“The Leyte team managed to send us a few files.” Hemslock moves to his laptop and calls up a video. “Rupi and Maryjun spent the whole night translating and transcribing so they could send this to us. Let’s see what they have. In the meantime, I suggest not going anywhere alone.”

There are four videos.

The first is a short clip of a no-nonsense–looking woman who is introduced as the retired curator of the museum Lindsay Watson worked at in Leyte. “She came to us with excellent references,” she says. “She was friends with several other American expats living here, but she was very quiet at work. Her specialty was our collection of Spanish-era documents, and she was very good at finding the links to other firsthand sources we have in the museum. I had no idea her qualifications were forged, and that she only wanted the Cortes journal, the poor woman. That poor family.”

The second video is of a sad-looking man, the mayor of the city. “It was before my time,” he acknowledges, his command of English crisp and fluent. “I don’t know anything about a cover-up. Any official who destroyed documents concerning the cultists’ case should be arrested. I only heard the story as a very young boy.”

“You told us that you found something on the island after the aviation accident investigators left,” someone off-screen says.

“Yes. I didn’t know how important it was at that time.” The mayor pushes a piece of laminated paper across the table toward the camera.

It’s a one-page note. I’m sorry forgive us I’m sorry forgive us I’m sorry forgive us is scribbled all over the paper.

“Oh shit,” someone on the crew mutters by me. “That was also in Key’s journal. And in the sinkhole.”

“Different handwriting, though,” Gries murmurs.

“I wasn’t sure if the paper was trash someone left behind,” the mayor says, “but there have been no tourists at Kisapmata since.”

“Until us.”

“Until you,” the mayor acknowledges, after a significant pause.

“It’s been confirmed that the letter matches the handwriting of one of Watson’s friends,” Hemslock says. “One of the missing expats. We’ve been in touch with his family back in Arkansas. They’ve been hoping to find out what really happened to him, and they provided some specimens. Looks like the Godseye got them all.”

The third is an interview of an old woman in her seventies or eighties. People behind her, likely part of the production team, fiddle with the lights and adjust the sound. “Mag-uumpisa na tayo, Lola,” someone says, and small English subtitles pop up below the screen for the viewers’ benefit: “We’re going to start, grandma.”

The old woman merely inclines her head and waits.

“All right,” someone else says. “Rolling in three. Two. And.”

“Grandma,” the translator says formally, speaking in Tagalog. “Can you please state your name for our viewers?”

“My name is Katrina Teresa Bantay. I have lived in Barásoain for close to seventy-four years.”

“You told us that your daughter was sacrificed by the cultists at Kisapmata many years ago.”