Leave it Alone

Murder Girls is created, written, and produced by Eternal Teenager. Content Warning This episode contains mature themes and content including Strong language throughout Drug use Impaired driving Discussion of violent assault and trauma References to seizure disorders and medication Breaking and entering Harassment and intimidation References to murder and violence Adult themes and sexual references Anxiety and panic attacks Grief and loss Surveillance and stalking behavior Listener discretion is advised Previously, on Murder Girls, I was a sleuth. Amy was my sleuthing partner, my best friend. I haven't spoken to her since I left here.

I know it wasn't something you did to hurt me, okay? But it did hurt me. Look at us! We survived our big reunion!

My recently departed aunt Dee Dee left me her curiosity shop.

If the main floor is this weird, imagine what Dee Dee kept in the basement.

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

All units.

We have a 1054 at the harbor.

That's a body.

Dylan.

We investigate like we used to.

Woohoo!

Murder Girls, back in action!

So who's this mysterious ally we're meeting?

Officer Nichols, though she's retired now.

From the Osprey Island case?

Dylan Holt. I'm guessing that's why you're here. Dylan was shot twice in the chest, then managed to drag himself quite a distance before he died. Amy, Sheriff Carter's been asking about your whereabouts last night.

Do they have any suspects?

They're looking closely at Nora Chen. She's Dylan's girlfriend, and the sheriff wants her to come in for an interview today. But people who are not a suspect is probably a shorter list.

Look at the blood trail. It actually isn't heading toward the parking lot. It starts to arc a bit away from it.

We need to get a closer look. Paper! Something blue under there. Got it.

What did we find? What was that paper?

It's a page from Minerva's book, from the Osprey Island mystery. What's that?

Some handwritten notes. The original sin lies buried with the fifth.

It's written in red ink, and recently by the looks of it, someone broke into my trailer. They left a message.

What message?

Leave it alone.

The same three words my attacker had repeated while breaking my ribs in that dark room in Seattle. Whatever Dee Dee had been investigating, whatever Amy's been searching for all these years, whatever killed Dylan Holt, it's all connected. And now, whoever's behind it knows we're looking. They know where Amy lives, and they remember me. Murder Girls, episode four, Leave It Alone.

Sunset Shores Trailer Park. There's no real shore unless you count the sides of the gross creek that runs through part of the place, but there are, as with most places at the right time of the day, sunsets, sure. But hey, it's quiet, it's cheap, and most importantly, it's tucked away where nobody thinks to look for me, or so I thought. They say home is where the heart is. In my case, it's a 1976 Airstream Bambi that I bought off some retired hippies for three bands. Not exactly the American dream, but it's mine. I've never been particularly attached to things. Growing up with a mom who left without a trace and a dad who died unexpectedly will do that to you. But standing in the doorway of my trash trailer, I felt something I hadn't felt in years. Vulnerable. An amethyst, Emily O'Connell, does not fucking do vulnerable. My Aunt Kathy rushes toward us, bohemian skirt billowing, turquoise jewelry jangling.

Amy? Oh, thank God, I was about to call you again.

Catherine O'Connell, trailer park manager, free spirit, self-proclaimed, and the only blood relative I have left. She's been there for me in her own weird way since dad died. Kathy's like human kombucha, an acquired taste that's supposedly good for you, but definitely leaves a strange aftertaste.

This is, ugh, it's just awful, honey. Like a complete violation of your sacred space, right? But you know, don't worry, okay? I have the sage here for whenever you're ready. Wait, Mags? Mags Park? Is that really you?

Oh, hi, Ms. O'Connell, uh, yes, yeah, it's me. It's been a while.

Call me Kathy, sweetie. My god, look at you all grown up, and that pink hair. You're just like a, you know, but like a big scoop of cute cotton candy. I could just eat up. You're so adorable and sweet.

Oh, uh, thank you.

I am so sorry about Dee Dee. She was such a force, you know, always questioning everything, stirring the pot, fighting the patriarchy full time, that one.

Yeah, that was Dee Dee.

Hey, so Kathy, the trailer, we found it like this.

I did, about an hour ago. I was coming to talk to you about this new tapping meditation app you have just got to try, honey. Tim Ferriss and Roman Mars absolutely rave about it. So anyway, the door was ajar and well.

Oh my god, Amy.

My little bambi isn't much, but well, I've spent years making it into a home, living in it long enough that it reflects me. Now it looks like a tornado hit a hot topic. Drawers dumped, shelves cleared, posters torn from the walls, but it's what's painted across my living room that makes my blood run cold. Leave it alone.

The same words.

What do you mean the same words?

Nothing, just thinking out loud. I watch Mags carefully. Her face has gone pale, eyes fixed on those three words dripping in teal paint. I've only seen this look once before, when she found me after my seizure. It's like she's physically here, but mentally somewhere else entirely, somewhere dark. Mags, you okay?

Yes, yeah, fine. Let's check if anything's missing.

Okay, well, TV's still here. Trusty laptop, too. Vinyl collection is tossed about, but nothing taken. So, yeah, outside of clearly having shitty taste in music, it doesn't seem like robbery was the point for the fuckers who did this.

They were sending a message.

Should I call the police? I mean, again?

No, no, no. No cops.

Huh, this paint is weird. Not spray paint, more like house paint. And look, there's a partial handprint, large, probably male.

Mags slips into detective mode like it's a comfortable old sweater. She's examining the paint, studying the handprint, looking for any trace of the intruder. Meanwhile, I'm taking inventory of what's been destroyed. My conspiracy board, years of carefully collected newspaper clippings, photographs, and notes about dad's accident is fucked. Recon of the Holtz and the other original families, intel on town developments and incidents, now lie torn and scattered across the floor.

Whoa, wait, is this?

Cheese's collar, yeah.

Cheese, oh my god, I can't believe you still have this.

Best dog detective ever. Cheese was my dog and our unofficial third detective, a scrappy little mutt that followed us everywhere during the Osprey Island case. She even got a special medal from the mayor, the one Mags is holding before the town turned against us.

Ha, I remember how she would always bark at the Bergman twins like she knew they were trouble.

And how she sniffed out that hidden entrance when that huge, roid-raging biker in the combat mask threw us in that crazy cistern that was rapidly filling up with water.

That dog loved you girls so much.

She died almost exactly a year after dad. Old age, but felt like losing dad all over again.

She was a good girl.

There's a moment of silence between us, a shared memory of a simpler time. But it's broken when Mags turns back to the wall, her eyes locked on those three words again. Her breathing changes become shallow. Her hands start to tremble. Mags?

I just need, I need air.

I follow her outside, where she's leaning against the trailer, eyes closed, trying to steady her breathing. Kathy hovers in the doorway, looking concerned, but stays quiet for once. It's the words, isn't it, from your attack?

How do you know about that?

You mentioned it yesterday, remember, when you told me about Seattle.

Right, yeah, yes. It's just, when he was attacking me, he kept saying it, like yelling it over and over. Leave it alone. I didn't even know what it was. After that, I stopped taking pictures, stopped staying after school, stopped trusting everything. My parents sent me to therapy. But how do you explain to a therapist that you, that you can't stop looking over your shoulder because of something you don't even understand?

But now?

Now? Now I think maybe I do.

I want to tell her everything about the school surveillance camera video I received of her attack, about how it was meant to stop me from investigating dad's death, about how I've carried the guilt of her attack for years. But the words stick in my throat. She looks so fragile right now, and I can't bear to add this to everything she's feeling. Not yet. But most of all, I'm scared. I don't want to be the reason she turns her back on me this time.

You okay, sweetheart? You know, this is a safe space.

Kathy, really? Safe?

Oh, right, right.

Yeah, yes, I'm okay. Sorry about that.

That settles it. I'm staying with you at loose ends tonight. The words come out before I've even thought them through.

I was going to suggest the same thing. After this, you shouldn't be alone, especially here.

Oh my god, I just love this idea. It's like the sleepovers you girls had when you were kids, but, well, you're women now.

Okay, Kathy, okay. Relax. I'll grab some things. As I throw clothes and necessities into a duffel bag, I catch glimpses of Mags and Kathy talking outside. Kathy's gesturing wildly, probably telling one of her Burning Man stories, while Mags nods politely. I'm struck by how different Mags is now. The girl I knew was wide open, recklessly trusting even. This Mags carries herself like someone who's learned the hard way that the world can hurt you when you least expect it. But seeing her triggered by those words makes me wonder how much of her is still broken from what happened in Seattle. What happened because of me? Ready? But you know what? Let me just check with my neighbor first. Maybe he saw something. BTdubs, he is fucking weird, dude. Like dark web conspiracy believes in the back rooms, you know, like that kind of weird. Oh, hey, Walter, can we talk for a second?

Whoa.

Walter Jenkins, aka Jenkies, appears in the doorway looking like an extra from a post-apocalyptic movie. Respirator mask, goggles, thick rubber gloves, and what appears to be a modified raincoat, just fucking covered in stains.

Amy, perfect timing.

I'm just sealing the final batch of my new Sunset Shores Scorcher sauce.

The secret's in the fermentation, you know.

Most amateur sauce slingers don't understand the microbial.

Someone broke into my trailer.

No shit, when?

I don't know, dude. Like sometime in the last 24 hours, you see or hear anything?

Can't say I did.

Been in here since dawn, jarring the sauce.

Sorry.

Yeah.

I'm just dialed in for the jarring, right?

It's head downtime, you know?

All right.

All right.

Thanks anyway, man.

Is everything okay? Did they take anything?

I mean, no, it's not okay, right? But it's fine, you know? Okay.

I'll come by once I'm done and help.

Sure, dude. Sure. We try a few other neighbors, but get similar responses. Nobody saw anything. Nobody heard anything. Either my neighbors are the least observant people on the planet, or someone was very careful about when and how they broke in. Well, that was useless.

Not entirely. At least we know they were deliberate about not being seen.

Time to jet.

We can get you settled in, then we need to figure out our next move.

As we drive away from sunset shores, I glance in the rearview mirror at my little silver home growing smaller in the distance. For 10 years, that trailer has been my sanctuary, the one place where I could be completely myself, surrounded by the remnants of my past. Now it feels exposed, vulnerable, just like me. You know what's weird? They could have burned it down, destroyed everything, but they didn't.

It was about scaring you, scaring us.

Too bad it's having the opposite effect.

Amy.

I know, I know. We need to be careful, but careful doesn't get answers, Mags. And we need answers now more than ever. Despite everything, despite the break-in and the threats, I feel a surge of something like hope. Because whatever's happening, whatever danger we're in, at least we're in it together.

There's something deeply strange about bringing Amy back to Dee Dee's apartment. My apartment now, I guess. Like introducing two different versions of my life to each other. Amy moves through the space with an easy familiarity that makes me feel like a stranger in my own inheritance. She knows where the good mugs are, automatically avoids the creaky floorboard by the window, even adjusts the lampshade that apparently always sits crooked. Of course, she's been here countless times over the years. While I was away becoming a failed medical student, Amy was here with Dee Dee, probably sitting at this very kitchen island, drinking tea and sharing secrets I'll never know. The apartment is spacious for Avalon Falls, an open floor plan with high ceilings. The kitchen gleams with the copper pots Dee Dee collected over the years. Bookshelves line one wall, filled with everything from mystery novels to local history to obscure mythology texts. Large windows look out over Cedar Street, and a spiral staircase leads to ro of access. It's beautiful, and achingly empty without Dee Dee. Sorry, I haven't had time to go through much of her stuff yet.

No rush. Took me three years to even think about touching my dad's things. Last time I was here, Dee Dee made me her famous grilled cheese.

Oh, with the kimchi?

Yeah. Said it was the only thing that could cure a broken heart and a hangover at the same time. I mean, obviously it was bullshit, but having someone who is just there, well, that helps with those things, right?

Yeah, yes. When was that?

Oh, like two weeks before she went into hospice. She knew she was getting worse, but she still insisted on taking care of me. How about you? When was the last time you saw her?

I guess not long after you did. It was a FaceTime call when she was in hospice, you know, like a few weeks before. She actually didn't tell anyone in the family she was sick. Not me, not my parents. Not through her initial diagnosis or the recurrences or end stage. Just ghosted the truth until my dad found out somehow, went to see her. It was a huge scene, even though no one wanted it to be. Didi didn't want to see anyone in person. My dad made her call all of us. So there she was, all tubes and hospital gown, acting like we were catching up over coffee, asking about school, asking if I'd found a decent bagel in Seattle, like she had all the time in the world.

What did you say?

Nothing that mattered.

That wasn't your fault, Mags.

I know, but that's something I would do. Pushing people away, disappearing before it gets too hard. That's my whole thing. Maybe I was just mad she beat me to it, that she had pulled the rip cord first. So, yeah.

Hey, she knew you loved her, Mags.

But the words don't ease the knot in my chest. Amy got those final moments with Dee Dee, the grilled cheese, the care, the goodbye I didn't even know I needed. While I was busy failing at becoming a doctor, Amy was here, being the family I should have been. While Dee Dee, Dee Dee was being the friend I should have been. There's an awkward moment as we both realize the sleeping arrangements need to be considered. A queen-size bed dominates one corner of the loft with a futon couch position nearby. It's not a huge space for two people, especially when they haven't shared one in a decade. So, I can take the futon and you can have the bed.

Dude, don't be all silly, Billy. I will take the futon, okay? Like, it's your place, man.

Wait, wait, no. I insist, you're my guest.

No, no, no. I'm your emergency roommate. There's a difference.

We go back and forth for a while, neither willing to concede until Amy finally drops her duffel bag dramatically onto the futon.

There. Done. Dibs. You know the rules of dibs.

Fine, but only because I respect the sacred law of dibs.

Mags, uh, hey, uh, thanks for this. You know, for, for letting me stay.

Oh, yeah, yeah, of course. You know, it's what, it's what friends do.

Plus, this way I can access Dee Dee's Surveillance Nest 24-7. And that of course is what is known as Efficencia.

And we're back.

Oh, sorry, haven't eaten since breakfast.

You know what? I'll go grab us something from Lula's. Yes, yeah, like, like a little, you know, little housewarming party for Tuesdays.

Oh, so, so fancy. I like it. Oh, wait, wait, wait, can you get me the-

Triple stacked chicken and waffle special with extra bacon and syrup on the side, not on the food.

Whoa, you remembered?

Some things never change. Some things never should.

Nice. Oh, oh, oh, and make sure it's the thick cut bacon, not that paper thin stuff they try to pass off during the dinner shift. Oh, and tell them no powdered sugar. I'm not five, right? And the secret maple syrup, the spicy one, not that corn syrup abomination, and butter on the side so things don't get soggy.

And dude, it's a dinner order, not a fucking tour rider, okay?

Can I help it if I'm a young woman who knows what I want?

Sure, buddy. Okay, I'll be back in 20.

30, if Lula is, you know, like, all chatty and whatnot.

The evening air has a bite to it, that distinct October chill that hints at winter but isn't quite ready to commit. Cedar Street is quiet at this hour, caught in that strange limbo between day and night. Shop owners flipping their signs to closed, restaurants starting their dinner service, the occasional car passing slowly by. For a moment, it feels almost normal, like I'm just a regular person running out for takeout, not someone investigating a murder while hiding my friend from whoever trashed her home. This is what's normal for me now, isn't it?

Mags, twice in one day.

I'm starting to think you missed my cooking all these years.

I mean, obviously. And also I could use some dinner for two. Amy's staying with me for a bit.

Oh, yeah? You two sure didn't waste any time picking up where you left off.

It's not, we're just, her trailer was broken into. Yes, yeah, yes.

Dios mio? When?

Is she okay?

Oh, yes, she's fine. You know, just shaken up. Someone trashed the place and left a threatening message.

That girl attracts trouble like honey attracts bears.

It's not her fault.

Didn't say it was, mija. Just an observation.

So what'll it be?

I mean, obviously Amy wants her usual, right?

And how about you?

Oh, let's do the smash burger. Let's do it classic falls style.

You want the egg easy or hard?

Easy, please. I know I've been gone 10 years, but I was born in this town after all.

You got it. Have a seat. Should be ready in about 10 minutes.

I settle at the counter while Lula calls the order back to the kitchen. The diner has a different energy at night. Softer lighting, more locals than tourists, conversations pitched low over coffee and pie. It feels intimate, almost conspiratorial. I spot two teens at the far end of the counter, huddled over what appears to be a notebook filled with diagrams and lists. One of them looks up, and our eyes meet.

Hey, Mags, right? From the e-rickshaw?

Oh, yeah, that's me. And you're Miles. Just Miles, if I remember correctly.

Oh, yeah. Good memory.

Hey, I'm Valentina. Call me Val.

Or if you really want to piss her off, call her Lula's daughter.

You're totally right, Miles. That really is how you piss me off.

Nice to meet you. Again, I think the last time I saw you, you were about this tall.

Growth, right? It happens.

So you're staying at your aunt's shop?

News travels fast in Avalon Falls, I see.

Small town, big ears. Sorry about your aunt.

She was cool.

Used to slip me candy when mom wasn't looking.

Sounds like Dee Dee. The best bad influence.

So what brings you back to town? Just the shop or?

We don't get many people moving back to AF these days. Mostly, it's people leaving.

These kids are good. Too good. Their questions seem casual, but there's a strategic precision to them. They're fishing for information while trying to appear merely curious. I remember being their age doing the exact same thing to adults who had no idea they were being interrogated by a 12 year old. Oh, you know, just taking care of family business, the shop mainly. Sometimes I come and get some takeout from here. Normal small town things, right?

Must be weird being back after so long, especially with everything that's happening around town.

Um, everything?

You know, the usual Avalon Falls drama. Omnia development, town politics.

Dead airs.

Right, the usual.

Just some free advice. Avalon Falls isn't the same town you left. There are currents running under the surface now, deep ones.

I'll keep that in mind.

Felantina, aren't you supposed to be restocking the pie case? Uh-huh.

Don't let these two bother you, Chica. They act innocent, but they're smarter than they look. Here you go, honey.

Triple stack for Amy, just like her majesty demands.

And your burger with half fries and half rings.

Just the way you like it.

Whoa, you remembered how I like my sides, too?

I never forget a good customer.

And tell Amy to be careful, would you?

Some folks around town have been asking about you, too.

Wait, what kinds of folks?

The kind that wear badges. And the kind that don't need to.

The walk back to loose ends is quicker than the walk to Lula's. Isn't that always the way? Food in hand, purpose in my steps, the thought of Lula's ridiculous onion rings making my stomach do tumble turns. The street lamps are coming on now, casting pools of light that I step through like stones across a river. I'm almost at Cedar Street when something catches my eye. A flash of color against the anodyne of an Omnia development billboard. Someone has painted across the glossy image of smiling people in a pristine planned community. Big dripping letters in a now familiar color, that distinctive teal I saw only an hour earlier, spelling out, sacred land, not suburbia. I pull out my phone and snap a picture. I don't need all the early high school art classes to know it's the same paint as Amy's trailer. It has to be connected.

Finally, I was about to start eating those old newspapers, dude.

Sorry it took so long, but I found something, like a clue. Look at this.

Holy shit, that's the same fucking color.

Right?

Huh. This makes things a bit complicated. Well, maybe.

Do you know who did this?

Not specifically, but that's a Nausicaa slogan. They've been fighting the Omnia development for months. Sacred land, not suburbia is their main rallying cry.

The Nausicaa, as in?

As in the indigenous people that were here before Avalon Falls was Avalon Falls? Yes.

Amy grabs her food and starts eating while simultaneously pulling out her laptop. It's a distinctly Amy move. Multitasking while racing ahead to the next thought. Her fingers fly over the keyboard between bites of pancake. So you think someone from the Nausicaa broke into your trailer?

I mean, not really, but it's definitely a lead we need to follow. The paint connects them, and the Nausicaa have been the biggest opponents to Omnia. And Omnia and the Holtz are all cozy, obviously.

And our murder victim happens to be Avalon Falls' own Dylan Holt.

Bingo. Plus, there's someone we can talk to who might know more. Eleanor Holt.

Dylan's sister, you think she'd talk to us?

We're kind of friendly.

Friendly? With a Holt?

Eleanor's different. She's not like the rest of her family. Plus, she's dating a woman named Lily Siya, who's a Nausicaa activist.

Wait, wait, wait. So Eleanor Holt is dating a Nausicaa activist?

That's complicated? Yeah, the Holt's aren't thrilled about it. Elle tends to have taste that flies in the face of her family, I guess.

There's something in Amy's tone that catches my attention. A familiarity when she says Eleanor's name, when she uses a nickname. Not just knowledge, but intimacy? I find myself suddenly curious about exactly how friendly they are. So, you and Eleanor, how do you know each other exactly?

Oh, you know, AF is a small town. We've run into each other hither and thither. Yeah.

Amy avoids eye contact, suddenly very interested in separating her waffles into perfect triangles. There's definitely more to this story. Hither and thither? Really?

Okay, fine. We may have dated briefly and very secretly, I don't know, like two years ago.

Wait, what? So, just so I'm following this, you, Amethyst O'Connell, dated Eleanor Holt? So, you dated a Holt? You dated a Holt?

Well, I mean, dated is a strong word. We hooked up a few times and then it wasn't serious, like, at all.

Hooked up. With a member of the family, you're convinced killed your father.

Eleanor was in high school when my dad died. She wasn't involved. She doesn't do any of the family business bullshit. Besides, it started as, well, you know, like an opportunity to gather intel or whatever.

You used her.

Come on, it wasn't like that. I mean, not entirely. It got complicated.

I'm surprised by the twinge of something I feel at this revelation. Not quite jealousy, but adjacent to it. Concern, maybe? Or just surprised that Amy would get that close to someone from a family she spent years investigating. Either way, I don't love it.

Look, the point is Eleanor might open up to us. She's definitely, definitely not close with her dad or grandfather or uncle. And as much as I don't get it, she cared about Dylan. Also, importantly, she's got connections to the Nisika through Lily.

And you think she'll help us?

She'll help. I texted her while you were out. She and Lily are meeting us at Shakey's in an hour.

You already set it up.

My original instinct was to reach out to her about Dylan. I'll take this added Nisika coincidence though. You know, I figured it was so crazy, it just might blurt, and look at that. It did.

It blurt.

Shakey's, one hour. Prepare yourself, Marguerite.

Part of me wants to be annoyed that Amy made this decision without consulting me, but I remind myself that this is classic Amy. Acting on instinct, pushing forward without hesitation. It's the same quality that made her such a good detective when we were kids, and the same quality that often got us into trouble.

Come on, we should head out.

Amy is already halfway to the door, energy radiating off her in waves. This is how it always was. Me, deliberating, cautious while Amy races ahead, chasing the next lead, the next clue. Different approaches, but somehow they always balanced each other out. At least, they used to. Oh!

Well, well, the Murder Girl's in the flesh.

Two sheriff's deputies are parked directly in front of loose ends. The older one leaning against his cruiser with a self-satisfied smirk. The younger one looks uncomfortable, avoiding eye contact.

Monroe, what a surprise.

Just keeping an eye on Avalon Falls' most famous amateur detectives. Lucas, these are the girls I was telling you about. Caused quite a stir back in the day.

Oh, my God. Dude, do you not hear how, I don't know, like, uninspired you sound? This isn't the fucking CW, right? I didn't wake up in the CW, did I, Mags? I mean, dated reference, but you get my point, right?

Sheriff's got his eye on you. And come on, you're obviously up to something, right?

I mean, yeah, obviously, you know. It's not like we're hiding it, man.

Oh, Amy?

I know you're type, O'Connell. Think you're above the law. Think the rules don't apply to you. Everyone's getting off on technicalities these days. Can't even do our damn jobs anymore.

So is there something specific you want, Deputy? Were you looking to do a Q&A with detectives that have actually solved a crime before or?

Oh, oh boy.

Just a friendly warning. Stay out of police business. Or next time, I won't be so nice.

We should go, Monroe. Monroe, that call just came in.

Just remember what I said. Sheriff's watching you. We all are.

That was intense.

Monroe is a dick, has been since high school.

It seems personal.

Probably still mad that we solved cases the police couldn't when we were 12, and are about to do it again. Come on, let's go.

Maybe we should be more careful. Lie low for a bit?

And let whoever killed Dylan get away with it? Let whoever trashed my trailer intimidate us? No way.

As we climb into Amy's car, heading to meet Eleanor and Lily, I can't shake the feeling that we're walking into something bigger than we realize. Monroe's warning, the message in Amy's trailer, the graffiti on the billboard. They all echo the same sentiment. Leave it alone. And yet here we are doing exactly the opposite.

You're overthinking again. I can practically hear the gears turning.

Someone's sending us a message, Amy. A pretty clear one.

And I'm sending one back. Not a chance in hell.

The old Amy I knew would have said the exact same thing. Maybe that's what scares me the most. That some things never change, including Amy's willingness to run headlong into danger. Especially when I'm right beside her, unable to stop myself from following.

Shakey's Coffee and Donuts sits on Harbor Street like a transplanted piece of Portland or Seattle, except from, you know, like a decade ago. All exposed brick, Edison bulbs, and the kind of carefully curated vintage furniture that costs more than most people's rent. It's where Avalon Falls pretends it's cosmopolitan, where kids from as far as Cedarbrook come to feel like 25-year-olds playing teens on a streaming show, and where locals go when they want coffee that doesn't taste like it's been sitting on a burner since MTV was relevant. Mags and I are huddled outside in the October chill, doing our final prep before heading in. The streetlights cast everything in that amber glow that makes even mundane conversations feel cinematic. There's even some of that trademark Avalon Falls mist rolling in to make things misty, I guess.

So just to be clear, we're meeting your ex-girlfriend who happens to be the sister of the murder victim, along with her current girlfriend who may or may not be connected to the vandalism at your trailer. Do I have that right?

Amazing, right?

Amy.

Relax, Mags. Elle's cool. And even if she wasn't, what's she gonna do? Poison our lattes?

Yes, yeah.

Hey, we've got this, okay? Together.

Ugh, fine.

The interior of Shakey's hits all the indie coffee shop notes without crossing into parody. Local art on the walls, the aforementioned vintage chairs, a chalkboard menu written in impossibly neat handwriting. The barista has the requisite sleeve tattoos and perfectly groomed beard. A few Cedarbrook students are scattered around with their Macbooks. And an older couple shares a piece of apple pie in the corner. And if you look closely, there's even a copy of the Osprey Island mystery signed by Minerva herself, nestled on a shelf along with a not-too-carefully curated collection of other weathered ironically chosen reading material.

There, there she is.

Eleanor Holt sits in a corner booth, baseball cap pulled low, oversized sweater swallowing her frame. She's trying to blend in, but there's something about Holt's, even outlier Holt's, that makes them stand out. Maybe it's the way they carry themselves, or maybe it's just that everyone in Avalon Falls has been trained to spot them from birth. Eleanor and I have history, complicated history. Two years ago, what started as me cynically and opportunistically targeting a soft member of the Holt clan for information turned into something messier, something that felt real even when I didn't want it to. She's beautiful in that effortless way that money can't buy but privilege can cultivate. All sharp cheekbones, perfect skin and expressive eyes, the kind of person who makes you feel simultaneously attracted and inadequate. To her credit, she only sometimes takes advantage of that effect.

Amy. Hi.

Elle, thanks for meeting us. This is Mags.

Eleanor, I'm so sorry for your loss.

Thank you. That's...

it's surreal, you know? Dylan was just... just yesterday morning, he was alive and complaining about dad making him wear a tie to some boring meeting.

Elle, I'm so sorry. I know you two were close. Even if he was, you know, like a holt.

He wasn't like the rest of the family, Amy. Dylan was different.

Different? How? He was still being groomed to take over the family empire, wasn't he? Still benefiting from all the damage your family has done to this town.

He was the only one in the family who got it. You know, everyone else is so caught up in legacy and power and I can't believe he's gone.

I've never been good at comforting people. My instinct is usually to make a joke or change the subject. But watching Eleanor fall apart, I find myself torn between my ingrained hatred of everything holt and genuine sympathy for someone who's lost their brother. For someone on some strange and unspoken level, I care about. Mags offers her a napkin. We sit in uncomfortable silence while Eleanor tries to compose herself.

Sorry, it's just nobody understands how complicated Dylan was. Everyone thinks they know him. The golden boy heir, the party kid, the disappointment. But he was all of those things, and none of them.

Complicated? How? Because from where I sit, he looked like every other privileged rich kid who gets to play at Rebellion while knowing daddy's money will always be his little safety net.

That's not fair, Amy. You didn't know him.

I knew enough. I knew he was being trained to help destroy what's left of this town to make way for condos and big tech campuses.

Dylan had this whole other life that dad and grandpa Victor didn't know about. Or didn't want to know about.

Wait, what do you mean?

He was meeting with environmental groups, studying the impact of the different development projects, trying to find a solution that worked for everyone. That's how he met Nora. She's an activist and environmental professor at Pacific Northwestern. And through her, he met Daniel Siaya.

From the Nisika Nation?

Dylan was trying to find some way to make the development work that wouldn't destroy everything the Nisika consider sacred.

Right, because that's what the Hults do. They find ways to make their exploitation sound noble.

You know what? Fuck you, Amy.

My brother is dead.

Whatever you think about my family, he didn't deserve to die.

Ugh, okay, okay. Uh, you're right. I'm sorry. No one deserves that. A young woman enters, scanning the room until her eyes land on our table. She's strikingly beautiful. Dark hair, confident posture, wearing a water is life t-shirt under an open flannel. This has to be Lily.

Sorry I'm late.

Amy, Mags, this is Lily. Lily, this is-

The famous Murder Girls. Yeah, I've heard all the stories.

All bad, I'm sure.

Some of them, yes.

Oh, uh, heh.

How are you holding up?

Better, now that you're here.

We're trying to understand what happened to Dylan.

And you think we can help? And then what? You're going to help? Two women who got lucky and solved one case when they were 12?

I mean, luck didn't have anything to do with it, but okay, sure.

We worked really hard and exposed a major drug operation. Yes, yeah.

My dog got a medal from the mayor, okay, so? Yeah.

Right, right.

Cool.

This isn't some fucking Netflix show.

A man is dead. Oh, uh, whoa.

Netflix? Come on.

We know how serious this is. We just want to find the truth.

They're trying to help, Lil. Amy may be complicated, but she cares about justice.

You mentioned Dylan was involved with environmental groups. Do you think that might be connected to his murder?

I don't know. Dylan was, he was playing both sides, I think.

Sometimes he'd go along with what dad and Grandpa Victor wanted. Then he'd turn around and do the opposite.

It was causing problems. Based on how your dad and uncle had been acting, Dylan was on thin ice.

What do you mean?

And dad's been different.

Angry.

Uncle Thomas too. And grandpa, he's been really hands on lately. I haven't seen this much of him in a long time.

Real or imagined, Victor Holt doesn't tolerate betrayal, even from family.

Especially when there's this much money involved.

I honestly don't know. My family has done terrible things. But Dylan was blood.

We found something today that might be connected. Maybe?

Yes. Yeah. Someone used the same paint to vandalize Amy's trailer and to tag an Omnia billboard.

Take a look at these photos.

Teal paint. Yeah. That was my dad.

Your father?

Yeah. Daniel tagged the Omnia sign a couple of days ago, as part of our protest campaign. Deputy Monroe arrested him for it, made this big show of it, called the press and everything. Really?

I didn't hear about that.

Yeah. Probably because Monroe screwed up the chain of evidence. My dad's lawyer got the charges thrown out.

Monroe was furious. It didn't help that Omnia caught some bad press thanks to him being a dumb dumb. Somehow he still has a job though.

I'm sure they're super pissed considering the tag is still up there.

So whoever broke into Amy's trailer had access to the same paint Daniel used.

I mean, Monroe would have had access to that paint. It would have been evidence.

You think a deputy sheriff broke into your trailer?

I think someone wanted to send a message, and they used Monroe's screw up to muddy the waters, whether that's Monroe or, you know, someone else. I don't know.

What about Nora, Dylan's girlfriend? What can you tell us about her?

She's an environmental science professor at Pacific Northwestern. Really brilliant. She and Dylan met when he was taking some classes there.

She introduced Dylan to my father.

Uh, you think she could be involved in his death?

No way. Nora loved Dylan, like, really loved him.

Um, is this her? I may have stalked her Facebook. Sorry.

That's her. The police were supposed to interview her today, but I heard she got a lawyer instead.

Why would she need a lawyer if she's innocent?

She's definitely smart enough to know how things work in this town. Yeah, fair enough.

Shit, I have to go. That's my dad. He wants me home for some family meeting about funeral arrangements. Hey, um, thank you for caring about Dylan.

I didn't. Of course, Elle.

No problem.

I'm sorry.

Be careful, you two. If you're right about any of this, the people involved don't care about collateral damage.

You know, you were kind of hard on Eleanor.

She's still a holt, Mags. I can feel sorry for her loss without forgetting what her family has done to this town.

But maybe Dylan was different. Maybe he really was trying to change things from the inside.

And look where it got him. Dead on a pier at 23.

Let's go.

Outside the night air feels knife sharp after the soft warmth and glow of Shakey's. Harbor Street is quieter. Most of the shops are closed now, only the restaurants and bars still showing signs of life.

So Dylan was caught between his family's business interests and his environmental conscience.

Yep, and maybe someone killed him for it. Question is, which side?

Whoa, look.

She's pointing across the street to the Holt building, a six story brick and stone monument to early 20th century ambition. It's not a skyscraper by big city standards, but in Avalon Falls, it looms over everything else. A constant reminder of who really runs this town. Even at this hour, lights are on in the upper floors. That's Richard's Beamer. What the fuck's he doing there so late? You'd think he'd be home with family.

And he told Eleanor to go home. Weird. Maybe he has business that can't wait?

Want to take a closer look?

Amy.

Come on, Mags. You're not feeling a doorway dash right now? You know, just for a few minutes. See who's a-coming and a-going, yeah? I pull Mags into the shadows of a recessed doorway across from the building.

You know, this is exactly what Deputy Monroe took time out of his obviously busy schedule to warn us about.

Well, good thing he's not here then.

Yes, yeah. Not enough room in this doorway. Plus, you know, gross.

Dude looks like he wears sock garters or some shit. There's something electric about being this close, about sharing this moment of conspiracy and investigation. It feels like old times, but with a, you know, undercurrent that definitely wasn't there when we were 12. You want to make this more interesting, Marguerite?

Uh, wait, what do you mean? Oh, you want to get high while conducting surveillance? You want to get high while conducting surveillance?

I want to calm my nerves while conducting surveillance. There's a difference.

Right. Give me that.

We pass the joint back and forth in comfortable silence, watching the Holt building or signs of activity. The weed takes the edge off the cold and makes the whole situation feel less dire, more like an adventure.

Okay, this is actually nice.

I told you.

Wait, whoa, whoa, look, look.

The building's front door opens and a woman emerges. Even from across the street, I can see she's upset. Her movements are quick, agitated. She looks around nervously before hurrying toward a car parked nearby.

Is that?

Holy shit, dude. That's Nora Chen.

Dylan's girlfriend. Yes. Yeah. Yeah.

But what's she doing at the Holt building? I thought she was all lawyered up and not talking to anyone.

I mean, Richard Holt's car is there. It's not a huge stretch to assume she met with him, no?

She looks scared. Nora climbs into a silver Honda and sits there for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, clearly trying to compose herself. Then she starts the engine and pulls away from the curb. We're tailing her. Let's book.

Oh, oh, well, Amy, we can't just...

Come on, she's getting away.

This is a terrible idea.

All our best ideas are terrible ideas.

Although you know what? I'm stoned now. So I think, no, no, still a terrible idea.

I pull out behind Nora's Honda, staying far enough back to avoid detection, but close enough to keep her in sight. She's heading away from downtown toward the highway that leads to Cedarbrook and beyond.

Where is she going? Cedarbrook, probably. That's where she lives, right? In Cedarbrook? Or does she just teach there? That's where Pacific Northwestern is, isn't it? Or like one of the campuses anyway? Or, sorry, I am talking a lot of nonsense right now. Yes, yeah, nothing but nonsense.

Not sure where she's going, but whatever just happened in that building, she's running from it.

You think Richard threatened her? Oh, of course he threatened her, Mags. Come on now, what were you thinking, girl? Just what were you thinking?

The question is how far he's willing to go to protect his family's interests.

Yeah, yeah. You know, like, and is wherever Nora is going far enough to get away from, you know, like how far Richard would go to protect them, like, you know, family stuff. You mentioned you get me right. Let's let's keep following her. See where she goes.

As we follow Nora's taillights into the night, I can't shake the feeling that we're about to discover something that will change everything. The pieces of this puzzle are starting to come together, but the picture they're forming is darker than I expected. Dylan's death wasn't random, and it wasn't simple. It was the result of forces that have been building in Avalon Falls for years, maybe decades. The road ahead stretches into darkness, and I realized that we're not just following Nora Chen anymore. We're following the truth wherever it leads, even if it takes us into danger, even if it means we can never go back to the safety of blissful obliviousness.

Tailing someone while you're high is surreal, even more so at night. Every decision feels both brilliant and deeply stupid. Every shadow looks suspicious. Tail lights and street lights and tracers bleed into a rhythmic hallucination. And just trying to stay three car lengths behind Nora's Honda takes the kind of laser focus normally reserved for, like, heart surgery. Amy's driving with the exaggerated caution of someone who's very aware they probably shouldn't be driving, which is wild because I know she does this all the time.

Okay, she's taking the highway toward Cedar Brook. This is either going to be really interesting or, you know, aggressively boring.

Everything's interesting when you're this stoned. One time, I listened to someone rank all the types of salt. And oh boy, there are a lot of different ones, my friend. Yeah, yes, I lived it.

Ha ha, yes, even following someone at 45 feels like a high-speed chase if you're baked enough. Oh, now this feels like a high-speed chase. Oh man, oh man, keep it together, Amy.

The weed has turned everything loose and philosophical. It's the kind of high where every observation feels cosmic and every joke feels like it deserves a Netflix special. Also, it's making me brave enough to say stuff I normally keep in the vault. So Eleanor, or should I say Elle?

What about her?

Nothing, just you two have a vibe, like enemies to lovers to awkward coffee shop encounters.

Ugh, here we go.

She's pretty, yeah, and that talks about mindfulness before doing a czar haul kind of way.

Oh my god, Mags, can we please focus on the murder and not my tragic dating life or whatever?

Why? This is way juicier. Plus Nora's driving like she's on autopilot surveillance level. Snoozers, bro.

Fine. Yes, Eleanor is attractive. Yes, we had a thing. No, it didn't work out. Alexa, play somebody that I used to know.

There's something in Amy's voice, tight, controlled, like she's pulling a thread she doesn't want to unravel. Her grip on the wheel's gone white knuckle, eyes locked on the road like it might judge her. So what happened? I mean, if you want to talk.

I targeted her, Mags, like actually targeted her. Saw her drinking alone at the Otter and made a conscious decision to approach with the intent to use her. She was an asset. She was intel.

And?

And then it stopped being a game. She wasn't like the rest of them. She cared, like actually cared about people, about me.

But she's still a holt.

Every time we got close, I saw my dad, saw what her family did every day to this town. And she kept trying to fix me. What?

How?

You know, suggesting therapy, asking if I was still taking my meds, gently nudging me toward emotional stability, that kind of barf.

God forbid someone want you functional.

Right? What's next? Eating vegetables, sleeping eight hours, voting in municipal elections. Where does it stop?

The horror.

Exactly. I've worked hard for, you know, like all of this or whatever.

And oh my God, of course, that's how you know Dylan's mom's birthday, Eleanor.

There's those sleuthing skills.

This is nice. The easy banter, the shared laughter, like muscle memory. It feels like we're clicking back into something we used to know by heart. Just older now, wiser, maybe a little more fragile. What happened?

She wanted to save me. And I didn't want to be saved. Definitely not by a hult anyway. Plus, I wasn't exactly relationship material.

And now?

Now, hmm. I don't know, you know. Still figuring it out.

Amy looks at me when she says it. Just long enough to make me wonder if the questions shifted. And suddenly, I need to look out the window. Pretend I'm thinking about the road, not the way her voice sounded right then.

Look, Nora's turning off the highway.

We follow her down a narrow road lined with storage units, auto shops, and the kind of businesses that only exist in the weird liminal space between towns. Everything looks slightly run down, like it's been exiled by two municipalities that both agreed to pretend it doesn't exist.

She's pulling into that storage place.

Secure store, secure self-storage. Wow. Catchy. Logical. Love the branding.

And they have a mascot.

Is that a fiberglass grizzly bear?

With cargo shorts and a walkie talkie.

And, like, Oakley sunglasses?

He looks like he posts long rants about municipal overreach and is probably, like, not-so-secretly racist against otters or some shit.

Oh, he 100% calls them river rats. Also, do not bring up the rabies vaccine.

Sign says he's Barry Lockjaw.

The Libertarian Enforcer of Poorly Lit Storage Lots.

Whatever. Fucking narc bear.

Anyway, shall we get to illegally stalking Nora then?

Right, right. Let's see what she's up to.

We slip behind a parked truck with a decent sight line. The storage facility is just rows of long, low buildings with roll up metal doors every 10 feet or so. The security lights are harsh, casting weird, crooked shadows. Plenty of places for someone to disappear into if they don't want to be seen. Shit, Amy. Look at all those cameras.

Wait, whoa, whoa. Some of those aren't even plugged in. Look, no wires.

Fake cameras?

Cheaper than real ones while probably still being effective. Honestly, kind of genius.

Okay, but we noticed they're fake, right?

True.

Like, immediately.

Sure. Sure.

And we're stoned.

I got it.

Also, it's dark. Okay, Mags. Oh, hey, she's getting something out of the trunk. Nora yanks out a big duffel bag, the kind you pack for a week-long trip or a very suspicious gym session. She moves like she knows exactly where she's going, heads for a smaller unit halfway down the row, punches in a code on the keypad, and disappears inside like she's done this before.

Seems super sketchy. Any guess what's in the bag?

Maybe she's hiding something from the murder or dumping it. We wait. Five minutes feels like 50. The high makes time stretch and sag, elastic and weird like everything's happening underwater. Finally, Amy twitches like she can't sit still another second.

I'm getting closer. I want to see if I can grab her license plate number or something.

It's GTR 429.

Dude, how did you...?

Dude, we were following her for like 30 minutes. How did you not memorize it? You're still going, aren't you?

I mean, obviously, Mags. Obviously. Come on.

Against my better judgment, which is basically shouting nope in all caps, I follow her. We're 20 feet from Nora's car when the storage unit door starts to roll up.

Shit! Shit! Get down!

Where?

The bear!

The bear! Seriously? Oh, okay. So now we're crouched behind a 7-foot fiberglass grizzly bear in sculpted cargo shorts, frozen mid-salute. Okay, this is officially the dumbest stakeout in the history of dumb stakeouts. And we once faked being exchange students from Luxembourg to sneak into a Kiwanis Club meeting.

Huh. You know, Mr. Gopnik still writes me asking how my family's Bamkuch Bakery is doing.

No way. How is Saul? Is his wife, I want to say Sadie, is she still working at the Ford plant?

Oh, yeah. Actually, she's like the floor manager now or... Wait, wait, wait. Focus. We're hiding, dude. Come on.

Nora emerges. No more giant duffel, just a small backpack slung casual over one shoulder, something she grabbed from inside.

Hello? Is someone there?

Amy and I freeze, pressed against the fiberglass ass of an anthropomorphic bear in wraparound shades, barely breathing. Okay, that was an unintentional pun. Don't laugh. My heart's pounding so loud, I swear Nora can hear it from 30 feet away. Oh my god. Oh my god. She's leaving. She's leaving.

Jesus, that was close. And every time something like this happens, I'm like, Amy, you are never doing that again. That was stressful. That was illegal. And you end up laying in garbage. And then, you know, here I am. Like, again, just full fucking raccoon.

What do you think she took?

I mean, it's locked. So anybody's guess right now.

The storage unit's got a standard roll up door with a keypad. Looks totally normal. Just another 10 by 10 box in a sea of anonymous 10 by 10 boxes. The office is closed too. No way to check who rented it. At least not now.

Wait, Mags, look, the salute.

Tucked under Barry Lockjaw's fiberglass paw, right where his salute hits Max patriotism, is a camera. Tiny, sleek, practically invisible unless you're crouched under his molded armpit at night, squinting up from the most cursed vantage point imaginable.

That's not one of the fake ones. No bulky housing, no obvious wires. It's clean, pro grade.

Whoa, weird. Why? Oh my God, no way. Could it? Wait.

Didi.

Holy shit.

Didi was watching this place.

Yeah. I mean, we followed Nora here and we find out Didi's Skynet was watching this place, so.

Well, she definitely had a reason. We need to find the feed and archives on this place.

Didi's surveillance network was even deeper than we thought. She wasn't just keeping tabs on the town, she was watching this. But why? What did she think was hidden here? And how does Nora fit into whatever map Didi was building? So what's our next move?

Back to loose ends. We checked Didi's footage from this place and see, you know, whatever in the molder and scully could possibly be going on here. Fuck.

The high's wearing off, replaced by a sharper edge, like the fog's clearing, and what's underneath is worse. Every answer we find just splinters into more questions. And I'm starting to get it. Why Amy's never stopped? Why she can't?

You know what's funny? Everyone keeps telling us to drop it.

The graffiti in your trailer. Monroe's cryptic warning, Thomas Holt playing family heavy.

Yeah, but no one's actually dropping anything, are they? Nora's hiding something. The Nisika won't back down over the land deal.

There's something new in her voice. Not just bitterness, guilt. Like she's been dragging this weight for a long time.

Sometimes I wonder if I should have let it go after my dad, if I just accepted it was an accident, maybe.

Maybe what?

Maybe things would be different. Maybe people wouldn't have gotten hurt.

Her knuckles go white on the wheel. Whole body locked up. Whatever she's not saying, it's big. And I don't think I'm the first person she's hidden it from. You can't blame yourself for wanting answers, Amy. That's who you are.

Yeah, sometimes I think that's the problem. So, archives first, big fun night of junk food and illegal surveillance. You ready, Chica?

Archives first. Then we make a plan. Although I'm sure it's going to spiral into something else, or someone's going to show up, or maybe something weird that hasn't even hit our radar will throw a wrench into it. It's all super unpredictable right now. But yeah, archives, let's go.

I've got a good feeling about tonight.

Yeah, I feel it too. We're walking toward loose ends, arguing about whether to start with digital files or paper ones when headlights hit us. A sheriff's department SUV pulls to the curb. My stomach knots instantly.

Amy O'Connell?

Sheriff Carter, I told you that idea for a doughnut cannon was just a theory.

I need you to come with me. We've got more questions about your whereabouts over the last few days.

We've done this. I was with Mags when Dylan was killed.

I'm hoping you'll cooperate. I'd prefer to keep this civil.

She has a right to a lawyer.

She's not under arrest.

Just an interview.

No, wait, Amy.

It's fine. Just a misunderstanding. I'll be back in a few hours.

But I can see it in her eyes. She doesn't believe that, and neither do I. I stand there for a moment, key to loose ends in my hand, watching the taillights disappear. Amy's gone. Dragged in for questioning about the murder we're trying to solve. It would be funny if it didn't feel like the walls were closing in. I hear a hum, white noise, building in intensity. At first, I think it's the wind, or maybe some weird old car, but it's not. It's coming from above. What the hell? Four, no, five drones descend out of the dark, LED lights blinking like robotic fireflies. They hover, circling me, cameras aimed straight at my face.

We know what you're doing.

What? Who are you?

We know what happened.

My hands are shaking as I fumble with the key. The drones shift with me, their lights throwing jittery shadows across the sidewalk. My chest's tight, my mind's racing, I've lost Amy, and now this? This town used to feel like a map I knew by heart. Every shortcut, every streetlight, every lie tucked between porch steps. Now? Now it's like the whole place is glitching, and I'm worried I'm getting swept up in the cascade.

Stay where you are.

What the fuck is happening in this town?