False Faces

Murder Girls is created, written and produced by Eternal Teenager. Content warning. This episode contains panic attacks and anxiety disorders, seizure disorder and medical emergency, discussion of murder and violent death, grief and loss, ongoing themes involving the death of family members, surveillance and stalking, breaking and entering, threats and intimidation, environmental crime and corporate malfeasance, references to trespassing on private property, exploitation of trauma for media and entertainment, manipulation and gaslighting, references to past car accidents and traumatic brain injury, alcohol consumption, cigarette smoking, mentions of drug dealing, implied romantic or sexual relationships, family conflict and dysfunction, claustrophobic situations, and frequent profanity. Listener discretion is advised.

Previously on Murder Girls.

How long?

What?

The video. How long?

Leave it alone.

Next time, they finish the job.

You knew.

I was going to tell you.

Oh yeah, when? Before or after I started believing I fucking deserved it.

I was trying to protect you.

From what?

They've arrested Lily for Dylan.

Lily's not talking, and she has no alibi for the time of Dylan's death.

She's protecting someone.

The machine is absurd, 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 flip through the live feeds, and then I see her, Amy, with Eleanor Holt.

Where was Lily Monday night?

I don't know.

She's protecting me.

If Lily's protecting anyone, it's probably her dad. What were you two doing that's worse than murder?

We were in Holtwood, restricted area near the old paper mill. This is what we found.

He shows me a video on his phone. A massive concrete pad, hidden under camo netting in the redwoods. Plastic pods, like something you'd ship alien eggs in. You know this doesn't clear her, right?

That's all I have. You didn't get that from me. You're your father's kid, all right. He came sniffing around Holtwood before he died, asking questions he shouldn't have.

I leave with footage I can't use, and knowledge that makes everything worse.

We found something, something about Dylan, the Wellness Initiative. It's a reboot of the town's old pre-wide 2K health database. He requested physical records from them. But the logs show the files never made it to him. They got redirected.

This wasn't Dylan nosing around. This was Dylan following something.

Avalon Falls Wellness Initiative, standing like the world's creepiest Walmart greeter, is a life-sized cardboard cutout of Amber Holt.

She cleaned this place out.

The desk's empty. The filing cabinet's gutted, not an office, a cover-up. Lily's in that cell because of me. The only way out is the machine, which means facing Mags.

I can't sit here anymore. 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?

Hey.

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

Hello, my little weirdos.

Minerva Maddox. Smiling like she just won a game we didn't know we were playing.

Come in. Come in. We have a lot to talk about.

Murder Girls, episode eight, False Faces.

Oh my god, it's like Etsy had a nervous breakdown.

Maybe it was fitting. Amy and I finally have our moment, our actual reunion after that video bomb dropped, and who crashes through the door like she owns the emotional rights to our lives? Minerva fucking Maddox, the woman who wrote the book that turned us into Avalon Fall's cautionary tale.

Poor Dee Dee.

Oh well. I suppose questionable taste is still taste, isn't it?

We're actually closed right now.

And until and beyond forever. So, you know, you have to step in.

So what was going on there in the doorway earlier, sweeties? What was all that? All that wet hair, panic breathing and silent disaster. Oh, did I just interrupt some kind of rain soaked reconciliation arc?

Why are you here Minerva? Why are you here?

I am so glad you asked, because I'm doing a show. Hashtag, yay, a true crime series, a serialized podcast, if you must. Small town murder story, colon, original sin. Starts next week, or sooner if I can finish the cold open without crying. The true and shocking story of Dylan Holt, the air, the secrets, the lies, told by the people who knew him best.

You're exploiting a murder.

So business as usual.

Oh, please.

I'm providing context. Healing through narrative.

It's very ethical storytelling.

Sarah Koenig meets Brene Brown. I've been researching vulnerability frameworks, empathetic lattices, you know, that kind of barf.

So the plan is tragedy happens, you show up, slap your logo on it and leave?

See, I've always said it. You get me, babe. You really do.

This show, it's efficient. It's white label empathy.

It may not be the future, but it's definitely the present.

Okay, now you're just saying words.

You've already started recording.

I've been gathering material, yes. Interviews, ambient sound. I got a mazing tape at the docks. Even the seagulls sound more mournful.

Oh, my God.

I prefer content creator, but sure.

And tomorrow's teaser episode, huge, exclusive.

My guest has a lot to say about Dylan.

What?

Who?

You'll find out Thursday morning. Drops at 6 a.m., right before the first scheduled police press conference. Perfect timing, right? Cross promotion with the local NPR affiliate. They're running promos. Hey, hey, you smell that? That's the scent of fresh, square space, mid rolls, baking in real time.

You're turning a murder investigation into a media event.

Um, I'm illuminating it. There's a difference. Narrative versus reportage. I'm not some kind of weird beard, tweed-kneed, soggy journalist with a politico-corporate agenda, babe. I'm a storyteller. Anyway, don't you worry your pretty little trauma-core cabezas, cuties. I'm folding you both in.

Boom!

And you're a welcome.

Wait, what?

Yes, sisters helping sisters, right?

You're my act two twist.

Together again after 10 years apart to solve another murder. Come on, that's got more hooks than a pirate orgy.

Oh my God, face palm.

They solved one case as kids.

Now they're back where it began. A decade older, twice as traumatized, and still super marketable. And blah, blah, blah, nothing's what it seems. Boo hoo hoo, they're stoner sad sacks and black rags. I don't know. It just sounds like a great premise for a podcast, right? I mean, you're nerds. You get it.

You're branding our trauma.

I'm recontextualizing your experience within a larger cultural conversation about justice, memory, and that's my editor. Gotta bounce. We're finalizing the theme music. Thinking Dark Americana meets Charlie XCX doing Carpool Karaoke in Narnia or Lana Del Rey crying blood into the digital abyss. You know what? You know what? Never mind. We'll figure it out. That's the process. Call me if you want to control the narrative, but hurry, hurry, cha-chas. Episode two drops in six days, and I will be covering your whole sordid history, with or without your input. Oh, and Marguerite. Love the whole traumatized gay shopkeeper aesthetic. Very niche. Very marketable. Check out the three mood boards I already made about you.

Bye!

Shopkeeper? Hey, how about go fuck yourself?

Holy shit, dude. I want to throw something.

Yeah.

Get in line.

She's gonna turn us into a fucking meme.

She already did that. I've seen them. Now she's just franchising it.

Well, the rain stopped.

Roof?

Yeah. Roof.

The rain had stopped, but the air still felt wrong. Heavy. Electric. Minerva had thrown her match and the whole town was about to light up. We didn't have time for more sideshows or to crawl back into old wounds. Dylan Holt was murdered, and too many people were trying to rewrite what it meant. Whatever had happened a few hours ago and nine years before that would have to wait. We had a case to solve.

Loose Ends has a little balcony up on the roof. Part fire escape, part secret lookout. It's the kind of place where you can almost believe the town makes sense if you stare hard enough. The rain stopped, but everything still smells like wet wood and bad memories. Mags leans on the railing, pretending she's calm. I'm pretending I'm not vibrating out of my skin. We haven't talked about the video, or Minerva, or that thing that almost felt like forgiveness between us before she barged in. It's hanging there, like static or gravity pulling at everything we say. I tell myself I'm fine. Totally fine. Just a little sleep deprived, over caffeinated, emotionally concussed. But Mags keeps looking at me like she's waiting for a diagnosis.

You okay?

Yeah. Fine. Why?

Because you look like you haven't slept in three days and you're vibrating.

I'm focused. Plus, you know, hella caffeine.

Amy.

It's true.

You're burning out.

She wasn't wrong. I'd been running on coffee and cortisol since even before Dylan's murder. But I couldn't let Mags see that. Medical student Mags, who could probably diagnose me with adrenal fatigue just by looking at my cuticles. So, uh, I spoke with Claire about Lily.

And?

And they arrested her because she has no alibi for Monday night, or at least not one she's talking about. And Dylan's phone records came in. She was the one he was supposed to meet at 7 p.m. Shit. Yeah, which I led the cops right to, so great job, me.

That's not enough for an arrest, though. There's more.

Apparently, there was a police report from last week, some kind of confrontation between Lily and Dylan at the sloppy otter. Got heated. There are witnesses. So now they're doing the whole hold her for 48 hours thing, trying to find evidence. Of course, word is the Holtz are pushing the cops to sweat out a confession. But Lily's not talking so far. Shit. To quote John Wick. Yeah.

Okay. Like six out of ten.

Oh, come on, man.

Okay. Well, maybe there's good news. I used the machine to reconstruct Dylan's Monday night. Nice. Look at this.

Oh, hey, what's this? A printout?

That's Dylan. And that's Evan Parker from Omnia at the Falls Mart gas station Monday night around 8 p.m. It got heated. Like should have been a police report heated.

But it wasn't.

Nope.

Huh. Evan was supposed to go see Eleanor this morning to pick up some painting he bought. I went to see her earlier. Eleanor. I mean.

Uh, OK.

Lily's not talking to Eleanor and Eleanor doesn't know where Lily was when Dylan died. But she's got an alibi. Bare view. Charity function. Whatever.

Convenient.

Or, you know, just true. Oh, oh, oh, get this. Eleanor had a painting in her office with a note stuck on the back. Handwritten. Red ink.

And?

Same handwriting as the one we found at the docks. Swear to God.

You're sure?

Yeah. Same ink, too. But that's not the best part.

Hello? So what's the best part, then?

Whoa. Sorry. Spaced a bit. Dylan wrote the note.

No way. So Dylan wrote both. So the murder victim left a cryptic clue. That is, yeah. That is some spicy wild mystery sleuth sauce right there, mi amigo. Wow.

That's what it looks like, which means either he found whatever the original sin is, or it found him first.

Well, I also have something, and surprisingly, it's related. Whoa.

What the hell is that?

Art, I guess.

Looks like some black metal album cover.

I found this at the Otter, under about six layers of wallpaper. Check out the handwriting in ink.

Dylan wrote that too.

What does DS look closer mean?

If I knew, I'd tell you. These are definitely some tiny threads, but it feels like something is here.

Agreed, but it might have to wait. I also talked to Lily's dad, Daniel Siaya.

I feel so unproductive. So, Daniel?

He says Lily was with him Monday night.

Then why isn't-

Because they can't tell anyone. They were trespassing on Holt land, like the fucking Holt would even. And they saw something. Look.

Oh, shit.

What is that?

Holy shit.

Yeah.

Corporate malfeasance, environmental crimes, the kind of thing that gets people killed if they talk about it.

So Lily's protecting her dad.

The Omnia deal is too big for the originals to lose. Doesn't matter who gets crushed.

Yeah, maybe even Dylan.

Right. So I was thinking, we need to get this to the weirdos, you know? Let those little freaks really dig into it.

Amy.

Come on. You know, they really are freaks, right? I mean, you know, Walter makes his own hot sauce, yeah? And Piper. I mean, pipes. Excuse me. Like, do I need to go on?

Look, I think you're in full save Lily mode, and I get it, but... But what? Save Lily mode looks a lot like solve Dylan's murder mode, but they're not the same thing. And if we're not careful, we'll miss something.

I can do both.

Can you?

I have to try.

I know.

So, back to classic Murder Girls. I talk, you overthink, we almost die.

My favorite subgenre.

Wait, wait, wait. Look. A familiar SUV crawls down Pine Avenue behind the shop and pulls into a secluded bacon lot. Another one follows, lining up nose to nose.

Is that...

Amber Holt.

And is that Thomas Holt? Why meet here?

Off the beaten path, but not invisible.

Weird strategy for a secret meeting in broad daylight.

Maybe that's the point. Amber wants witnesses. Thomas has a habit of making people disappear.

Hey, down the street. That's Jake's truck, no?

Watching her back.

That's dumb.

That's cute.

It's Avalon Falls. Why not both?

Okay, okay, okay. Lock it in. Lock it in. This is an impromptu stakeout, dude.

Come on.

The conversation below turns sharp. Even from here, we can read the body language. Raised arms, clenched fists, Thomas shouting, Amber shouting back. Then movement from Thomas' SUV. A figure leans forward, voice carrying even without words. Thomas freezes, walks back, shoulders drop.

Oh yeah, he just got, he just got scolded.

Grandpa Victor. Victor Holt is in that truck.

Oh dang, yes, yeah, you're right.

Thomas walks over, all tail between energy, and says something quick to Amber. An apology or a warning. And that's it. Two SUVs pull out within seconds. Jake's truck waits a beat, then tails them.

What the hell was that?

No idea. If Grandpa Victor was there, it's not nothing.

Well, we should definitely ask Jake about it when we hit the Otter. You know, cause we should definitely see what he saw with the whole Dylan and Lily showdown.

Agreed. The rain had stopped, but everything still felt soaked through. My clothes, my hair, my bones. My brain was running on fumes and caffeine, skipping like a scratched record. I'd been awake too long, thinking too much, chasing too many ghosts. I kept replaying the look on Mag's face when she saw that video. Now here we were, side by side again, cold and dripping on Dee Dee's old roof, pretending we could start over while the town rotted quietly beneath us. But for a minute, one quiet, stupid minute, it almost felt like the old days. Like maybe we still worked, even when nothing else did. Like maybe the story wasn't done writing us yet. I told myself it was adrenaline. It wasn't. It was hope. And that's the most dangerous drug in Avalon Falls.

Sunset Shores Trailer Park. I'd never been here before yesterday, never seen this part of Amy's life. It's hard to picture. Amy at 14, basically on her own out here. It's not trashy exactly, just feral in a charming way. Burning Man vibes meets off-grid survivalism, solar panels next to lawn flamingos, people carving their own lives into the edges of the map. It's the kind of place where the air smells like rusty water, weed, and homemade massage oil. And I can't help thinking I didn't know this, Amy. And I should have.

Amy!

And Mags Park!

Again! Twice in one week! I must have manifested this. Hi, Kathy. Mags! Your energy is so different from the last time I saw you. Maybe it's the shores. It's a whole different place in the morning light. The ley lines intensify.

Uh, that's probably it. Yes. Yeah.

If you're picking up on that, it probably means your Kundalini is very sensitive. You know, Mayrick is around today. He does incredible adjustments. Very deep work. I could— Hey, Kathy.

Hi. We're kind of in the middle of something, right? What?

The murder thing? Honey, we are just all in the middle of something. That's what life is, right? The middle of something. That's what Sam Harris says, like, more or less. God, you know, that app is just so damn expensive. And he keeps rejecting my scholarship applications. Anyway, I'm running a full moon ceremony tonight. Massive energy. But I do have something for you. Or actually someone.

Everyone at Sunset Shores looks like they were 90s porn stars who wandered off set and never came back. Attractive, but sun-parched and bleached out. This woman was no exception. A dashboard-faded Polaroid with a pulse. Her eyes, like everyone's here, seemed focused on something just past visible light. The effect was unsettling. Oh, hey Barb.

Mags, this is Barb.

Hello.

Makes her own Vegemite, this girl. I mean, what is an absolute menace on the bazooka? And she saw something Monday night. Dun, dun, dun. Okay.

Hi. Sorry about Didi. Such a radiant soul.

Um, Didi was radiant. Yes, yeah, definitely. Just would have loved to be called that too.

All right, all right, all right. So what kind of something did you see, Barb?

So I was out late, like two, maybe three. I was out walking Mr. Biscuits, as is my custom at that time.

Oh, Mr. Biscuits? And that's, I want to say, your dog?

It's her hedgehog.

Ah, okay. So you were walking him?

She is nocturnal. Anyway, I saw this guy booking it from out of your little grove there, Amy. Running like his ass was on fire.

Could you see his face?

Too dark to get a look at his face. But he was tall, broad-shouldered, moved fast. He had a very masculine, very powerful gait. Feline almost, like a tiger. Yes.

Okay, let's focus.

And this was Monday night?

Yeah. After all the commotion with the murder, but before sunrise. I know because I do my sun salutations at dawn, of course. And well, I hadn't done them yet.

Uh, right.

You know, because there was no sun.

Ah, you're sure it was a man?

I mean, now that you're asking, less sure could have been a really fit lady. Who am I to gender a blur?

Barb! You're leaving out the other piece of the co-on, the cop car. Cop car?

What cop car?

Right.

Yeah. A few minutes later, a cruiser headed the opposite way down the main road, like it was trying to cut him off.

So the cops were chasing them?

Or looking for them?

So is this a clue or a lead?

Oh.

Uh... Pff.

Gosh. Is there a difference?

A clue is evidence.

A lead is a direction to follow.

So this could be both.

Schrodinger's investigative breadcrumb, if you will.

They always like this?

Oh, honey, you have no idea.

Okay. Gotta run. Whole nut runs out of fresh tempeh early.

Thanks, Barb. Say hi to Mr. Biscuits for me.

If Barb says she saw something, she saw it. Definitely worth checking out.

We will. Thanks, Kathy.

You're welcome, sweetie. Just gonna remind Barb that we're heading out to Bearview later for the alternative farmers market protest, not the alternative farmers market. It's a subtle distinction, but an important one. When I talk to her about it, I feel like she has it all crossed up in her mind, and I just really need her to bring the right energy to this, you know? Stakes are just too damn high to get low gear Barb energy today. I mean, have you seen the price of Peruvian chocolate?

My god.

Okay, Kathy, bye. Am I the only one who thinks it's weird that there was a patrol car cruising the trailer park right after the murder call?

Yeah, I'm not a cop, but Dylan's murder seems like an all hands on deck type situation. We should check the machine, see if any cameras caught whoever was running.

Yeah, I was planning to see if Dee Dee tapped into the park speeds.

I have a feeling Dee Dee had something set up to watch you specifically.

Creepy, cute, both?

As we walked toward Walter's trailer, the sun broke through the fog. Harsh, golden, unforgiving. Amy squinted into it like someone used to living in the dark. She'd built a whole life here. Strange, messy, resilient. The kind of life you grow when no one comes to save you, and I'd missed all of it. Part of me still wanted to apologize for every year I wasn't here. But another part, the one that keeps me breathing, knows the only way back is forward. Maybe we can't fix what broke 10 years ago or even last night. But maybe, just maybe, we can build something new on the ruins, and maybe this place with its weird light and hedgehog walkers and mystic ants is where that starts.

School day, middle of the week. And here they all are, all of the weirdos, crammed into Jenky's trailer like it's mission control for some extremely unaccredited space program. Laptops open, snack wrappers everywhere, the air thick with caffeine and conspiracy. Part of me wants to tell them to go to class. The other part wants to ask if they're hiring.

Oh my god, this is either the best homeschool or the worst one, no in between. Yep. What up, my nerds?

You're here, I'm not even wearing my shoes.

Uh.

We've been waiting. Did you bring?

Yeah, we've got something.

Two somethings, actually.

Sweet. Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on, kids. Before we do this, you need to understand something.

Okay.

Once you see this, there's no going back.

This isn't Reddit theories or TikTok conspiracies bullshit, okay?

This is real and dangerous.

So if any of y'all wants to get off the big old scary Avalon Falls busso doom and generational trauma, now's the time.

That's really not the way to discourage us. You know that, right? Objectively, you did just make it sound way cooler. So much cooler.

We're definitely in.

Ride or die, baby.

Man, I gotta say, I love these fucking guys.

Okay, but we're starting with the medical file. Save the video for after.

Video?

You have a video?

Hey, I wanna see the video.

We're really blowing this role models thing.

We're doing the file, Danielle Chase. Her file was part of the physical records Dylan pulled from the wellness initiative.

The ones you put us on to, so, arigato for that. Whoa, nice.

The question is, why is her file there and why did Dylan want it?

Checking for cross-references in the system logs.

Could be a pattern.

Medical history that connects to something else Dylan was investigating.

Possibly. There are a few rabbit holes you could go down. Environmental exposure, pharmaceutical trials, familial connections.

That extra file tag is still bugging me. It's not standard protocol. I'll keep digging.

Yes, yeah, definitely a huge question mark.

Did you guys know Mags is a doctor?

Amy.

Like, an actual doctor, you know, with all of the school, cutting up bodies up, more school, white coat fever. Yeah, all of that.

That must come in handy. Oh, for sure.

So, so handy.

Amy.

What? I'm saying you're a talented, useful friend that I absolutely adore and parasocially obsess over.

Wait a sec. You're not connecting to the internet with all of this hacking, right? You think the Holtz don't monitor this town's Wi-Fi? That's naive. I mean, I'm half joking, but also not really joking at all. I actually can't joke. I have a condition. It's physically impossible for me to be 100% totally joking. Yes. Funny story. Well, not funny, I guess.

That's weirdly plausible. The Wi-Fi thing, I mean.

Oh, I'm not joking. I wouldn't. I can't. I was in a study.

I'm air gapped. Relax.

I can see it happening right in front of me. The same fever that gripped Mags and me when we were kids. That sense of invincibility. The certainty that we were built for this. That we could handle it. And the guilt lands heavy. We told ourselves this was safer than the real world. That giving them digital tasks kept them out of danger, but really we were just handing them the same loaded puzzle we couldn't stop touching.

We're also on the clock. Minerva Maddox. She's got a podcast up and running about Dylan's murder. The teaser drops tomorrow morning.

You can imagine how that's going to go and just make everything super extra and super messy.

Pipes, you okay?

Yeah, just like really hate that woman.

Duly noted.

So what's the play? Should we cross-reference Danielle's file with the other names Dylan pulled?

Exactly. Look for overlaps, anything that connects them beyond just being in the system.

And keep everything offline. No clouds, no Reddit, no group chat leaks.

I give you my solemn oath that we'll run a tight ship.

Comforting.

So that cursed video that's going to scar us for life? Yeah, what's in the video?

Footage from Lily Siaya and her dad.

They took this Monday night. Same window as Dylan's murder.

Wait, the Daniel Siaya, the protest guy?

Yeah, he and Lily were trespassing on Holtland. They saw something they shouldn't have.

And if what's in this video is what we think it is, it's not just trespassing anymore. It's evidence.

Like felony level evidence?

Worse, the kind that gets people killed.

Take a look.

You can hear it before you see it. The hum of machinery under the trees. The kind of sound that makes your stomach tighten because you know it's not supposed to be there.

Holy shit, what is that?

They all lean closer, eyes wide, faces lit blue by the screen glow. It's the same look Mags and I had once. The one that says this is real now.

Okay, yeah, that's, wow.

That's a felony.

More than one.

So that's why she isn't talking.

It's not politics. It's survival. If she says anything, she and her dad are done.

Yeah, whole land, corporate waste, one dead air. That's not a protest story anymore.

That's a kill-your-witnesses kind of story.

And there it is, the shift. The joke stops. The room gets smaller. For a second, they understand what Mags and I have been carrying since we were their age.

Do we send this anywhere?

Not yet. We don't even know who's watching.

Plus, and I'm just being real here, Lilly C. Yaya is in jail in a compromised police station.

Okay, got it, got it.

Uh, got what?

Dude, chill, we'll explain after.

Come on, man.

You're gonna ruin this opportunity for us.

Sorry.

And that's the part they don't understand yet, how quickly the line between curiosity and exposure disappears.

For now, just log what you can, keep it local, no uploads. Copy that.

We're on it, this is actual detective work, like real stuff, we won't let you down.

That look in their eyes, pride, purpose, the belief that they're part of something that matters. Okay, we're heading to the sloppy otter next. Text if you find anything.

Will do.

You want some sunset shore scorcher for the road?

Hard pass.

We're good, thanks. But I will take some of that trail mix of yours, if you have any, like just lying around.

I do, let me get you a mason jar.

Really?

It has wasabi peas.

So?

So. They reminded me of us.

Right?

Yeah, I hated it.

Me too. The worst part of seeing yourself in someone else is knowing how the story ends. It's knowing that role models are worse than the villains because the villains never disappoint you. We told ourselves we were protecting them by involving them, that we were giving them purpose, not putting them in danger, that this was safer than them doing it alone. But that's the lie. We weren't keeping them safe. We were recruiting them. The next generation of people who don't know when to walk away. And just like us, they'll learn too late that some puzzles don't want to be solved. They want to consume you.

You okay?

Yeah. Ask me when this is over.

The sloppy otter looks hung over in daylight. A relic of fun that forgot to die quietly. The neon hums. The air smells like beer, bleach and denial. And there's Jake pacing behind the building. Gritty, pretty, but there's an edge. Smoking, checking his phone, radiating nerves. The swagger's gone. Whatever went down with the Holtz this morning left something behind. The kind of haunted that clings. Hey Jake.

Hey, you hear about Lily?

Word travels fast.

Yeah. Small town. Dead rich kid. That's how she goes, right?

Same number again. Same one as last night. 157. Whoever he's talking to keeps him on a short leash. My money's on Amber Holt.

We heard there was an incident here last week between Dylan and Lily.

Yeah, there was. Minor thing. Cops blew it up. Made it sound worse than it was.

What happened?

Dylan came in off, wired, like he'd been chasing ghosts for hours. Drinking hard, asking Lily questions she didn't want to answer. She told him to back off. He didn't. Got loud. Tried to grab her arm. She shoved him. I broke it up.

You okay?

Yeah. Yeah. Just... Dylan got like that sometimes, you know? All wound up desperate, like... Like he was looking for something he couldn't find.

You, uh, you knew him pretty well?

Well enough. We hung out a few times. Nothing serious, but... Yeah. I knew when he was hurting.

The way he says it, soft, like it's breaking a rule, tells me everything. Grief wears a lot of disguises in Avalon Falls.

That night at the bar, that was one of his bad nights. I should have cut him off earlier. Fuck.

That's it? That's all that happened?

Uh, yeah, yeah. That's all. He did, sure, but nothing worth calling the cops. Which, actually, I still don't know how they found out.

Someone reported it?

Nobody here did. We don't really do that.

Speaking of those sorts of thingies, we saw you this morning with Amber and Thomas Holt.

You were watching the two of you.

Holy fuck. Of course you were.

We were on a roof.

Amber and the Holt boys were in a parking lot.

You were parked down the street.

It looked pretty intense.

Not exactly the Hallmark Channel.

I mean, dated reference, but you get our point, right?

Holy shit, how do you even do that? Look, that was just... It's just Holt stuff. Family business. I'm not part of it. They don't exactly invite the trophy wife's fuckboy to Sunday dinner.

Didn't look like family business. Looked like Thomas was getting his ass handed to him by someone in that SUV.

I stay out of it when I can, all right? That's the smart play.

But you were there.

Amber needed... She wanted someone watching her back. Ah, for fuck sakes! Look, I don't know what the fuck they were fighting about, okay? And I don't want to know. The less I'm involved with Holt's family business, the longer I stay alive.

A now all too familiar SUV approaches, pulling up and parking. And there she is, Amber Holt.

Ah, fucking fuck.

Amber Ashford, one-time WB background noise, three seasons of Tank Tops and Teen Anxed before the network and her career both folded. Then she met Richard Holt, played mistress until the first Mrs. Holt self-destructed, then stepped into the role like it was another casting call. She's not from Avalon Falls, but she learned the accent, wealth, guilt and good lighting.

Yeah, park near the bar and no colors. He'll know what that means.

Amber Holt, casually ordering a biker perimeter like she's picking up organic fruit. She ends the call and opens the back of the truck. I hear the shuffle of paper, the thud of a cardboard box landing on the gravel. Even before I see it, I know what it is, files, dozens of them. Sunglasses, perfect blowout, one hand balancing a box like it's a prop. She moves slow, direct approach, straight for Jake like a shark through cold water. Hey, babe. She just hands the box to Jake like it's a live grenade. Her perfume hits a second after.

Put this somewhere safe and not upstairs. Now!

He takes it without a word. She turns away, making another call. The queen of a crumbling court, still pretending her crown isn't slipping.

We're opening that box.

100%.

So, Jake, you know Lily didn't kill Dylan, right?

What? Uh, yeah. Yeah. I know. I know. Of course.

Then help us prove it.

Help? How?

Like what? Drive the fucking mystery machine?

Let us talk to Kenzie. She saw what happened, right? Between Dylan and Lily?

She saw more than I did. Yeah.

Then let us talk to her. We're trying to help Lily.

And figure out who really killed Dylan.

Not make things worse.

Okay. Okay. Fuck.

Fine.

God.

Jesus Christ. You want to talk with her? Fucking talk with her. Holy shit. Just keep it quick. And don't make me regret this.

Oh, we won't, buddy.

Thanks, Jake. Come on. Kenzie's inside.

Guilt and empathy. The oldest trick in the book. And Jake folded like origami. But that box? That box had answers written all over it, and we were going to read every line.

The otter in daylight is like waking up after a bad night. Everything's still sticky, but nobody wants to talk about why. The air smells like stale beer, salt and secrets. The jukebox hums low, like it's trying not to be noticed. Kenzie's here, of course. Always is, tiny lady, huge gravity. She wipes down glasses like she's polishing memories instead of glassware. She always looks like she's waiting for someone to ask the right question. Mags sees her and freezes. Something from the other night, maybe. Something she's not ready to tell me yet. Then there's Jake carrying Amber Holt's box like it's radioactive. He puts it under the bar and tries not to look at it. Mags and I both do the opposite.

Y'all want something to drink or are we just doing the staring thing today?

Actually, we wanted to ask you about something. The thing with Dylan and Lily last week.

Oh, that, yeah, wasn't much of a thing at all, really. Definitely wasn't a fight.

Okay, what was it then?

Oh, you know Dylan. Talking about the sickness that lives under the town, something he'd found, something that scared that beautiful boy bad.

What kind of sickness did he say?

The kind that grows in the dark, feeds on what folks don't want to see.

Uh, and Lily?

She wasn't fighting him. Uh-uh. She was pushing him.

Pushing him to do what?

To open a door he couldn't close.

Do you know what door?

Honey, I don't even know all the doors in this bar, and I've worked here six years, okay?

There are so many doors in here. What is even up with that? Like, what is this? Fucking House of Leaves?

Dylan, he got like that sometimes. Wound up, paranoid, talking about things that didn't make sense.

The way he says Dylan's name, like it hurts coming out, tells me everything. Jake's not just haunted, he's grieving.

Did he ever tell you what he found?

Not in words. No, just fear, maybe. Like he'd seen behind a curtain and couldn't make it close again. I'm gonna check the back door. Like the secondary one, yeah.

Aw, poor Prince. I don't like that Amber. Folks who shine that bright, they're hide and rot.

Mm-hmm.

You don't trust Amber.

Don't like how she treats Jake, like he's a tab she's gonna skip out on.

Um, Kenzie?

That box Jake brought in for Amber?

Mind if we get ourselves a little look-see-do?

You can have a peek, bunnies. But thing about magic boxes, whatever your hopes inside comes with something you wish wasn't. Balance. Yes, indeed.

Thanks, Kenzie.

Just be quick.

We will.

Not medical files, environmental reports, maps, government seals, the paper smells old, ink and mildew, and truth. Each page lists contamination data, permit renewals, originals owned land, the newer requests all signed by the same name. Dylan was digging here too.

Look at the older ones, the signature. Jonathan O'Connell.

Dad. Look, look, rerouting slips, same pattern as Dylan's. Someone intercepted both.

Hold them up. Okay, okay, okay, I think we got enough for now.

Thanks again, Kenzie.

I didn't see anything, darling. And you didn't find nothing either. Balance. That's how it works.

Tell Jake we said goodbye?

Uh-huh. Now get you, nosy Parkers.

It's still gray but brighter now. Amber's waiting by her SUV, cigarette burning down to nothing.

You girls find what you were looking for.

Just conversation.

Good. Because if I find out anyone's been touching my property, well.

Did you rehearse that or are you still able to improv a scene?

Oh, boy.

Funny. See you at the funeral, I guess.

Holy shit.

Oh, and a word of advice. You're not children anymore. It's not cute. You're just targets. Bang. Bang. You really should learn when to quit.

Yeah. Hard to argue with that.

Let's get out of here.

Back to loose ends.

I look back through the otter's window, Kenzie's still there, watching from the dark, not judging, not warning, just seeing. And somehow that's worse.

It's almost noon. We've been running for well over 24 hours. Minerva, the Weirdos, the Otter, each stop just another lock with no key. The answers aren't hiding anymore. They're taunting us.

Okay, so the files, environmental reports, contamination data, that lines up with what Daniel said, right? About my dad digging into whole eco-violations.

It definitely does.

Then why does Amber have them? Why stash them at the Otter?

Maybe she's protecting herself or protecting evidence.

Or both. Yeah, those files are some serious leverage, right? For real, for real.

Amy's fraying. You can see it in her shoulders, in the way she's chewing her lip bloody just to stay awake. She's been running on caffeine and spite since I came back. And last night, last night happened, and now we're here. Bruised, unfinished, pretending to be detectives while the world writes our obituaries in real time. Whoa, Amy, look. News vans, multiple, parked along Cedar Street, satellite dishes, crews setting up, cameras shooting B-rolls, some already shooting reporters.

Holy shit.

Washington plates, some Oregon.

Dylan Holt, heir to one of the wealthiest families in the state. Maybe the country. Of course it's going national.

The circus had arrived, and we were the freak show. Minerva's teaser drops tomorrow, the cops go live the same morning, the clock's running out.

We need to get to the machine, now.

The Seattle video still hangs between us like a storm cloud. Neither of us says it, but it's in every silence. Amy's still frazzled, erratic, and I'm, I don't know what I am, distant, aching, trying to hold myself together while she falls apart.

Let's see if Dee Dee had any feeds for the trailer park. Okay, there, Sunset Shores and, oh.

Dee Dee had one labeled just Amy. Of course she did.

Kind of hilarious, I never noticed it.

She loved you in her own weird tiny spy ant way.

Yeah.

Yeah, she did. Okay, okay, okay, early Tuesday morning. Let's see what Barb saw. And there.

A figure appears on screen, large, male, probably, moving fast toward Amy's trailer. He's wearing dark clothing, face covered. He's carrying something low, like it's a little heavy, a can, a paint can. He reaches the door, forces it open, disappears inside. Can we get a better angle?

Let me see. Yes, trailer park entrance cam. Let's track where this tiger-moving motherfucker came from.

She scrubs backward, the figure appears from the main road, moving purposefully. Huh, seems to know where he's going.

He's staying in the shadows, like he's done this before.

Professional.

Or a local.

Fast forward after a bit, and he hauls ass out of the trailer, still carrying the paint can.

Huh, Barb didn't mention the can.

He dumped it somewhere? Yeah, yeah, like between your trailer and where she and fucking Mr. Biscuit saw him running?

Sure, I guess an empty can of paint in the woods isn't that suspicious these days.

Pour one out for Mother Earth.

Sad.

Anyway, he's heading west.

Toward the back road probably.

Whoa, wait, wait, go back. What's that?

Back road camera. The lens is completely blurred out.

Like sprayed with something?

Timestamp says same time window as the break in. Let's rewind time and see who did this.

She scrubs backward. A figure flickers in and out, just a shadow really, moving at the fuzzy edge of the frame. Then a burst of motion up close and the lens goes dark, smeared, blinded. They knew where the camera was.

Can't make out who it is, but the timing definitely points at Barb's Tiger Man.

Yes, yeah, has to be.

Disable the camera, break in, vandalize the fuck out of the place, then book.

It's an inference, but a strong one. Someone who knew the system well enough to disappear inside its blind spots. Barb said she saw someone running, then a cop car heading the other way.

Like Tiger Man got flushed out?

Sure, but why were the cops there in the first place?

Yeah, that's a question, all right.

The whole thing feels wrong.

The fuck?

Oh my god, that wall is the worst.

It is, truly. But yeah, but it only goes off when something big walks past it. You know, like a person.

Shit.

Heavy footfalls, upstairs, careful, deliberate. Someone is inside, loose ends. Mags, I know. Then I hear it, not the steps upstairs anymore, but Amy. Her breathing's gone ragged, short, sharp pulls of air, the kind that means she's losing the thread. I turn to look at her and her eyes. They're not focused. She's already halfway somewhere else.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

Not now.

Not now. That Mags.

Hey, hey, stay with me. Stay with me, Ames, okay? I catch her as she starts to fall, lowering her carefully to the floor. Her body tenses, seizing. She shakes in my arms. The violence of the convulsive onset. That awful moment when the body forgets who's in charge. And I don't know if I'm holding her still or holding her here. Amy! Amy! I've got you! I've got you!

I've got you!

I've got you, baby! I've got you! Her body continues to shake in my arms, and the world narrows to one sound, her breath fighting its way back. Upstairs, footsteps, down here. Time presses its hand over our mouths. If I lose her now, none of it matters. Not Dylan, not the town, not the truth. I don't know who's coming for us. I just know I can't lose her again. 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.