his eyes were sharp and alert when Rachel mentioned Thomas Whan’s name.

“I remember Tom,” Finch said, his voice raspy.

We worked together for almost 3 years.

I was dayshift supervisor.

He was nights.

We’d over overlapped during shift changes.

What can you tell me about him? Rachel asked, her notepad ready.

Finch was quiet for a moment, his gnarled hands resting on the arms of his wheelchair.

He was competent, quiet, kept to himself mostly.

the other maintenance guys.

We’d grab beers after work sometimes, talk about sports, families.

Tom never joined us.

Always said he had things to take care of at home.

Did he ever mention family? A wife, children? No wife.

I’m certain of that.

He lived alone in one of those efficiency apartments near the airport.

I remember because he mentioned once that he liked being close to work.

Said he could walk there if his car broke down.

Finch paused, his expression darkening.

There was something off about him, though.

Little things that didn’t add up.

Rachel leaned forward.

What kind of things? He had this habit of volunteering for overtime, especially around the holidays.

Christmas, New Year’s, Thanksgiving, times when the rest of us wanted to be home with family.

Tom was always eager to work.

Said he didn’t celebrate holidays.

Finch shifted in his wheelchair.

And he had keys to everywhere.

I mean, supervisors had master keys, sure, but Tom had copies made.

I saw his key ring once, must have had 30 keys on it.

When I asked why he needed so many, he said he’d like to be prepared for any maintenance emergency.

Did you ever see him in areas he shouldn’t have been? Finch nodded slowly.

A few times, yeah, I’d come in early or stay late to finish paperwork, and I’d see him in sections that weren’t his responsibility.

Once I found him in the old storage area near Terminal B’s west wing.

Place had been closed off for months because of asbestous remediation.

When I asked what he was doing there, he said he was checking for water leaks, but there were no work orders for that area.

Rachel made notes.

Do you remember when this was? Fall of 1998, maybe October or November.

Not long before those girls went missing.

Finch’s eyes met Rachel’s.

When that happened, when I heard about it on the news, I thought about Tom.

Called the tip line, actually told them about seeing him in restricted areas.

I don’t think anyone ever followed up.

Rachel felt a cold anger settle in her chest.

Your call should have been in the case file.

Should have been a lot of things in that investigation, Finch said bitterly.

Airport management didn’t want bad press.

Three girls disappearing from inside the terminal was already a nightmare for them.

They were more interested in proving it couldn’t have happened inside the building than actually finding those kids.

Tell me about the day Whan quit.

Finch’s expression darkened further.

I wasn’t there when he turned in his notice.

That would have been the night supervisor who took it, but I was there for his last day, January 4th.

He came in during the day to collect his final check and turn in his badge and keys.

I was in the office when he did it.

How did he seem? calm.

Too calm, like a man who’d made a decision and was at peace with it.

Finch coughed, reaching for a cup of water.

After a sip, he continued.

He had a duffel bag with him, like he was leaving straight from there for somewhere else.

I asked where he was headed, and he just smiled.

First time I’d ever seen him smile, actually, and said he was going somewhere warm.

Did he say where specifically? No, but I remember thinking it was strange because it was January in Colorado.

Everyone wants somewhere warm in January.

But the way he said it, it felt like more than just a vacation, like he was running towards something or away from it.

Rachel pulled out a photograph from her folder.

One of the Polaroids found in the hidden room, though she’d selected one that showed only the corner of a sleeping bag and part of the concrete wall.

Do you recognize this location? Finch studied it carefully.

Then his face pald.

That’s terminal B maintenance storage.

I’d recognize that concrete anywhere.

It had a specific texture because it was poured in phases.

We used to joke that you could see the construction timeline in the wall.

He looked up at Rachel.

Where did you find this? In the hidden corridor behind the walls of Terminal B.

Finch closed his eyes.

God have mercy.

Those poor girls were right there the whole time, weren’t they? While we were all searching, while their families were on the news, begging for information.

They were hidden in the walls.

We think so.

Yes.

For at least a week based on the evidence.

Rachel pulled out another document.

Mr.

Finch, I need you to think carefully.

Did Wayland have any friends? Anyone he was close to? Anyone who might know where he went? Finch was quiet for a long moment.

His breathing labored.

Finally, he spoke.

There was one person, Marcus Webb.

He was a security guard.

Worked the night shift, same as Tom.

I’d see them talking sometimes during rounds.

They weren’t exactly friends, but they had some kind of connection.

Marcus was ex-military.

Kept to himself, too.

The two of them would sometimes eat lunch together in Tom’s truck.

Is Marcus Webb still in the area? Last I heard, he was working security at a warehouse complex in Commerce City, but that was years ago.

I can’t say for sure.

Rachel stood, gathering her materials.

Mr.

Finch, you’ve been incredibly helpful.

If you remember anything else, please call me.

She handed him her card.

Finch took it with shaking hands.

Detective, that call I made back in 1998.

Why didn’t anyone follow up? If they had, could those girls have been saved? Rachel met his eyes, seeing the guilt that had been eating at him for 26 years.

I don’t know, but I promise you, I’m following up now, and I won’t stop until I find out what happened to them.

As she left the facility, Rachel called her partner.

Run a full background on Marcus Webb, former security guard at DIA.

I want current address, employment history, everything.

and pull the original tip line records from 1998.

Someone buried a lead and I want to know who and why.

The afternoon sun was beginning to fade as Rachel drove back to the station.

Her phone rang.

The forensics lab.

Torres, she answered.

Detective, we finished processing the items from the hidden room.

You need to hear this.

The tech’s voice was strained.

We found DNA on several items, the sleeping bags, the clothing.

We ran it through Cotus.

Rachel’s pulse quickened and we got hits.

Three different DNA profiles, all female.

We compared them to the samples the families provided back in 1998.

Sarah, Amanda, and Kelly, Rachel said.

Confirmed.

But there’s more.

We found a fourth DNA profile male and it’s in the system.

Rachel pulled over to the side of the road.

Who? Thomas Wayland.

He was arrested in 2003 in Phoenix, Arizona for trespassing on school property.

Charges were eventually dropped, but they took his DNA.

Detective, his DNA is all over that room, on the sleeping bags, on the water bottles.

We even found skin cells under the fingernails of one of the sweaters.

Looks like one of the girls scratched him.

Send me everything, Rachel ordered.

And get me the arrest report from Phoenix.

I want to know why he was on school property and why the charges were dropped.

She sat in her car watching traffic pass, her mind assembling the pieces.

Wayland had taken the girls, held them in the hidden room, and then something had happened.

The Polaroid stopped after December 31st.

Had he moved them somewhere else? Had something gone wrong? And if he was alive in 2003, 5 years after the girls disappeared, where was he now? And where were Sarah, Amanda, and Kelly? Rachel’s phone buzzed with a text from her partner.

Found Marcus Webb.

He’s dead.

Suicide in 2006, but there’s something you should see in his file.

Rachel closed her eyes, feeling the case shift again.

Every answer brought new questions, and the clock had been running for 26 years, but she was closer now than anyone had ever been.

She started her car and headed back to the station.

Somewhere in the files, in the evidence, in the memories of those who’d known Thomas Wayland, there was a thread that would lead her to the truth.

And Rachel Torres was going to follow it, no matter where it led.

Marcus Webb’s apartment had been sealed after his death in 2006.

His belongings packed away by the state when no next of kin could be located.

Rachel stood in the evidence storage facility looking at the boxes that contained the remnants of his life.

We kept it because the suicide was questioned initially, the storage clerk explained, pulling boxes off the shelf.

Investigating officers thought there might be foul play, but the case was eventually ruled self-inflicted.

No one ever claimed his stuff, so it just sat here.

Rachel pulled on latex gloves and began opening boxes, clothing, books, photographs.

The ordinary debris of an ordinary life.

But Web hadn’t been ordinary.

He’d worked alongside Thomas Whan during the exact period when three girls had been taken.

In the third box, she found what she was looking for.

A journal, its leather cover worn and cracked.

Rachel opened it carefully, scanning the entries.

Web’s handwriting was precise, almost mechanical.

The disciplined script of someone with military training.

Most entries were mundane.

Notes about his shift, observations about airport security, complaints about management.

But as Rachel flipped toward the end, dated entries from late 1998, the tone changed.

December 20th, 1998.

Tom asked me about the old maintenance corridors again.

Wanted to know which ones were still accessible, which had been sealed.

Told him I didn’t have that information.

He got agitated.

Don’t like when he gets like that.

December 27th, 1998.

Haven’t seen Tom for 3 days.

Called in sick to work.

That’s not like him.

He never misses shifts.

December 30th, 1998.

Tom showed up tonight looking like hell.

Wouldn’t say where he’d been.

Asked me if I’d heard anything about those missing girls.

Said the police were asking questions about maintenance access.

Told me if anyone asked, he’d been with me Christmas Eve.

I didn’t agree to that.

He scared me.

January 5th, 1999.

Tom’s gone.

Quit yesterday.

I should tell someone about the corridors, about what he asked me.

But what if I’m wrong? What if it’s nothing? Rachel photographed each page, her hands trembling slightly.

She continued reading, watching Web’s guilt and paranoia grow over the years.

March 2000.

Can’t stop thinking about those girls.

Their faces are on posters everywhere in the airport.

Every time I walk past their pictures, I wonder if I could have stopped it.

if I’d said something when Tom was acting strange.

November 2001.

Quit the airport.

Couldn’t take it anymore.

Every corridor, every maintenance room.

I keep thinking they might be in there.

Started having nightmares.

June 2003.

Saw Tom today.

Can’t be sure it was him, but I swear I saw him at the bus station.

Older, thinner, but the same eyes.

He saw me, too.

Smiled like we shared a secret.

I ran.

Rachel’s phone rang, making her jump.

Her partner’s voice was urgent.

Rachel, we got a hit on Whan’s credit card, or rather a card under an alias we’ve linked to him.

It was used 3 hours ago at a gas station in Pueblo.

He’s still in Colorado.

Rachel’s mind raced.

After all these years, he’s still here.

Looks like it.

I’ve got units heading to the gas station now to pull security footage.

But there’s more.

We ran the alias, David Thompson, and found rental payments for a storage unit in Colorado Springs.

It’s been rented continuously since January 1999.

Rachel felt her pulse spike.

Get a warrant.

I want that unit open today.

She returned to Web’s journal, flipping to the final entries.

August 2006.

I can’t live with this anymore.

I should have spoken up.

I should have told them about the corridors, about Tom’s questions, about seeing him that Christmas.

Those girls might have been saved.

Their families might have closure.

Instead, I said nothing, and I’ve become complicit in whatever happened to them.

September 2006.

I’ve decided I’m going to tell the police everything.

Tomorrow, I’ll go to the station and give them this journal.

Let them decide if I’m guilty, too.

At least then I might sleep again.

The final entry was dated September 15th, 2006, the day before Web’s body was found in his bathtub.

Wrists slashed, a bottle of sleeping pills on the sink.

But Rachel noticed something odd.

The handwriting in this final entry was different from the others.

Still precise, still mechanical, but the letters slanted at a slightly different angle.

The pressure on the page was harder.

She photographed the page and sent it to the forensics lab with a note.

Need handwriting analysis.

Compare this entry to the others.

I don’t think Web wrote this.

Her phone buzzed.

A message from the team at the storage unit.

Warrant approved.

We’re moving in.

Rachel gathered the journal and headed for her car.

Colorado Springs was 90 minutes south.

She could be there before they opened the unit.

As she drove, her mind kept returning to Web’s journal.

If he’d been murdered, if that final entry was forged, it meant Wayland had been tying up loose ends.

It meant he’d been in Colorado watching, waiting, eliminating anyone who might expose him, and it meant he might still be doing it.

The storage facility was a sprawling complex of identical beige buildings arranged in neat rows.

Rachel arrived to find her partner and a team of officers already on scene along with a locksmith working on unit 247.

Owner says the rent’s been paid automatically from a bank account for 26 years, her partner explained.

Never late, never missed a payment.

No one’s been seen entering or leaving, but the owner says he’s seen the lock changed a few times over the years.

Professional jobs, clean work.

The locksmith stepped back.

It’s open.

Rachel pulled on gloves and lifted the rolling door.

The unit was 10 ft by 10 feet, climate controlled and filled with boxes, filing cabinets, and a row of plastic storage containers.

Carefully, Rachel instructed the team.

Everything is potential evidence.

They began removing items systematically.

The first filing cabinet contained personnel records from Denver International Airport, copies that should never have left the building.

employee files, security protocols, architectural plans.

The second cabinet held newspaper clippings, every article about the missing girls carefully preserved in plastic sleeves.

Headlines screaming, “Three girls vanish from airport.

FBI baffled by Christmas disappearance.

Families plead for information, but it was the plastic containers that made Rachel’s blood run cold.

She opened the first one and found clothing.

Girls clothing neatly folded and labeled.

A pink sweater with Sarah written on a tag.

A denim jacket marked Amanda.

A pair of sneakers labeled Kelly.

Jesus, her partner whispered beside her.

The second container held more personal items.

A diary with Sarah Chen’s name embossed on the cover.

A friendship bracelet.

A photograph of the three girls together, their arms around each other smiling.

items that should have been with the girls or with their families.

The third container made Rachel step back, her hands shaking.

Inside were dozens more polaroids arranged chronologically.

Unlike the ones found in the hidden room, these showed the girls over time.

January 1999, March 1999, June 1999.

In each photograph, they were in different locations.

a basement room, the back of a van, a cabin interior.

And in each one, their eyes showed less hope, more resignation, the fight draining out of them month by month.

The last photograph was dated November 2002, 4 years after they’d been taken.

In it, the three girls sat side by side on a couch, their faces gaunt, their eyes empty.

They looked directly at the camera and Rachel could see they were still alive at that point, but something essential in them had died.

November 2002, Rachel said aloud.

That’s the last dated photo.

What happened after that? An officer called from the back of the unit.

Detective, you need to see this.

Rachel made her way past the boxes to where the officer stood beside a large trunk.

Inside were three backpacks, each with a name embroidered on it.

Sarah, Amanda, Kelly.

He kept them, Rachel said, her voice hollow.

He kept everything.

She opened Sarah’s backpack.

Inside were books, a portable CD player, a stuffed animal, personal items that told the story of a 17-year-old girl’s life, interrupted and ended.

At the bottom of the trunk was a locked metal box.

The locksmith made quick work of it, and when Rachel opened it, she found a USB drive and a handwritten letter.

The letter was addressed, “To whom it may find this?” Rachel read it aloud to her team.

“If you’re reading this, something has happened to me, or I finally decided to end this.

For 26 years, I’ve kept these secrets, carried this weight.

I took those girls because I could, because I had access, knowledge, and opportunity.

Because something in me is broken and always has been.

I watched them for months before Christmas 1998.

Studied their patterns, their schedules.

I knew when they’d be at the airport, knew their flight number, knew they’d be vulnerable in the chaos of holiday travel.

I told them there was a gas leak, that they needed to evacuate through the maintenance corridor.

They trusted me because I wore a uniform, because I had a badge.

That’s how easy it was.

I kept them in the airport for 9 days.

9 days where the whole world was looking for them and they were hidden in plain sight.

Then I moved them to a more secure location.

I won’t say where that secret dies with me.

They were with me for 4 years.

four years where I tried to convince myself this was something other than what it was, that I was protecting them somehow, that they needed me.

In November 2002, I made a decision.

I won’t detail it here, but they’re at peace now in a place where no one will find them without me leading the way.

And I won’t lead anyone there.

This storage unit is my insurance policy.

If I die unexpectedly, if someone gets too close, these items will tell enough of the story.

But not all of it.

Never all of it.

Some secrets should stay buried.

The letter was signed.

TWW.

Rachel looked at the USB drive in her hand.

We need to see what’s on this now.

The conference room at Denver PD had been converted into a command center.

Multiple monitors displayed different angles of security footage, crime scene photographs, and maps of Colorado.

Rachel stood at the head of the table.

The USB drives contents now uploaded and analyzed by the forensics team.

Helen Chen, Margaret Morrison, and Patricia Brennan sat together on one side of the table.

Rachel had called them in because they deserved to know what had been found.

Even though every discovery brought fresh pain.

The USB drive contains video files, Rachel began, her voice careful.

They dated from December 1998 through November 2002.

I’m not going to show you most of them, but there are some segments where your daughters speak directly to the camera.

They knew Wayand was documenting them, and they use those moments to leave messages.

She pulled up the first video file dated January 15th, 1999.

The screen showed Sarah Chen sitting on a basement floor, her face bruised but defiant.

When she spoke, her voice was stronger than Rachel expected.

Mom, if you’re seeing this, it means someone found these videos.

I need you to know that Amanda Kelly and I are still fighting.

We’re still here.

The man who took us is named Thomas Wayland.

He worked at the airport as a maintenance supervisor.

Sarah leaned closer to the camera, her eyes intense.

He has a scar on his left forearm, shaped like a crescent moon.

He drives a blue pickup truck, Colorado plates.

He’s keeping us in a basement somewhere, but we can hear trains passing nearby every few hours.

Freight trains based on the sound.

The video cut off abruptly.

Helen Chen was crying quietly, her hand pressed to her mouth.

She was so brave.

She was, Rachel agreed.

They all were.

Each video shows them providing details about their location, about Wayland, about anything that might help identify where they were being held.

She pulled up another video.

This one dated March 1999.

Amanda Morrison appeared on screen.

Her Santa hat, the one she’d been wearing the day she disappeared.

Now tattered and faded, but still on her head.

Hi, Mom.

Hi, Dad.

Amanda said, her voice cracking.

I don’t know if you’ll ever see this, but I need you to know something.

There’s a window in the room where he keeps us.

It’s boarded up, but through the cracks, we can see part of a sign.

It says, “Welcome to We can’t see the rest, but we hear church bells every Sunday at 9:00 a.m., and we smell something like sulfur sometimes when the wind changes.” Rachel paused the video.

The details they provided were remarkably specific.

The problem is, they didn’t know what town they were in, and Colorado has hundreds of small communities with churches and freight lines.

But you have leads now.

Margaret said it wasn’t a question.

We do.

The tech team enhanced the audio from several videos.

We’ve identified the train sounds as consistent with the BNSF railway freight line that runs through southern Colorado.

The sulfur smell suggests proximity to mining operations or natural hot springs.

And the partial sign combined with the church bells.

We’re working with geographic analysts to narrow down possible locations.

Patricia Brennan, who had been silent until now, spoke up.

“You said the videos go through November 2002.

What happened then?” Rachel had been dreading this question.

The last video is dated November 23rd, 2002.

It’s different from the others.

Wayan filmed it himself, and he’s speaking directly to the camera.

She started the video.

Thomas Wayland appeared on screen.

A thin man in his 40s with graying hair and cold, empty eyes.

behind him, visible but out of focus.

The three girls sat on a couch, their faces turned away.

“This is my final recording,” Wayan said, his voice flat and emotionless.

“I’ve made a decision about the future.

These girls have been with me for 4 years.

In that time, I’ve come to understand something about myself that I didn’t want to face.

I can’t let them go.

Not because I care about them, but because they know too much.

They’ve seen too much.

He adjusted the camera.

But I also can’t keep doing this.

The maintenance, the logistics, the constant fear of discovery, it’s exhausting.

So, I’m going to end it cleanly, quietly, and then I’m going to disappear completely.

The video showed Wayland holding up a bottle of pills.

These are sleeping pills, enough for all three of them.

I’ll give them each a dose in hot chocolate.

They trust that ritual now.

When they’re asleep, I’ll transport them to a final resting place I’ve already prepared.

Somewhere beautiful, somewhere they’ll never be disturbed.

Helen Chen made a sound like a wounded animal.

Margaret wrapped her arms around her friend while Patricia sat frozen, her face bloodless.

Whan continued speaking.

I’m not a monster.

I didn’t hurt them physically beyond what was necessary to maintain control.

I fed them, clothed them, even educated them in my own way.

I cared for them.

This is mercy, not cruelty.

They’ll simply fall asleep and never wake up.

The video ended.

The room was silent, except for Helen’s quiet sobbing.

Rachel gave them a moment before speaking again.

We’ve analyzed every frame of that video.

The room he’s in has distinctive features.

Naughty pine walls, a specific style of light fixture, a visible portion of a window with a particular mountain view in the background.

We’ve also enhanced the audio and detected ambient sounds, wind chimes, a specific bird call, and distant highway noise.

She pulled up a map on the screen.

Based on all the evidence, the train sounds, the sulfur smell, the geographic features visible in the videos, and Whan’s known movements, we’ve identified three possible locations where he might have held the girls.

She marked three points on the map.

All of them are within a 2-hour radius of Colorado Springs, all near the BNSF freight line, and all have seasonal populations that would make a lone occupant less noticeable.

Her partner stood up.

We’ve also been tracking Whan’s alias, David Thompson.

The credit card usage in Pueblo 3 days ago was at a gas station.

Security footage shows a man matching Whan’s age and description.

But here’s the interesting part.

He was driving a van and we can see camping equipment in the back.

Camping equipment? Margaret asked.

Or excavation equipment? Rachel said carefully.

We think Wayland might be returning to the burial site, either to move the remains or to ensure they’re still secure.

The timing is significant.

We’re approaching the 26th anniversary of the girl’s disappearance.

That might have triggered something in him.

Or he knows you’re getting close, Patricia said, her voice steadier now.

He knows you found the hidden room in the airport.

He’s covering his tracks.

Rachel nodded.

That’s possible, too.

Either way, we have units watching all three locations.

We’ve set up surveillance, brought in cadaavver dogs, and coordinated with local law enforcement.

If Wayand is at any of these sites, we’ll find him.

Helen looked up, her eyes red but fierce.

And if you find him, will he tell you where they are? Where he put our daughters? I’ll make sure he does, Rachel said.

One way or another.

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it and felt her pulse spike.

A text from the surveillance team.

Movement at location two.

Single male matches description.

Digging in wooded area behind abandoned cabin.

Rachel stood abruptly.

We have him.

Surveillance spotted someone matching Whan’s description at one of the locations.

I need to go.

We’re coming with you, Margaret said, already standing.

I can’t allow that.

This is an active operation.

Those are our daughters he buried, Helen said, her voice breaking.

We’ve waited 26 years.

We’re coming.

Rachel looked at the three mothers, seeing the same determination that had kept them searching for more than two decades.

She made a decision that might cost her career.

You’ll stay in the command vehicle.

You won’t approach the scene until it’s secured.

Understood? All three women nodded.

Rachel grabbed her jacket and radio.

Let’s go.

All units converge on location two.

Subject is considered dangerous.

Approach with caution.

As they rushed from the building, Rachel felt the weight of 26 years pressing down on her.

This case had haunted an entire city, destroyed families, and left questions that seemed impossible to answer.

But now, in a wooded area outside a small town called Coldale, those answers were waiting to be uncovered.

Thomas Wayland had returned to the place where he’d buried his secrets, and Rachel Torres was going to make sure he finally faced them.

The drive to Coldale took 90 minutes, the fastest Rachel had ever made it.

The three mothers rode in silence in the back of the command vehicle, each lost in their own thoughts, their own fears about what they were about to learn.

As they approached the location, Rachel’s radio crackled to life.

Subject is still on site.

We have visual confirmation.

It’s definitely Wayland.

He’s digging near a grove of aspen trees approximately 50 yards behind the cabin.

Appears to be alone.

Hold positions, Rachel ordered.

Do not approach until I give the signal.

I want him taken alive.

They parked on a dirt road about a/4 mile from the cabin.

Rachel turned to the mothers.

Please stay here.

No matter what happens, stay in this vehicle until I come back for you.

She didn’t wait for their response.

She joined the tactical team assembling at the treeine.

All of them wearing body armor and carrying weapons.

Through the trees, Rachel could see the cabin.

A small, decrepit structure with boarded windows and a collapsing porch.

Behind it, barely visible in the fading afternoon light, a figure bent over a shovel.

On my mark, Rachel whispered into her radio.

3 2 1 go.

They moved through the trees as quietly as possible, spreading out to surround Wayland.

Rachel could hear the sound of his shovel biting into earth.

The labored breathing of a man in his 70s performing hard physical labor.

When they were 20 yards away, Rachel called out, “Thomas Wayland, this is the Denver Police Department.

Put down the shovel and raise your hands.” Whan froze, then slowly straightened.

He turned to face them, and Rachel got her first clear look at the man who had haunted her for so long.

He was thin to the point of gaunt, his face deeply lined, his hair completely white, but his eyes his eyes were exactly as they appeared in the videos, empty, devoid of remorse or fear.

I wondered when you’d find this place, he said calmly as if they were discussing the weather.

Took you long enough.

Put down the shovel, Rachel repeated, her weapon trained on him.

Wayand looked down at the shovel, then at the hole he’d been digging.

I was just about to move them.

I knew the airport discovery would lead you here eventually.

I thought I had more time.

Move who? Rachel asked, though she knew the answer.

Sarah, Amanda, and Kelly.

He said their names without inflection, as if reciting a grocery list.

They’re buried right here.

Have been since November 24th, 2002.

Rachel’s hand tightened on her weapon.

Put the shovel down now.

Whan smiled, a terrible empty expression.

You want to know something? They trusted me until the very end.

Even after four years, even knowing what I was, they still drank the hot chocolate I gave them.

They wanted to believe I wouldn’t hurt them.

“Stop talking,” Rachel commanded, moving closer.

“Put down the shovel and get on your knees.” They fell asleep on that couch, all three of them holding hands.

I waited until I was sure they were gone.

Then I brought them here, buried them deep where the animals couldn’t get to them.

I thought I was being merciful.

The tactical team had surrounded him now, weapons raised.

Whan looked at all of them and laughed.

A sound that made Rachel’s skin crawl.

26 years, he said.

26 years I’ve been free.

And you know what? I don’t regret any of it.

Not taking them, not keeping them, not ending it.

The only thing I regret is getting caught.

He raised the shovel suddenly, swinging it toward the nearest officer.

Multiple shots rang out simultaneously.

Whan’s body jerked and fell backward, landing beside the hole he’d been digging.

Rachel rushed forward, kicking the shovel away and checking for a pulse.

There was none.

Thomas Wayland was dead.

“Get the forensics team here,” Rachel ordered, her voice shaking.

“And bring the ground penetrating radar.

We need to confirm what’s down there.” As the team secured the scene, Rachel walked back toward the command vehicle, dreading what she had to tell the mothers waiting inside.

The excavation took 3 days.

Rachel insisted it be done carefully, respectfully, treating the site as both a crime scene and a grave.

Helen Chen, Margaret Morrison, and Patricia Brennan waited in a hotel in Celita, the nearest town, while forensic anthropologists and investigators worked in the grove of aspen trees behind the abandoned cabin.

On the third day, Rachel received the call she’d been expecting.

They’d found them.

She drove to the hotel and knocked on the door of the suite where the three mothers had been staying.

Helen answered, her face already showing that she knew what Rachel was about to say.

“You found them,” Helen said.

Rachel nodded.

“May I come in?” The three women sat together on the couch, holding hands as Rachel explained what the forensics team had discovered.

Three sets of human remains buried approximately 6 ft deep in a carefully dug grave.

They’d been wrapped in sleeping bags, the same ones visible in the photographs from the storage unit.

The forensic anthropologist estimates they were placed there in late November 2002, consistent with Whan’s timeline, Rachel said gently.

Toxicology on the remains will take time, but preliminary examination suggests they died from drug overdose, as he claimed in the video.

“Did they suffer?” Patricia asked, her voice barely audible.

The medical examiner believes they fell asleep and simply didn’t wake up.

There’s no evidence of violence or trauma beyond what we already knew from the earlier photographs and videos.

Rachel paused.

For whatever it’s worth, I think Wayland was telling the truth about that part.

He did give them sleeping pills and hot chocolate.

He did wait until they were unconscious.

That doesn’t make him merciful, Margaret said bitterly.

It makes him a coward.

I agree, Rachel said.

Helen leaned forward.

Can we see them? Can we say goodbye? The remains need to be properly examined and processed first.

But yes, once that’s complete, we’ll arrange for proper funerals.

Your daughters will finally come home.

Over the next week, Rachel watched as the case she’d pursued for so long reached its conclusion.

The forensic examination confirmed that the remains belonged to Sarah Chen, Amanda Morrison, and Kelly Brennan.

Dental records provided definitive identification.

Toxicology confirmed lethal doses of sedative medications in their systems.

The storage unit contents combined with the videos and physical evidence from the burial site told a complete story.

Thomas Wayland had stalked three teenage girls, abducted them from Denver International Airport using his insider knowledge and access, held them captive for four years in various locations around Colorado, and ultimately murdered them when the burden of keeping them became too great.

Marcus Webb’s death was reclassified as a probable homicide based on the handwriting analysis of his final journal entry.

The theory was that Wayland had discovered Web’s intention to go to the police and had staged his suicide to eliminate the threat.

But one question remained unanswered.

Why? Rachel found part of the answer in Whan’s personnel file from the airport.

Prior to working at DIA, he’d been employed by several school districts as a maintenance worker.

Each job had lasted less than a year.

And each time he’d left by mutual agreement, corporate speak for being asked to resign.

When Rachel dug deeper, interviewing former co-workers and supervisors, a pattern emerged.

Complaints from female students about the creepy maintenance man who watched them too closely.

Reports of Whan being found in areas where he had no legitimate reason to be.

Nothing concrete enough to prosecute, but enough to make employers uncomfortable.

Thomas Wayland had been a predator his entire adult life, moving from place to place, evading consequences through careful planning and institutional indifference.

The girls at the airport had simply been his most elaborate crime, the culmination of decades of escalating behavior.

On a cold morning in January, 26 years and 1 month after, they disappeared.

Sarah Chen, Amanda Morrison, and Kelly Brennan were laid to rest in Seattle.

Their families had wanted them buried together in a plot overlooking Puget Sound where they could watch the fairies and remember the girls they’d been before that Christmas Eve.

Rachel attended the funeral, standing at the back as hundreds of people paid their respects.

She watched Helen Chen place a jewelry box on Sarah’s casket.

The Christmas present that had never been opened, still wrapped in faded paper.

Margaret Morrison tucked a telescope into Amanda’s casket, the gift meant for her little brother now going with her into the ground.

Patricia Brennan simply held Kelly’s casket and wept.

26 years of grief finally finding release.

After the service, the three mothers approached Rachel together.

“Thank you,” Helen said, taking Rachel’s hands.

for never giving up, for bringing our girls home.

“I wish I could have found them sooner,” Rachel replied, her voice thick with emotion.

“You found them when you were meant to,” Patricia said.

“And because of you, we finally have answers.

We can finally let them rest.” Margaret handed Rachel an envelope.

“This is from all three of us.

We wanted you to have it.” Rachel opened the envelope and found a photograph.

The last picture of the three girls together taken at the airport before they disappeared.

On the back in three different handwritings were the words, “Thank you for bringing us home.” Rachel held the photograph carefully, her vision blurring with tears.

“I’ll keep this.

I’ll never forget them.” As the mothers walked away to join their families, Rachel stood alone beside the three graves.

She thought about the messages the girls had left, the clues they’d tried to provide, the courage they’d shown even in their darkest moments.

“You are so brave,” she whispered.

“All of you, I hope you’re at peace now.” The windoff puet sound carried her words away, rustling through the flowers that covered the graves.

Three girls who had been lost for 26 years were finally home, their story finally told.

And somewhere in the wind, Rachel liked to think they heard her.

5 months after the funeral, Rachel Torres stood in the remodeled terminal B of Denver International Airport.

The old wing had been completely demolished and rebuilt.

All traces of the hidden corridors and secret spaces erased.

In their place was a modern open concourse with floor toseeiling windows and gleaming tile floors.

But near gate B27, where three girls had last been seen alive 26 years ago, the airport had installed a memorial.

Three bronze statues depicted Sarah Chen, Amanda Morrison, and Kelly Brennan as they’d been that Christmas Eve.

Young, hopeful, their faces bright with the anticipation of going home.

A plaque beneath the statues read, “In memory of Sarah Chen, Amanda Morrison, and Kelly Brennan.

December 24th, 1998.

Three bright lights extinguished too soon.

May their courage and resilience never be.

Forgotten.

Rachel stood before the memorial, remembering the case had closed officially 3 months ago.

Thomas Wayland was dead.

The victims had been found and laid to rest, and the files were sealed.

But for Rachel, it would never truly be over.

She thought about all the cases still waiting in the cold case files, all the family still searching for answers, all the secrets still buried and waiting to be uncovered.

The Christmas vanishing had consumed a quarter century of investigation.

But it had also proven something important.

That persistence mattered, that truth could be found, and that even after decades, justice could still be served.

Detective Torres.

Rachel turned to find a young woman standing behind her, perhaps 25 years old.

She had kind eyes and carried a notebook.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” the woman said.

“I’m a journalism student at CU Denver.

I’m writing my thesis on the Christmas vanishing case.

I was hoping I might ask you a few questions.” Rachel considered this.

She’d turned down dozens of interview requests over the past months, not ready to discuss the case publicly.

But something about this young woman reminded her of the girls.

The same age they would have been if they’d lived.

“What do you want to know?” Rachel asked.

“The evidence you found, the videos, the messages the girls left.

It’s remarkable how much information they were able to provide despite being held captive.

Do you think they knew their messages would eventually be found?” Rachel looked back at the statues.

I think they hoped.

They refused to give up.

refused to believe they’d be forgotten.

Even in the worst circumstances imaginable, they kept fighting to be found.

That’s what I want people to remember about them.

Not how they died, but how they fought to live.

The student made notes.

“And what about Thomas Wayland? Do you think he ever felt remorse?” “No,” Rachel said simply.

“Some people are broken in ways that can’t be fixed.

Wayland was a predator who saw other people as objects to be controlled and discarded.

He didn’t feel remorse because he didn’t see his victims as fully human.

That’s what makes people like him so dangerous.

How do we prevent cases like this from happening again? Rachel considered the question carefully.

We pay attention.

We take reports seriously even when they seem minor.

We don’t let people fall through the cracks because it’s inconvenient or expensive to investigate thoroughly.

And we remember that evil often hides in plain sight, wearing a uniform, carrying credentials, looking like someone who belongs.

She gestured to the memorial.

These girls trusted an airport employee because he seemed legitimate.

They followed him because he told them there was an emergency.

They had no way of knowing he was planning to take them.

We need to teach people, especially young people, that healthy skepticism isn’t rude, that questioning authority isn’t disrespectful, that their safety matters more than being polite.

The student wrote quickly, then looked up.

Thank you, detective.

This has been really helpful.

As the young woman walked away, Rachel’s phone buzzed.

A text from Helen Chen.

The scholarship fund has raised $500,000.

We’re endowing full scholarships for three students every year.

Thank you for helping us turn tragedy into something meaningful.

Rachel smiled, her first genuine smile in months.

The Chen, Morrison, and Brennan families had established a scholarship fund in their daughter’s names, providing financial assistance to students pursuing careers in criminal justice, forensic science, and victim advocacy.

Three girls who’d had their futures stolen were now ensuring other young people could build theirs.

She took one last look at the memorial, then headed toward the exit.

She had work to do.

Somewhere in Denver, there were other cases waiting to be solved, other families waiting for answers, other victims who deserved to be found.

Rachel Torres had spent 26 years searching for three missing girls.

She’d given them her persistence, her dedication, and her refusal to give up.

Now it was time to find the others.

As she walked through the terminal, past the holiday decorations and travelers rushing to make their flights, Rachel thought about Sarah, Amanda, and Kelly.

She hoped they were at peace.

She hoped they knew their story had been told, their courage had been recognized, and their memory would endure.

And she hoped that somewhere somehow they understood that they hadn’t been forgotten.

Not for a single day in 26 years.

And not ever again.