Anamorphosis

Murder Girls is created, written and produced by Eternal Teenager. Content warning, this episode contains panic attacks and anxiety disorders, discussions of past physical assault and trauma, references to traumatic brain injury and hospitalization, grief and loss, ongoing themes involving the death of family members, mental health themes including hallucinations and medication non-compliance, seizure disorders, breaking and entering slash trespassing, surveillance and stalking, marijuana use, emotional manipulation and betrayal, intense interpersonal conflict, and frequent profanity. Listener discretion is advised.

Previously on Murder Girls, I'm back in my hometown after over a decade because my recently departed aunt Didi left me her curiosity shop. I was a sleuth, part of a team, and we solved our first case, and Amy was my sleuthing partner, my best friend. I haven't spoken to her since I left here.

I should probably introduce myself. Amy, Amy O'Connell, the angry weird one who talks to dead people. Okay, just one dead person. That's my dad in the passenger seat. Not really, my dad's been dead for 10 years. My brain likes to conjure him up when I skip my meds. The doctors call it a complex neurological manifestation due to traumatic brain injury. Look at us, we survived our big reunion. If the main floor is this weird, imagine what Didi kept in the basement.

Whoa, what is all this? These feeds? They're from all over AF.

All units, we have a 10-54 at the harbor.

That's a body still in. We investigate like we used to.

It was my second year in Seattle. Some person got into the school, found me alone in the dark room, broken ribs, fractured wrist, concussion, and they kept saying something about leaving it alone, which made no sense. The school cameras malfunctioned that day. The person knew exactly when I'd be there alone. It all felt targeted.

You know what's really not fair? That video, the one of Mags getting attacked, the one you've been sitting on.

The thing I've been pretending doesn't matter, because facing it means facing what I did, what it cost her. Both our phones buzzed. It's Eleanor. They've arrested Lily for Dylan. I turned toward Mags, and she looks like she's been punched in the heart.

How long?

What?

The video. How long?

Leave it alone.

Stop ticking. Next time, they finish the job. Sent to Amy O'Connell, January 27, 2016. You knew.

I was going to tell you.

Oh, yeah? When? Before or after I started believing I fucking deserved it. You let me rot in that city. Thinking I was just unlucky.

I was trying to protect you.

From what?

Right. Still saying quiet.

I just stand there, staring into the fog where Mags vanished.

Murder Girls, episode seven, Anamorphosis.

It's Wednesday morning, or at least that's what my phone tells me. Time gets slippery when you're not sleeping, when you're running on fumes and spite, and the kind of shame that sits in your chest, like a lump of wet concrete. I've been back in my violated little aluminum Bambi for about two hours now, just sitting with it, with everything. The leave it alone graffiti on my wall looks different in the pre-dawn light, drier somehow. Like it's been here for years instead of just over a day. Like it's settling in, making it self-comfortable, changing the molecular structure of the place. A house guest who won't leave, slowly rearranging your furniture until you don't recognize your own home anymore. I came straight here after Mags walked away into that fog. I couldn't follow her back to Lucens. That felt like chasing someone off a cliff. Sometimes you need to give people space to hate you properly. Or maybe I'm just a coward who can't face the particular flavor of betrayal in her eyes. Both things can be true.

Leave It Alone has been haunting me for nine years. They were the words spray-painted on my mind after Seattle. After someone put Mags in the hospital to make me stop digging into my dad's death, it worked. Until now. And now they're on my wall, mocking me. Because I never really did leave it alone. Not really. I never could. But here's the thing about those words now. They're not just about Seattle anymore. They're about us. About what I knew and never said. About the video of Mags getting attacked that I've been carrying like a tumor for almost a decade. Well, mission fucking accomplished.

This place looks like shit shit on shit.

Considering the jokes are coming from my own brain, you'd think I could do better than that.

Low hanging fruit still fruit, kiddo.

He looks more solid today, more real. That's what happens when I skip the meds. The hallucinations get sharper, clearer, like tuning in a radio station that's been playing through static.

Speaking of fruit, when's the last time you put something in your body that wasn't coffee or cigarettes?

I'm fine. I eat like hot dogs and stuff. So, yeah, you know, low carb, high protein. Just get in after it, right?

You need to take your medication, Amethyst.

No, no, no, not now. Not when there's this much at stake.

You're punishing yourself. You need to be healthy. Mags needs you to be healthy.

Mags needs me to solve this case, to figure out who killed Dylan and why someone's trying to destroy us.

She needs you present, Ames. She needs you stable. If you want to make up for what happened, for what you kept from her, you need to have her back now. Really have it, not stumbling around in a seizure-prone haze.

The meds make everything fuzzy. I can't afford fuzzy right now. I'm on the right track and I know it. And speaking of being on the right track, Lily Siaya was just arrested for Dylan's murder, Eleanor's girlfriend, a Niseka activist who wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone the one Holt who was actually trying to help her people.

Yeah, that does seem convenient.

It's bullshit is what it is. The Holt's needed a scapegoat and Lily's perfect. She's Niseka, she's queer, she's dating Eleanor, which Grandpa Victor fucking hates. Two birds, one frame job.

I'm not gonna lie, that does smell fishy. But maybe keep an open mind, not everything's a Holt conspiracy.

Right, because the Holt's have earned the benefit of the doubt.

I'm just saying, be careful about getting your wires crossed here, especially when it comes to Eleanor.

And what's that supposed to mean?

It means that the Holt's are still her family. Whatever you think about them, whatever you feel about her, that's still her blood, her burden. Don't make this harder than it needs to be.

So you're team Holt now?

Come on, kid, I'm team Amy makes good choices. Team Amy doesn't burn every bridge for once. Team Amy figures out what she really wants.

I know what I want. I want to solve this case. I want to clear Lily's name, and I want to fix things with Mags. Like, you know, obviously, of course, yeah.

And your meds?

The meds make you go away, dad.

I know, Amy.

We don't talk about this part, about how my seizure disorder keeps him alive for me. Every pill I don't take is another day I get to see him, talk to him, pretend for just a moment that I'm not completely alone in this.

You're not alone, kiddo. Not really. But I'm not really here either. And the people who are here, who are real, those people need you whole.

I'll think about it.

You won't, but I had to try. Be careful out there. And Amethyst, whatever you're planning to do about Lily, don't do it alone.

Alone's all I've got right now. I take one last look at my violated space. Leave it alone, stares back at me, practically pulsing with threat and promise. But I've never been good at leaving things alone. The morning air is sharp, clean, and that way that makes you feel guilty for all your bad decisions. Somewhere across town, Mags is probably not sleeping either, probably hating me with the kind of precision only she can manage. But some things are worth the damage they cause. Some truths are worth the bridges they burn. I just hope there's something left to rebuild when this is all over.

It's still dark outside, that particular darkness that happens around 4 a.m., when even the insomniacs have given up and the early risers haven't started lying to themselves about productivity yet. I've been sitting on this fainting couch, the same one where Amy recovered from her seizure just 36 hours ago, for I don't know how long. Time moves different when you're in shock, when everything you thought you knew cracks open and shows you what's been rotting underneath. My phone sits beside me on the cushion, screened down, like a wounded animal I'm afraid to touch. The phone showed me the video of my attack, and Amy knew, has known for nine years. In my hand, I'm turning over the wooden raven Amy carved for me when we were kids. I don't even remember picking it up. My body's making decisions without me now, grabbing onto artifacts from before everything went to shit. Everything is connected. That's what I can't stop thinking. Amy, the attack, Didi's death, dropping out of med school, this shop, Dylan's murder

. It's all one thing, one massive sprawling thing that's been growing in the dark for nine years. And I've been too stupid or too scared to see it. My chest is getting tight again. Second panic attack in eight hours. Like that's gotta be some kind of record. The walls feel closer than they should. The curiosities are watching me. Everything Amy touched in this space still carries her presence. And I can't decide if that makes me wanna scream or cry or just disappear entirely. Nine years. Nine years I've been processing that attack wrong. Thinking it was random, thinking I was just unlucky. Building my entire sense of self around being a victim of senseless violence. And now I have to process it all over again differently, knowing it was targeted. Knowing Amy knew. Knowing she chose to let me believe a lie rather than tell me the truth. Yes.

Yeah.

The unfairness of it sits in my throat like glass. I already did this work. I already went to therapy. Already rebuilt myself. Already learned to live with the fear. And now I have to do it again from scratch with this new information that changes everything and nothing all at once. Of course, of fucking course. I try to break something in a moment of rage and instead trigger Didi's sadistic fish choir. Great, perfect, even the walls are mocking me. The shop feels different now. Didi's presence is here, but distant, like she's watching from somewhere I can't see. What would she say about all this? Would she understand why I can't just forgive Amy? I need to focus, compartmentalize. I'm still in shock, but I can function. I have to function. I remember Didi visiting me in Seattle three years ago. We were walking home from the store, bags of groceries in our hands, when she stopped at this boarded-up storefront. One window still lit inside, like the building was breathing. Seriously, it's almost midnight, Didi.

Your nosiness can wait until tomorrow.

I've been wondering about this building for months. Every time I visit, I tell myself I'll check it out, and every time I chicken out, not tonight.

Yeah, spoiler alert, it's just an empty building.

Oh, come on.

Nothing's ever just what it seems, Maggie Mae. You know what I've learned? If you can't stop thinking about something, you've already started working on it, so you might as well finish the job.

Even if you won't like what you find?

I mean, half the time, you're not gonna like what you find, right? Half the time, it's gonna suck a dick, but you'll like not knowing even less. Come on, let's check the back entrance.

Ugh, fine. Back in the shop, surrounded by her curiosities, I understand what she meant. The not knowing is worse. The questions that keep you up at night, that follow you through years and cities and failed careers. Those are the ones that hollow you out. This place will never feel like mine. Maybe the town won't either. And for the first time since we reunited, I'm wondering if even Amy doesn't feel like mine anymore. If she ever did. No, can't think like that, not now. The basement door stands there like a mouth waiting to swallow me. Behind it, the machine. Didi's vast surveillance network. All those cameras, all those secrets, all those answers I'm not sure I want but need anyway. Time to go to work. If someone wanted to split Amy and me apart, they succeeded. But they also made a mistake. They assumed we'd stop looking. They assumed the wound would be enough to make us retreat. They don't know us at all.

The dogs at dawn look like they're trying to hide something, which, fair, they usually are. The fog from last night is still clinging to everything, making the whole place look softer than it deserves. Like someone slapped an Instagram filter on a crime scene, some real sunglasses indoors energy, the kind of illusion that only works if you don't look too close. I'm in the Yaris, windows cracked, smoking the sad remains of Mags' anxiety weed that I pocketed yesterday. Yesterday, when we were still us, when the biggest problem was solving a murder, not whatever this is now, this chasm, this decade long life finally cracking open between us. Aunt Cathy would probably say something about releasing what doesn't serve you, or the universe's plan, or some other podcastism she picked up between ayahuasca ceremonies. Easy to release what doesn't serve you when you've never held on to anything that mattered. Three Falsmart hot dogs for breakfast, plus a coffee that tastes like motor oil had a baby with regret.

Yep.

Living my best life. Unwashed, slightly high on stale anxiety weed, eating gas station meat at 6 a.m. Peak, Amethyst, O'Connell. The crime scene tape is still up around Pier 3, looking exactly the same as yesterday. I don't know what I expected. Some sign the universe had shifted, maybe. But no, Dylan's still dead. We'll be from now on. The only thing that's changed is that Lily Siaya, Eleanor's girlfriend, Nisika activist, genuinely good person, has been arrested for his murder, which stinks. And not just because everything at the docks literally smells like rotting fish and economically ruined dreams. This has Holt fingerprints all over it. Frame the indigenous activist who dared to date their precious Eleanor. Two birds, one incredibly obvious setup. Time to go talk to my retired cop friend, because that's totally normal for a 23-year-old. Hey, what are you up to? Oh, you know, just consulting with my retired ex-police contact about a murder frame job. The usual. The seahorse bobs gently in her slip, looki ng like freedom with a hull. Claire's retirement plan, her escape route, her fuck this town in boat form. She's been prepping it for months, maybe longer. One day soon, she'll just sail away and never look back. Part of me envies her. Part of me wonders if she'll take passengers. After Mags left and dad died, Claire was the only one who really listened. Who believed me when I said there was something bigger behind the Osprey Island case? Someone powerful pulling strings? Someone who had my father killed for getting too close to the truth? Everyone else wrote me off as a grief-stricken kid with a head injury, seeing ghosts that weren't there. But not Claire. Claire knew better.

Either you're up early or you never went to bed.

I mean, I slept or whatever.

And your piece of shit car doesn't count.

How'd you know I was coming?

Girl, you're not exactly subtle. I could smell the hot dogs from halfway down the dock. Plus, Lily Ciaya was arrested six hours ago. This shit's not hard.

So what do you know?

What makes you think I know anything? I'm retired, remember? No badge, no access, no-

Claire.

Fine. But I really am getting too old for this shit.

Oh, come on.

You've been saying that for years. And I love it, and I never want you to stop.

But yeah.

Not a lot to tell. They arrested her around midnight. She's not talking.

I mean, we both know Lily didn't kill Dylan, right?

Maybe not, but they've got enough to hold her. This isn't just Carter throwing his weight around.

Okay, so what do they have then?

Dylan's phone records came through. There were calls and texts to a number around 7 p.m. the night he died, before he went to the docks the first time.

My stomach drops. That detail? Dylan at the docks at 7? That's what I unintentionally gave Carter during my interview. Before Marion, no, before Mags saved my ass. My big mouth might have just helped frame an innocent woman. So the number was...

Lily's, yep. They brought her in for questioning last night, and she has no alibi for the time of Dylan's death.

Yeah, none that she's bringing up, I guess. Still, that's not enough for an arrest.

There's more. Documented incident from last week. Shit. Lily allegedly threatened Dylan at the otter in front of witnesses. It's in the system. And with the Holt squeezing Carter...

They're doing the whole, we can hold you for 48 hours power play?

Probably. But here's what's weird. Lily's not talking. At all. No lawyer either.

Huh. Yeah. Silence means two things.

Super guilty or super innocent.

Hmm. What's your gut say? You know, uh, because mine is just all full of gas station hot dogs and burnt coffee, so, yeah, we're not on speaking terms right now.

Could be following the activist playbook. Say nothing without counsel. Especially given she's Nisika and dating a holt. Or...

Or...

Or she was doing something else. Something sketchy during that window. Doesn't have to be murder to land you in a cell. Could be she doesn't trust the cops to believe her truth. Especially with holt money in play. Or... And this is very on brand for her. She's refusing to dignify the arrest with cooperation. Sees it as political, not legal. Whatever it is, Lily's not talking. Not to her lawyer, not to her girlfriend, not to anyone. Just sitting there, stone-faced.

Why wouldn't she defend herself?

Maybe her alibi puts someone else at risk.

She's protecting someone.

She's dating Eleanor Holt, as you well know. Yeah. And Daniel, her father's been, let's say, visible lately. Getting into arguments with Holt contractors. Vandalizing Omnia property. Showing up places he shouldn't be.

You think Daniel could be involved?

I think if Lily's protecting him, she's painting a bigger target on herself. And he's been real quiet since her arrest. That feels off.

Or maybe he's keeping his head down so he doesn't get arrested too. But the way Claire says it, like she's measuring every word, puts a crack in my certainty. If Daniel's CI is innocent, why does it feel like no one will say it out loud?

Amy, your trailer was tossed. Carter had you in for questioning. This is about the Holt's and more money than either of us will ever see. Where's Marguerite in all this?

Don't worry about it. Can you get me the interrogation footage? Or, oh, maybe let me talk to Lily.

Are you out of your damn mind? Absolutely not.

Ugh, fine. I'll just talk to Eleanor, see what she knows.

Amy, sometimes protecting you means protecting them. Whether I like it or not.

What does that mean?

It means be careful.

I will.

The Holt's don't forget, Amy. And they sure as hell don't forgive. Whatever you're planning.

Hey, it's me. I know what I'm doing.

Yeah, I know. That's what worries me.

As I walk back to my car, Claire's warning echoes in my head, the Holt's don't forgive. Neither do I. But right now, an innocent woman is sitting in a cell, and the real killer is still out there. Time to go shake the Holt family tree and see what snakes spill out.

The machine is absurd. Dozens of monitors, hundreds of feeds, all indexed by my tiny, hilarious aunt, who ran a curiosity shop and apparently moonlighted as Avalon falls answer to the NSA. The cognitive dissonance is giving me a headache. Or maybe that's just the lack of sleep. It's weirdly intuitive though, if you can focus. If you can silo your thinking and follow one thread at a time, instead of trying to see the whole batshit fucked up tapestry. Which is exactly what I need right now. Something concrete that isn't Amy, betrayal, or the fact my entire understanding of my own trauma was a lie. I've been reconstructing Dylan's Monday night. Everything after he left Loose Ends, where Amy confronted him and then had a seizure right there on Cedar Street while I… No. One thread at a time. The problem is finding him, even with a tight 8-hour window, multiplied by all the possible cameras… That's hundreds of hours of footage. At this point, I'd settle for spotting his stupid Tesla. I start with the Fallsmart gas station down the street. Closest place for snacks, and even rich kids get the munchies. Plus, Fallsmart doesn't mess around with security. 23 years old, med school dropout, sitting in my dead aunt's conspiracy basement at 6am, spying on people through hijacked security cameras. Yeah, this is definitely not what my parents had in mind when they moved us to Seattle for better opportunities. Wait, well, holy shit. A Tesla, Dylan Holtz Tesla, whips in to Fallsmart around 8.30pm. Not just pulling in, practically screeching in. He's out of the car before it's fully stopped, moving with the kind of purpose that usually ends badly. He's heading for a car at the gas pumps. Someone's filling up, and Dylan's practically running at them, already yelling. The person tries to get back to the driver's side, but Dylan's on them, getting in their face. From this angle, I can't... there. I find a better angle. Dylan's right up in the guy's space, looking like he's about to rip the gas pump out of the car, and the person he 's screaming at is... no way. Evan Parker. The Omnia executive. The one supposedly bringing salvation to Avalon Falls via tech money and artisanal coffee shops. The one whose entire career depends on this deal going through. To his credit, Evan doesn't flinch. Just keeps talking, body language weirdly relaxed for someone being screamed at by an unhinged holt air. Like he's been trained for this. Or like he knows something Dylan doesn't. It's Avalon Falls. Why not both? Ugh, stop. You're better than this, Marguerite. Okay, okay. This is big. This could be motive. Dylan's poking around was supposedly putting the Omnia deal in jeopardy. If he was threatening to pull out or expose something, that's hundreds of millions of dollars on the line. People have been killed for a lot less. I lean closer, trying to read their lips, trying to catch any detail that might, wait, there's someone else in Evan's car. A passenger, long hair, sitting perfectly still in the front seat, just watching. Even through the grainy footag e, I can see their hand pressed against the window. One finger tapping, tap, tap, tap like a metronome, like they're counting down to something. Who the hell is that? I try to get a better angle, but the resolution's too low, the lighting too poor. Could be Edie Bergman. We saw her with Evan at the sloppy otter last night, but something about the way this person sits, the stillness of it makes my skin crawl. I capture stills of the confrontation, print them, new pieces of the puzzle. Maybe enough to create reasonable doubt for Lily. Maybe enough to point the investigation towards someone who actually had motive. I flip through the live feeds, letting the familiar rhythms of the town wash over me. Morning in Avalon Falls, people going about their lives, unaware they're being watched. And then I see her, Amy, standing outside the Tlaquah County Art Gallery with Eleanor Holt. I should look away. This is private. This is none of my business, but I don't. I can't. My finger hovers over the keyboard to switch feeds , but it won't move. They're talking. Close to close. Eleanor leans in, says something. Amy doesn't pull away. Their body language speaks of history. Intimacy, things I don't want to name. Eleanor's hand reaches out, touches Amy's arm. And Amy, Amy lets her. I need to do something else. Anything else. There are other rooms down here. Other parts of Didi's system I haven't explored yet. I can't sit here watching Amy with her ex-girlfriend while an innocent woman sits in jail and a killer walks free. I can't let whatever this feeling is distract me from what needs to be done. But the image stays with me. Amy and Eleanor. The way they lean toward each other like gravity works differently in their vicinity. Some threads once pulled can't be put back.

I'm standing outside the Tlaquah County Art Gallery, waiting for Eleanor to let me in. The fog's gone, replaced by rain that feels more honest somehow. Less mystery, more misery. The gallery's been closed all week because of Dylan's murder, which is Peek Holt, making their grief everyone else's inconvenience. Not that anyone was flocking here anyway. This place started as a vanity project in the late 90s. Eleanor and Dylan's bio mom, Elizabeth Venering Holt's, attempt to bring culture to the masses. Or at least, that's how Richard presented it to her so she could be occupied while he was side-smashing Amber Ashford on business trips. Of course, old man Victor loved the gallery, or the idea of it anyway. More Holt legacy stamped across the county. People from Cedarbrook to Laqua Point, Bearview, even fucking Halloway, would come worship at the altar of Holt good taste. Maybe pull in some Seattle and Portland money if they found their niche. The building itself isn't bad. Interesting architecture, good bones, b ut it's in this weird, not salt, not pepper part of town, too far inland, always closing for renovations. Recently, Eleanor took it on as another Fix It project when she finished school, slowly warming to the idea of rescue, of making it hers. We hooked up here once among the paintings and pretension. The memory hits different now, sharper. Not just a highlight reel, but something that actually mattered, even if I didn't want it to. And there she is, Eleanor Holt in crisis mode, which, let's be honest, looks a lot like Eleanor Holt on a regular Tuesday. Hair pulled back, eyes red-rimmed, she's always been good at making devastation look elegant. For a second, I'm 21 again, standing outside this same gallery, convinced I had her figured out. Thought I could read her. Neat motives, tidy lies, easy closure. I was wrong then. I'm smarter now.

Amy.

She collapses into me, shaking. It's the same person, the same arms, but the charge isn't there anymore. I'm not the same person. And she's not the answer I thought she was back then. Still, I hold on for a second longer than I should.

Hey, it's okay. Come on, let's go inside.

I've seen her stressed before, but this is different. This is Eleanor without a plan, without an exit strategy. And that scares me more than anything she could actually say.

We can't be long.

I'm meeting someone in a bit.

And, well, shit. Obviously we can't be seen together right now.

Who's coming?

Evan Parker.

He's picking up a painting.

Since when do you handle Omnia business?

It's not family business. Not that kind.

Evan bought a painting.

Personal transaction.

The gallery actually sold something? Whoa. Alert the media. There's a wrapped painting propped against the wall and stuck to the wrapping. A post-it note. Handwritten message. Red ink. Something about it. What's that note?

Nothing.

Just something Dylan left. I guess everything he touched is something now.

She shows me the note. Glad this ended up with someone who will appreciate it. Every painting has a story. Some just take longer to tell. Then my brain screams. This handwriting, Dylan's handwriting, is the same from the note in the margins of the page from Minerva's book we found. The same hand that wrote, the original sin lies buried with the fifth. Holy shit, I say in my head. Well, to Eleanor, I say, Dylan left a lot of notes, huh?

He left post-its everywhere. Little observations, jokes, reminders. I have dozens of them.

She's crying harder now. Real grief for the brother she loved, for the girlfriend sitting in a cell, for everything falling apart. And I feel like shit, because I'm here for information, not comfort, because I can't fully trust her tears, because everything about the Holtz is calculated, even their pain.

Who do I do?

But watching her like this, I can't help thinking, you're good at this. Making people feel like you're the one worth protecting. I'm not sure Eleanor can really love anyone as she is now. Looking to fix things as a way of apologizing for her family's multi-generational micro and macro atrocities is not a love language that is good for anyone in the long run. It would seem Dylan had his own way of doing the same. It's not a bad thing, but it is definitely a sad thing. Hey, hey, look, look, I know she didn't do it, okay? Right? We know Lily didn't do it, but I have to ask, I have to know, what happened between Lily and Dylan at the Otter?

Nothing.

They both said it was nothing.

You do seem to have a type, huh? You know, women who directly challenge your family.

You just always have to push it, don't you, O'Connell?

Fuck.

Sorry. Dylan wanted to help. Sometimes that meant disagreeing.

I keep looking at that painting. I want to tear the paper off, see what Evan's buying. But I need information more than a fight.

Okay.

So where was Lily Monday night?

I don't know. She won't tell me.

She won't tell you?

She's protecting me.

So you weren't together. Where were you?

I was at a warren function in Bearview.

Of course you were.

That's not her scene, obviously.

Right, right, obviously. Okay. So Eleanor's alibi is solid. If Lily's protecting anyone, it's probably her dad. So what's your take on Daniel? Is that who she's protecting?

If you're thinking it's him, don't.

Okay. He's reckless, not a killer.

But?

Passionate.

Impulsive.

But he wouldn't kill Dylan.

That's twice now. Someone's been not quite sure about Daniel. Interesting.

You should go.

Right. Look, I know Lily's innocent. I'll do everything I can to prove it and to find who really killed Dylan. So, yeah, I guess say hi to Evan for me.

Amy.

Yeah?

Just be careful.

She puts her hand on my arm. Warm, deliberate, impossible to read. She doesn't blink. And for a second, I'm not sure if she's warning me off or pulling me in. Careful of what, though? Omnia, Lily, or me. I leave with that familiar feeling, Eleanor holding something back. Some piece of the puzzle she won't or can't share. Par for the course with the holds. Even the ones you almost loved. The rain soaks through my clothes as I head back to the car. Dylan left a clue. Eleanor's hiding something, and somewhere Lily's sitting in a cell protecting someone. Time to figure out who.

30 seconds since I told myself to stop, and here I am. Professional voyeur, amateur stalker, full-time pathetic ex-best friend watching whatever Amy is to me now, walk out of an art gallery in the rain. Angry, that's the word for it. Angry she hid the video. Angry she let me live inside the wrong story for 10 years. Angry she made me rebuild my life on an edit, a subtraction that changed everything. 10 years arranging the pieces until they made a shape I could survive. And in one video, Amy proved I'd been doing a jigsaw with half the pieces missing. Maybe my version was easier to survive. Maybe I needed it to be random so I wouldn't keep digging. I don't know what's worse, that she lied or that I still care that she lied. On the screens, Eleanor Holt is grabbing Amy's arm in the rain in front of an art gallery. Her fucking art gallery, giving full femme fatale energy. Yeah. Oh, come on. That's pushing for fucking Mississippi's Eleanor. Let go of her already. And now you're just standing there in the rain lik e a sad music video, very subtle. Last of my anxiety weed. Can't wait to tell Amy I smoked it all myself. Alone, while watching her have feelings with Eleanor Holt. Wait, that car? No fucking way. Evan Parker's car, same one from the Falls Mart footage. Eleanor Holt is meeting the guy her brother was screaming at hours before he died. He's alone this time. No creepy passenger tapping at windows. But he's carrying something. Big, rectangular, wrapped like, of course. Of course these people bring paintings to an art gallery. That's exactly the kind of backwards rich people shit that happens in this town. Going inside. Damn it. But wait, Didi was nothing if not thorough. Art galleries have security cameras. And if there's a feed to piggyback, the codes are weird, but there. Eleanor's office. High ceilings, pretentious art, and two people having what looks like a perfectly normal conversation about paintings. Eleanor points to another wrapped painting. Evan just ignores her, starts gesturing intensely at his wrap ped painting like it contains the secret to cold fusion. Lots of type A bold hand gestures like he's giving a fucking Ted Talk. Eleanor's doing her interested patron face. He sets his down, peels the paper back, and the feed flares white. Not overexposure, not bad lighting. Like the camera's blind. What the hell? Every angle facing it does the same thing. I switch to a side view that dodges the glare. And for a second, just a second, I swear something moves in that white space. Something the camera shouldn't see. Something wrong. Nothing. It's nothing. I've been telling myself that a lot lately. About noises upstairs, about shadows that linger, about the way Didi's curiosities seem to watch me back. Evan's taking the other wrapped painting. Eleanor's doing the polite goodbye dance. And then he's gone, leaving Eleanor alone in her gallery with her cursed new painting. I could call Amy, tell her about Evan, about the painting, about that glare, build a bridge out of information. But instead, I watch Eleanor sip coffee from what I swear is a live laugh love mug. Like her brother wasn't murdered yesterday, like her girlfriend isn't in a cell, like she didn't just make a weird art deal with a maybe suspect. This is Eleanor Holt, this is who Amy was defending. Sitting there, coffee in hand, like the world outside isn't on fire. I imagine walking down there, just showing up, looking Eleanor in her perfectly moisturized face and asking, what the fuck is in that painting? What Evan wanted, what Dylan knew. But I don't move, because the truth is, I don't trust Eleanor, I don't trust Amy, and right now I don't trust myself. The machine is warm and the rain is cold, and once I leave this basement, I have to exist in a world where the only person I've ever trusted made me the punchline in her 10 year long inside joke. So yeah, maybe I'll just stay down here, watch them all on a screen where I can hit off whenever I want. No surprises, no more lies. Because if this is all just rich people playing rich people games while the re st of us suffer, then fine. Let them. Let them chew each other up and spit each other out. All I have to do is keep my distance. And keep watching.

It's still raining, of course it is. This week's been one long cliche. Fog, rain, murder, betrayal. Daniel Siaya's house sits in Eagles Creek on Nisika Nation land. If he was running, he'd be with Cousins Up River. He's not, his boat's dark at the marina. Union Hall has his tag off today's board. So where do you go when you're spooked but won't leave your daughter? Home, close enough to answer a knock, far enough to play deaf. Truck's been on Cedar Ridge two nights, utilities online, porch light on a timer, not a man running, a man waiting to be found by the right person, or the wrong one.

You.

You shouldn't be here.

Yeah, neither should you probably. But here we are.

Hey, hey, keep your voice down.

You know she's covering for you, and you know I'm the only one who can get her out.

You think this is about Dylan Holt?

You tell me. I mean, Eleanor's got an alibi, which leaves Lily and you. What were you two doing that's worse than murder?

You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know what's out there.

Try me.

Listen. The originals aren't just messing with treaties in some courtroom in Olympia, okay? They're playing for keeps. This Omnia deal is too big for them to lose now. Nothing can stop it.

So you're just going to stay quiet? Just going to let your daughter rot for something she didn't do? Why?

Because silence is safer.

For who? You or her?

You really don't get it, do you? You're your father's kid, all right. He came sniffing around Holtwood before he died, asking questions he shouldn't have, about toxins in the soil, about what the originals were cleaning up. Said it wasn't just environmental anymore. Said it was medical.

Whoa, wait, my dad was looking into the Holtwood?

Yes. It didn't go anywhere. The Holtz and the rest were always able to prove that the levels of waste were within the environmental limits, that their fucking paper mills and cannery were eco-friendly even. Unbelievable.

Whoa. I didn't even know that was part of his job as a health inspector. The inspections, yeah, but not that. God. So he wasn't just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was digging in the wrong dirt. Gotta put a pin in that for now. Yeah, they never met a mess they couldn't rename and build condos on top of.

Jonathan was working on a new approach, coordinating with the council, but then, look, your father is why I'm even talking to you.

Then help me finish what he started.

Come inside.

Daniel's not angry I'm accusing him. Not defensive about Dylan's murder. As we head inside, he's scanning the yard like it's wired.

You want me to say I was with her? Fine. I was with her. I was with Lily. But that's not the part that'll get her killed.

Killed. Not arrested. Killed. Okay, then help me understand.

We were in Holtwood. Restricted area near the old paper mill. We wanted proof the originals have been tampering with clean sites. Places the Nisika know are poison. This is what we found.

He shows me a video on his phone. Shaky footage. Shot through trees at night. A massive concrete pad, 200 feet easy, hidden under camo netting in the redwoods. Only feature, an industrial lift. Reminds me of Return of the Jedi. I mean, dated reference, but you get my point, right? Shit. That lift, just out there in the woods. That is-

Keep watching.

The video continues. Camera gets steadier.

What the fuck is that?

Ghostly headlights slice through the dark. ATVs roll in, cargo lash to their backs, plastic pods like something you'd ship alien eggs in. Then the lift rises out of the forest floor and segways appear. Four riders. Oh man, segways are just fucking creepy. I mean, right? Okay, okay, I'm watching, I'm watching. The segway team are wearing these bizarre backpacks, part military comms, part sci-fi Michelle Gondry vacuum cleaner. And they start working the area.

Dad, make sure you're getting all of this.

Suddenly, there are severe audio glitches, teethache sounds even through the phone speaker, Lily and Daniel's voices. Agitated, nauseous.

Lily, you okay?

I'm gonna be sick.

Let's get out of here.

The video is shaky for a bit, Daniel and Lily scrambling to get away from, well, whatever is going on. Then there's the bonkers concrete pad again from further away this time. The video quality seems worse now, but you can see the weird crates have been loaded and the hauler and segways descend on the lift. The ATVs scatter and vanish into the woods as the CIAs haul ass. That's super fucked up, but you know this doesn't clear her, right?

Yeah, it paints a target big enough to see from orbit.

Then give me something I can use.

That's all I have. You didn't get that from me.

What do you want me to tell her?

Tell her to stop talking. Tell her I'm sorry.

He didn't kill Dylan, and he's not hiding from the cops. He's hiding from something older. Meaner. A machine with bottomless pockets, with lawyers for teeth, and Thomas Holt as its own angel of death. The dark legacy of generations bred to live without consequence. I leave with footage I can't use and knowledge that makes everything worse. Lily and Daniel stumbled into something worth killing to protect, but I can't prove it without destroying them both. Lily's in that cell because of me. The only way out is the machine. Didi's surveillance network, which means loose ends, which means facing Mags. I've been dodging that conversation for 12 hours, but Lily's been locked up just as long, and she doesn't deserve to pay for my cowardice. Time to face the music. Or at least the very justified anger of the one person I never wanted to hurt.

Fuck. Still down here, still in the basement, still watching screens like they might suddenly explain why everything hurts. The machines become my bunker. Somewhere to hide from Amy, somewhere to hide from the truth, somewhere to hide from having to decide what comes next. I'm not even investigating anymore, just clicking through folders, avoiding thought, avoiding feeling, avoiding the inevitable moment when I have to go upstairs and exist in a world where Amy, what's this? A-M-Y underscore M-A-G-S underscore 2015. My finger clicks before my brain catches up. Three video files, dated. The first one, a few months before my attack in Seattle. Oh god. The O'Connell's living room, except emptier, sadder. Like someone tried to maintain normalcy, but gave up halfway through. Amy's 14, hair cropped short and messy. Right. This is less than a year after the accident. After the coma. After Jonathan died. There's a scar on her skull. The short hair can't quite hide. Claire's in the background. And that voice behind th e camera, Didi. Casual but protective, the way she got when she thought we needed mothering.

Might be another lead.

Maybe.

I don't know. Maybe something.

They're investigating Jonathan's death. This is what led to my attack. Amy was 14 and already becoming the person I know now. Sharp edges and sad eyes. Jesus O'Connell. Next video. The house again. But more like I remember it. Lived in. Amy. Amy's on crutches, trying to smile, trying to walk, just home from the hospital. She's completely bald here and there are jagged wounds on her scalp. Stitches, sutures, staples. Bruising that makes my medical brain calculate force vectors and impact zones. Because if I think like a doctor, I won't have to feel like a friend who wasn't there.

Oh, oh, you look terrible, sweetie.

No offense, babes.

Some, some offense.

Our joke. It was always our joke. Started with Didi, passed to us like an inheritance. Last video, just after the accident. Maybe, maybe a day or two after she woke up. Heavily bandaged, severe bruising, larger casts, the monitors, the IV drips, traumatic brain injury, multiple fractures, possible internal bleeding that I'm cataloging. Because if I think about the medicine, I don't have to think about...

Okay, sweetie, this is for Mags. So she knows you're all right.

Mags, I can't wait to see you. Fuck.

She still thought I was coming, still thought we were us, before the silence broke us. Didi wasn't hoarding these, she was keeping them for me. Messages and bottles from before the shipwreck, from when we still believed in each other. I can't, I can't sit here anymore watching the ghost of who we used to be. I need air, I need outside, I need to not be in the basement, I need to be away from the machine with all these cameras and secrets and- Amy? And she's there, on the doorstep, soaked through, hair plastered to her face like she's been pacing in the rain trying to work up the courage to knock. We just look at each other, no quips, no armor, just two people who know each other's worst moments, standing in the rain.

Hey. Hi.

The air between us is so charged I can taste copper. Like before lightning strikes, like…

Well, well.

No way.

Aw, hello, my little weirdos. Together again, I see.

Spirit Halloween, Daphne and Velma.

Back on the case.

Drama!

Minerva Maddox. Of course, of fucking course. Amy looks at me, I look at her, and Minerva stands between us, smiling like she just won a game we didn't know we were playing. Then she sweeps inside like she owns the place, which, knowing Minerva, she probably thinks she does.

Well, don't just stand out there in the rain like a pair of lovesick Labradors. Come in, come in. We have a lot to talk about.

Hello, Mags Park here. If you like what we're doing here in Avalon Falls, please, please, please tell someone before it disappears again.

Yeah, like, rate, review, subscribe, absorb, swipe right, blah, blah, blah.

No, seriously, it helps the algorithm ghosts find us.

And maybe it'll keep us from dying broke in a fog soaked town.

You maybe, I'll be totally fine.

Yeah, that tracks.