The Montana forest was silent, save for the crunch of leaves under Deputy Kyle Mason’s boots. Fog clung to the pines, hiding secrets the Hollow Ridge had kept for 11 years. In 2013, Tom Dunning and his 10-year-old daughter Abby vanished on a hike, leaving no trace—no screams, no tracks, just a void that swallowed a family. Clare Dunning, then 18, refused to let them fade. When Abby’s boots surfaced in a ravine—one facing forward, one back—Clare’s search uncovered a chilling truth: a hidden program that stole her sister’s life. This is the story of a sister’s relentless pursuit, a father’s last warning, and a forest that whispered of betrayal.
It was a crisp June morning in 2013 when Tom and Abby set out for Hollow Ridge. Abby, with her striped ribbon and star-buttoned jacket, skipped ahead, her boots scuffing the trail. Tom, a beloved Missoula handyman, carried a map and a smile, promising a quick adventure. Clare stayed home, nursing a teenage grudge, waving off Abby’s pleas to join. By nightfall, they were gone. Helicopters buzzed, dogs scoured, but the forest gave nothing back. The town whispered of bears, cold, or cliffs, but Clare saw her mother Sarah unravel, her father’s pancakes uneaten, Abby’s treehouse abandoned. The case went cold, and Missoula moved on—but Clare didn’t.
Eleven years later, Clare, now 29 and a history teacher, lived with grief sharpened into purpose. She hiked alone, scoured missing persons forums, and kept Tom’s journals, filled with trail notes and a cryptic warning: “I don’t trust Halverson.” Reed Halverson ran Trailman’s Post, where Tom bought gear. In October 2024, a drone test led Kyle, now a seasoned deputy, to Abby’s boots in a ravine searched countless times. One boot faced forward, the other back, with a jagged scratch like a warning. Clare drove to the site, heart pounding, and knelt beside them. “Someone moved them,” she whispered. Kyle nodded, his face grim.
That night, Clare dug through Tom’s journals. A photo showed Abby in those boots, and a note read, “If we don’t come back, always follow the boots.” Another entry mentioned a ranger hut on Hollow Ridge, unlisted on maps, and distrust of Halverson. Clare visited Trailman’s Post. Reed, older but sharp-eyed, handed her a weathered map, claiming the hut collapsed years ago. But a red marker labeled “R12” and an unlabeled “X” deeper in the forest caught her eye. She left, pulse racing, sensing Reed knew more than he let on.
Clare’s apartment felt less safe—doors ajar, papers moved, an unfamiliar car outside. At the county archives, she traced Pine Mark Holdings, a shell company tied to Halverson and Loadstone Survey Group, a security contractor. Tom’s journal hinted he’d found something—an outpost, not logging. Clare shared her findings with Kyle, who gave her a 2013 field note: “Site R12, access restricted. Terminate if necessary.” The word “terminate” chilled her. Her neighbor Sadie revealed Tom’s last visit, warning not to trust trail signs. Clare’s world tilted—a pattern, not an accident.
She hiked to Hollow Ridge, finding the hut’s remains: rotted beams, a pink zipper, a star-shaped button from Abby’s jacket. A noise—footsteps—made her freeze. Someone was watching. Back home, she found a shredded note in the dirt: “Run.” At the library, she uncovered missing hikers—Matt Kesler in 2007, Lisa Reed in 1996—all near Hollow Ridge. A retired ranger, David Rener, confirmed an off-books “training program” run by Jeremiah Maro, a forest supervisor. Clare’s fear grew: trail signs were moved, hikers led astray.
A break-in stole her map and Abby’s drawing. Clare drove to Sarah, who admitted Tom got a call before the hike, urging him to go alone. In Sarah’s attic, Clare found a cassette in Tom’s handwriting: “I found something on the ridge—cameras, gear. I’m scared for Abby.” Clare and Kyle planned to go public, but her laptop died, and a text warned, “Run.” A package arrived: a photo of Abby, alive, on cabin steps, dated days after her disappearance. A ranger’s reflection showed a Lolo Forest patch. Clare traced it to Maro, now off-grid.
At an abandoned ranger station, Clare found logs listing Abby as “relocated, alive.” She and Kyle hiked to the red X—a hidden site with rusted barbed wire and a buried door. Inside, a bunker held medical equipment, logs, and sketches of Abby, labeled “Subject 042.” Notes described “maternal voice recordings” and a transfer to “Site B.” Footsteps echoed. Reed Halverson appeared, armed, saying, “We gave Abby a purpose.” He dropped a folder: Abby, now a teenager, in a lab coat, part of the program. Clare’s heart shattered—she was alive but changed.
Clare and Kyle fled. She studied the files, finding a decommissioned post near a waterfall. There, a star carved in the floor—Abby’s mark—broke her. At midnight, Abby emerged, 18, hardened but with the same eyes. “Why didn’t you come?” she asked, tears falling. “They said you forgot me.” Clare held her, sobbing, “I never stopped.” Abby revealed years of programming—videos, lies about abandonment. They ran as headlights approached, crossing state lines, hiding in an Oregon cabin. Abby, now June, and Clare, now Emily, rebuilt their bond. Tom’s tape played: “I tried.” Abby whispered, “He came back through us.”
A package arrived: a photo of them with Tom, his note reading, “She knows the way home.” Clare sent evidence to a journalist, who vanished after a partial report. Whispers grew, trails closed, and files vanished, but truth lingered. Years later, Abby, 21, got a star tattoo. Clare opened a bookstore, where Abby worked. They never spoke of the program again, but the pine-scented wind carried Tom’s words: “Where your boots go, your heart follows.” On a VHS, Tom’s voice echoed, “Follow the boots.” Abby smiled, “I found my way.” Clare whispered, “So did I.”
