In the Filipino community in Baguio City (Benguet), the Dela Cruz family is considered a model of success. Miguel Dela Cruz, the husband, is a civil engineer, and Lani, the wife, works at a nail salon on Session Road with a number of fellow countrymen. They have two young children, and every morning they are seen in blue uniforms, their bright eyes and laughter echoing throughout the residential area. Acquaintances often say: “Their house is like a peaceful picture in the middle of the foggy plateau.”

Then one day, the amihan wind was cold, and bad news spread throughout the community: the whole family suddenly disappeared after a picnic in the Cordillera Mountains. Their SUV was found near the entrance to the Ambangeg – Mt. Pulag trail, the car door was ajar, the bags were intact, but there was no one there. The PNP–Cordillera opened an investigation, and local media reported heavily. People in Baguio and La Trinidad gathered to pray and search for them on the mountain.

The scene made everyone shudder: no signs of struggle, no footprints – as if the whole family had evaporated in the cold mist. Rumors arose: wild animals, lost in the forest, even spiritual stories around the mountain ravines. But the police affirmed: “This is not simply a missing person case.”

The last image of Lani before disappearing was recorded by a sari-sari store camera: she stood in front of the door, her eyes distant, her lips tightly pressed. Few people knew that from that moment, a tragedy had been arranged, and the cold truth was just waiting to be revealed.

Life in the highlands is not always a dream. After the sparkling family photos on the internet, the Dela Cruz family also contained pressure. Miguel worked overtime to pay off the house; Lani stood for 10 hours in the smell of chemicals, her hands dry and cracked.

Meals together became rare. Sometimes Miguel came home late, the rice was cold, the child was asleep. Lani lamented:
— “What do I do in the city? I’m like a machine all day.”

Miguel frowned:
— “At least here my child has a future.”

The petty arguments piled up into a deep hole. On the outside, they were still a happy family, but in Lani’s eyes, the image of her hardworking husband faded, giving way to coldness.

In the nail salon, amid the sound of the nail file and laughter, Lani met a regular customer – Rico Manalang, a gallant man who often complimented and listened. Small emotions crept in. Between her duties as a wife and mother and her own desires, Lani slid into secrets: secret messages, hidden dates. A guilty thought arose: “If it weren’t for Miguel, my life would be different.”

Two weeks after the day she was reported missing, the police suddenly discovered the bodies of Miguel and two children in a remote ravine near Kabayan (Benguet). All three died in a tragic state, without signs of wild animals, but of human impact. The Cordillera community was in a tight spot. Everyone thought this was a tragedy – but who was the culprit?

At that moment, Lani suddenly appeared. People saw her coming out of a condotel where Rico was staying near Leonard Wood Road, looking haggard but with an unusually calm face. The PNP immediately put her on the suspect list. Her statements were contradictory: one time she said she was lost, another time she said she was attacked by a stranger. But phone data, location history, carrier CDRs, e-wallet transactions, and CCTV footage along Halsema Highway exposed her.

The wife who was once praised for being gentle and hard-working turned out to be the mastermind. Lani had created the cover of a “family picnic” to take her husband and children up the mountain, then coordinated with her lover to commit the cold-blooded crime. In her mind, a vision of freedom seemed to open up – freedom from the burden of marriage. But instead of freedom, she fell into the clutches of the law.

The news spread throughout the Philippine press and the local community. Acquaintances were shocked: “I never thought Lani would do such a thing. No matter where you are, you cannot lose your humanity.” All eyes turned to pity for the deceased father and son; the whole of Baguio was immersed in grief.

The story ends with a bitter lesson: in any country, the pressure of making a living, a broken marriage, and the weakness of the heart can push people into the dark abyss. The price of betrayal is not only a broken family, but also a crime engraved in the community’s memory.

— The Red Thread on Halsema

In the days after the vigil at the small church on Session Road, Baguio was as quiet as a town holding its breath. In front of the nail salon where Lani used to work, someone had placed a framed photo of Miguel and the two children next to a white candle. The amihan blew through, the candle smoke swayed and then stood still as if waiting for a confession.

The PNP–Cordillera investigation team pieced together the pieces: the family left home on Friday night; early Saturday morning, a gas station camera in La Trinidad caught the SUV stopping for seven minutes; at noon, the car appeared on Halsema Highway heading toward Kabayan and then… disappeared from view.

From the condotel where Rico Manalang was staying, police recovered red paracord, a roll of duct tape, unlabeled sleeping pills, and a pair of gloves covered in gray mud. The mud — according to forensics — contained mineral deposits that matched the sediments in the ravine where Miguel and the two children were found. Lani’s phone’s location history was erased, but her e-wallet remained: she had bought two foil blankets, motion sickness pills, and a climbing rope at a hiking store on Leonard Wood Road three days before the trip.

Suddenly, the case had a silent witness: a memory card that had fallen on the Ambangeg trail. A group of hikers had brought it to the commune police station; on the card were short clips — a family taking photos on the view deck, a baby giggling, Miguel gently pushing his shoulder to lean against the wooden railing. At the end of the clip, a frame flashed: red paracord hanging from the backpack of someone standing outside the camera angle.

When comparing the confiscated items from the condotel, the color, the braid, and the scratches on the paracord matched.

Being led away, Lani’s neck was tired, her eyes were empty. Her testimony changed like the afternoon mist: sometimes she said Rico forced her, sometimes she said she only wanted to threaten Miguel to sign the divorce papers, “and the fact that I went too far was Rico’s fault.” But the CDR data showed 44 calls between Lani and Rico in the five days before the trip. In the phone trash, the technical team recovered a text message:
— “We do it clean. No blood. You said you can.”
— “I can. Just don’t freeze last minute.”

On the insurance company’s side, records showed that just a month ago Lani had updated the primary beneficiary of Miguel’s two life insurance policies. The sum was large enough to buy a new life in any beach town.

The twist came from a small detail: the son’s smartwatch. The cheap model had an SOS button — each press recorded and sent the location to the default phone number. On the company’s server, the technical team requested three audio files, several dozen seconds long, on that fateful afternoon. The sound of wind howling, adults arguing, a child sobbing:
— “Mommy, please.”
Then Lani:
— “Shut up, come down quickly!”
Finally, Rico cursed, then fell silent.

Those seconds of static were enough to overturn any “don’t know, don’t know” claims.

When the arrest warrant for Rico was signed, he disappeared from the condotel with only a backpack. The predicted route: from Baguio via Marcos Highway, down La Union, towards TPLEX to Manila. The PNP sent out BOLOs (Be On the Lookout) to the stations, but the silver sedan he borrowed did not show up on any toll cameras.

It turned out that Rico chose the coastal residential road — a zigzag stretch with few cameras. That night, the amihan rain lashed down; near Agoo, he had to stop to get gas, and there, a station employee recognized the face on TV. Rico was restrained as he swiped his card, his eyes widening in disbelief that a flash of light across the screen could pull up the handcuffs around his wrists.

The courtroom at the Baguio Hall of Justice was packed. Miguel’s family was on the left, an empty row of chairs on the right—no one from Lani was in sight. The press crowded in, the community was silent. The prosecution charged Lani with parricide and Rico with murder, with aggravating circumstances: premeditation, taking advantage of the difficult terrain, concealing evidence.

Lani’s lawyer pivoted: “The client was mentally abused, manipulated by Rico.” But the emails changing the insurance beneficiary, the paracord receipt, the SOS recording, the location history, and the recovery message reconstructed the timeline like a spear.

In the middle of the session, Lani suddenly asked to speak. She stood looking at Miguel’s photo on the evidence table, her shoulders shaking, then stood still:
— “I thought I was just threatening, and things would turn around. But the wind on the mountain goes one way.”

She pleaded guilty. It was as light as breathing after a sinking spell.

A month later, the community held a memorial service at the Mt. Pulag ranger station. Three small Benguet pine trees were planted under a wooden plaque engraved with the words “For Miguel and the two little stars.” The priest read briefly: “When the heart loses its way, the mountains and forests will return it to the community.” Climbers left green ribbons on the branches, and children buried white pebbles around the roots.

On Session Road, the nail salon closed for good. The new owner posted a note: “We will reopen with a new name and new light.” Passersby looked in the mirror and saw themselves, and lowered their eyes.

The verdict was delivered on a rainy day: Rico received the maximum sentence for murder, Lani received reclusion perpetua for parricide. No one applauded, no one whistled. Only the rain beat on the corrugated iron roof of the courthouse hallway, long and steady.

But the community’s story did not stop in the courtroom. A volunteer group in La Trinidad started a scholarship fund in Miguel’s name for the children of construction workers. A women’s organization in Benguet holds talks about marriage, depression, and burnout in churches and barangay halls. Online, the condemnations have died down, replaced by support lines: hotlines, counseling addresses, anonymous mailboxes.

Some say, “Lani deserves it.” Others whisper, “If she had spoken out earlier about the stress and the crisis, maybe the mountain road would have taken a different turn.” The answer is unknown. But at least from now on, the yellow lights at similar intersections will be brighter.

Before taking down the last photo frame on Session Road, a friend of Miguel’s puts down an envelope: “To those who stay.” Inside, a piece of lined paper:

“Don’t let silence dent your heart. If you’re tired, speak up. If you’re scared, hold someone’s hand. The mountain range is long, but there is a way back.”

The friend stands watching the clouds descend on the street. In the distance, the Cordillera drew a cold horizon. But right below, the young pine trees of Kabayan sprouted quickly after the rain, as if the earth and sky wanted to erase the slippage of a pair of feet and keep the path for those who came after.