The footsteps stopped at the darkroom door, followed by three soft knocks. Daniel's signal—the same pattern he'd used since they'd moved in together. Safe. Predictable. Normal.
Nothing about them was normal.
"Mara? Are you developing something?" His voice carried that careful tone he used when he sensed her withdrawing. Gentle. Therapeutic. The voice that had once talked a sixteen-year-old girl through her first psychotic break.
"Just some old shots," she called back, slipping the negative into her pocket. "I'll be out in a minute."
The footsteps retreated toward the house. She waited until she heard the back door close before emerging from the red-lit sanctuary that no longer felt safe.
The night air cut through her shirt, carrying the scent of salt and decay. Fog rolled in from the ocean, thick enough to blur the house's outline. Perfect weather for forgetting. For losing time.
For murder.
Mara pulled out her phone and typed 𝘏𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘊𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘬 𝘔𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘊𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 into the GPS. The address popped up immediately—twenty-three minutes away, deep in the coastal mountains where the fog never fully lifted. The facility had been shuttered for seven years, condemned after the fire that destroyed the patient wing.
The fire that had supposedly erased all records of her treatment.
She grabbed her car keys and headed for the Toyota, moving with the careful precision of someone who'd made this decision long before she'd consciously realized it. The engine turned over on the third try, coughing to life like something reluctant to wake.
The drive wound through stands of Douglas fir that pressed against the road like reaching fingers. Her headlights carved tunnels through the darkness, illuminating nothing but fog and the occasional flash of yellow eyes—deer, or something else watching from the trees.
The radio crackled with static. She twisted the dial, searching for something to fill the silence, but only found fragments of voice bleeding through the white noise. A late-night talk show. A preacher warning about the end times. A woman crying on a call-in program.
She switched it off.
The memories hit without warning, sharp and disjointed like shards of broken glass:
𝘗𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘴. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨—𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧?—𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘳𝘢𝘸. 𝘈 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘢𝘵, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘯, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴: "𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺, 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘢. 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘸. 𝘛𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳."
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦, 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳: "𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳. 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨."
"𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥. 𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵, 𝘸𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴."
The Toyota's tires squealed as she took a curve too fast. The guardrail rushed past, inches from her door. She forced herself to breathe, to focus on the road ahead instead of the road behind.
Haven Creek appeared through the fog like a ghost materializing from ether. The main building squatted against the hillside, its windows dark and empty. Fire damage blackened the north wing where the patient rooms had been. Chain-link fence surrounded the property, topped with razor wire and warning signs.
𝘕𝘖 𝘛𝘙𝘌𝘚𝘗𝘈𝘚𝘚𝘐𝘕𝘎. 𝘋𝘈𝘕𝘎𝘌𝘙. 𝘈𝘜𝘛𝘏𝘖𝘙𝘐𝘡𝘌𝘋 𝘗𝘌𝘙𝘚𝘖𝘕𝘕𝘌𝘓 𝘖𝘕𝘓𝘠.
She parked at the gate and killed the engine. The silence pressed down like a weight, broken only by the distant sound of waves against rocks. The same sound that had lulled her to sleep for three years while doctors peeled back her memory layer by layer.
The fence had been cut. Recently. Fresh wire clippings lay scattered in the gravel, their edges still bright with reflected moonlight. Someone else had been here.
Someone else was still coming here.
Mara squeezed through the gap, her jacket catching on the sharp edges. The main building loomed ahead, its entrance door hanging open like a mouth frozen in a scream. Emergency lighting flickered in the windows—someone was still paying the electric bill.
The lobby smelled of mold and disinfectant, that institutional cocktail that never quite masked the underlying scent of fear. Her footsteps echoed off the cracked linoleum, each sound a small betrayal of her presence.
She knew exactly where to go. Muscle memory guided her down the familiar corridors, past the nurse's station with its shattered windows, past the recreation room where patients had played cards and pretended to be normal.
The administrative wing had survived the fire mostly intact. Water damage had warped the floors and peeled the paint, but the filing cabinets remained, their locks broken and drawers pulled open like accusations.
Most of the files were gone. Taken by the state investigators, or destroyed in the fire, or simply lost to time and neglect. But some remained, scattered across the floor like leaves after a storm.
She found her name on a manila folder wedged behind a fallen cabinet. The tab read 𝘓𝘖𝘊𝘒𝘞𝘖𝘖𝘋, 𝘔. - 𝘈𝘋𝘖𝘓𝘌𝘚𝘊𝘌𝘕𝘛 𝘞𝘈𝘙𝘋 - 2007-2010. The pages inside were scorched around the edges, the text smeared with water damage, but still legible.
𝘗𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘩𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘚𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘮𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦-𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘥. 𝘙𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘋𝘳. 𝘒𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘳.
𝘋𝘳. 𝘒𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘚𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘺. 𝘗𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴.
𝘞𝘈𝘙𝘕𝘐𝘕𝘎: 𝘗𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘙𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘋𝘳. 𝘒𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘣𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘧𝘦𝘳, 𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵'𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦.
𝘋𝘳. 𝘒𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘶𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱𝘴. 𝘗𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘌𝘹𝘩𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘋𝘳. 𝘒𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘳.
𝘗𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘋𝘳. 𝘒𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘢 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴. 𝘉𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘮 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘶𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘐𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨.
The pages blurred as her hands shook. She flipped through them, searching for answers, finding only more questions. The final entry was dated three days before the fire:
𝘗𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘦. 𝘋𝘳. 𝘝𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦. 𝘗𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘋𝘳. 𝘒𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘦.^
𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘦: 𝘗𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘋𝘳. 𝘒𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵-𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘦. 𝘈𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘮𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭.
A second folder lay beneath the first, its label torn but still readable: 𝘒𝘌𝘚𝘚𝘓𝘌𝘙, 𝘋. - 𝘚𝘛𝘈𝘍𝘍 𝘗𝘚𝘠𝘊𝘏𝘖𝘓𝘖𝘎𝘐𝘊𝘈𝘓 𝘌𝘝𝘈𝘓𝘜𝘈𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕 - 2010.
Her breath caught. Daniel had been a patient too, not just a therapist.
The folder contained incident reports, psychological evaluations, and disciplinary actions. The picture they painted was of a young doctor slowly losing his grip on reality, his professional boundaries dissolving as he became obsessed with a teenage patient.
With her.
𝘋𝘳. 𝘒𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘗𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘓𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘸𝘰𝘰𝘥'𝘴 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘢𝘵 3:47 𝘈𝘔. 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘮𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩.
𝘋𝘳. 𝘒𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘗𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘓𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘸𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘶𝘯𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘺𝘱𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴. 𝘗𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵'𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘙𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯.
𝘋𝘳. 𝘒𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘑𝘦𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘧𝘦𝘳. 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘮𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘗𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤 𝘦𝘷𝘢𝘭𝘶𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥.
𝘍𝘐𝘕𝘈𝘓 𝘌𝘕𝘛𝘙𝘠: 𝘋𝘳. 𝘒𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘗𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘓𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘸𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘺. 𝘋𝘳. 𝘝𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘴𝘺𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵.
The date was circled in red ink: March 15th, 2010. The night of the fire.
The night they'd supposedly lost everything.
The night they'd found each other.
Mara's phone buzzed. A text from Daniel: 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶? 𝘎𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥.
She typed back: 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱. 𝘋𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥. 𝘏𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯.
Another lie. Another secret. Another step deeper into the darkness they'd been running from for seven years.
Outside, gravel crunched under heavy footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Moving toward the building.
Mara stuffed the files into her jacket and crept toward the window. A figure stood at the fence line, silhouetted against the fog. Too far to make out details, but something about the stance was familiar.
The figure raised one hand in what might have been a wave.
Or a warning.
By the time she reached the fence, no one was there. Only tire tracks in the gravel, already filling with fog. And tucked under her windshield wiper, a folded piece of paper with her name written in careful block letters.
She unfolded it with trembling hands. The message was brief, written in the same hand as Daniel's journal entries:
𝘏𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘥𝘰.
At the bottom, pressed into the paper like a signature, was a small rubber stamp. An owl with spreading wings.