Magnet Sisters

Murder Girls is created, written and produced by Eternal Teenager. Content Warning. This episode contains depictions of panic attacks and anxiety, police interrogation and intimidation, mental health struggles, discussion of seizure disorders, medication and hallucinations, breaking and entering, blood and implied violence, references to marijuana use, and past drug exposure, grief and loss, ongoing themes of family death, surveillance and stalking, medical themes, mentions of past trauma and PTSD, and strong language. Listener discretion is advised.

Previously on Murder Girls.

Should probably introduce myself, Amy O'Connell, professional town disappointment.

Sheriff's got his eye on you.

You're obviously up to something, right?

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

Oh, uh, Amy?

You know, O'Connell, the sheriff has some questions about your whereabouts last night.

Thomas Holt, Dylan's uncle, the intimidating one, the dangerous one.

I'd be careful if I were you, both of you.

And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?

It means history has a way of repeating itself in Avalon Falls.

There's no mistaking Amber Holt, Dylan's stepmother. Who is that guy?

Jake Mitchell, bartender at the Sloppy Otter, minor league drug dealer.

So Amber Holt is having an affair with a bartender?

Not just any bartender, a bartender with a criminal record.

If there is absolutely anything you need while you are in town, please do not hesitate to give me a call.

Uh, yes. Yeah, thank you.

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

And you're Miles.

Hey, I'm Valentina. Call me Val.

Or call her Lula's daughter. So what brings you back to town? Just the shop or...?

These kids are good. Too good. They're fishing for information while trying to appear merely curious.

Let me just check with my neighbor, BTdubs. He is fucking weird, dude. Like, Dark Web Conspiracy believes in the back rooms.

Amy O'Connell?

Sheriff Carter.

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

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.

I hear a hum. It's coming from above. Five drones descend out of the dark. They hover, circling me. We know what you're doing. What the fuck is happening in this town? Murder Girls, Episode 5, Magnet Sisters. Panic attacks are funny things. Not funny ha ha, obviously, but funny in that medical textbook way where your body decides to betray you at the exact moment you need it most. Heart racing, chest tight, vision tunneling. My hands are shaking so badly, I can barely get the key in the door, and these fucking drones are just hovering there, watching me fall apart in real time. Years of medical school, and I still can't talk myself out of a panic attack. All that knowledge about sympathetic nervous system responses and fight or flight mechanisms, and here I am, hyperventilating on a sidewalk while robot fireflies judge me.

Shit, this isn't, this isn't what we wanted to.

Oh no, oh no, no, no. Walter, she's having a panic attack.

Maybe turn off the frigging voice modulator guy.

Uh, okay, okay. There, there you go.

Ma'am, Ms. Park, we are so, so sorry. We, uh, yeah, we thought you'd think all this tech was, uh, you know, like, um, cool.

What? Who are you? Is that, is that fucking Miles? The, the fucking e-rickshaw kid?

Yes, uh, it's me. This is, uh, well, mistakes were made, and, uh, this is, this is not at all how we planned this.

Miss, uh, Miss Park? This is, this is Valentina Reyes. Uh, Val from Lula's? Like, her, uh, her daughter? Hi. We've just been, you know, like, uh, following your investigation.

Miss Park? Walter Jenkins here. Hi. We met earlier at the trailer park. I was the one in the respirator mask and lab coat. No need to worry. I am a responsible adult and I am here to make sure these children stay safe in the back of my van.

Oh my god. Fuck. Okay, okay. Hold on. Now that I know I'm not going to be, you know, fucking murdered on the fucking street in some kind of cyberpunk fever dream, I need a second for something very important. I fumble for my phone, muscle memory kicking in, important text, complete. Basic triage. Deal with the immediate crisis first, process the weird shit later.

Uh, Mags, uh, hi, we put the drones away.

Yes. Sorry about that. Again.

Right. Okay. So you said you're following our what, what investigation? There is no investigation.

It's about Dylan. I'm, I'm Piper. Uh, pipes, by the way.

Pipes?

Yes. Pipes.

Right. So this is about Dylan. Okay. And?

Look, we know this is weird, but we found something, something about Dylan that you need to know.

What kind of something?

Can we show you in the van? It's warmer and we have printouts.

Five minutes. And if this is some kind of prank or viral video thing, I will tase each and every one of you. Yes. Yeah.

Oh, uh, okay.

I took a class, okay? Got the ol McTaze and a sweet sidearm right here, gang.

Whoa. What?

It's super illegal. And it's from Russia. Yeah, like the bad part.

Oh, wow.

You like that, huh? You like little Valentina here? Yeah, yeah. I don't care if you're underaged or if you're old enough to have a heart attack. Hey. And you will definitely all pee your pants. So bear that in mind. Okay, so where are we going?

Yay.

Follow us.

And don't worry, there are snacks. Panic attacks require blood sugar management.

Walter, what the fuck? Come on, man.

You're gonna get tased, bro.

The panic is starting to ebb, replaced by that familiar mix of irritation and curiosity that usually gets me into trouble. These kids, because that's what they are. Kids. Well. Except for the 40-something sauce-making conspiracy theorist with an admittedly sick mustache. Somehow no things they shouldn't know. And they're looking at me with the kind of wide-eyed hero-worship that makes me deeply uncomfortable. The van is exactly what you'd expect from jankies. Maps of Avalon Falls taped to the walls, marked with different colored pins. Laptop computers balanced on milk crates. The lingering smell of too many bodies and what might be homemade hot sauce. It's like a mobile command center designed by someone who's watched too many spy movies.

Okay, so first things first, we are like huge fans. Massive. The Osprey Island case changed our lives.

Speak for yourself. I was four when that happened.

I was six. Hey, we talked about this. We can't let our bickering ruin this.

Okay, okay, you're right, you're right. Sorry, I'm just like so hyped right now.

Right, I know. How do you even prepare for this?

There's a subreddit about you and Amy. It's pretty active. It's where we all met.

A subreddit?

r slash murdergirlsaf.

The af is for Avalon Falls, not for, well, you know, uh, go on, Miles, please continue.

Theories, case analysis, photos. Don't confuse it with the other subreddit, though.

The Minervomatics one is trash. Just don't go there.

Piper, who introduced herself as just Pipes, goes rigid when the book comes up. There's something there, but I'm too overwhelmed to dig into it right now.

TrailMix? It's my own blend. And before you ask, yes, those are wasabi peas and you're welcome.

Thanks. So what did you find?

Okay, so you know how Avalon Falls does that thing where it loves looking modern while quietly rotting from the inside?

The Wellness Initiative. It's a reboot of the town's old pre-wide 2K health database, Health AF, which, yeah.

They sprammed it up for Omnia to make everything look clean and efficient, and you know, as future forward as possible.

The Holtz and the other originals are listed as community stakeholders. On the surface, it appears as a more honorary title, but when you look behind the scenes and into the code, they have deeper access.

So, what, Dylan saw something in the system?

That's the thing. He didn't use the database directly. He requested physical records from them. Old ones, super specific, a dozen or so files.

But the logs show the files never made it to him. They got redirected.

To a weird little PO box address at the business park, tied to something called Avalon Research Associates.

Not a real company, we checked.

My brain starts firing. Physical only files, redirected to a front. Too old to be relevant, too obscure to be casual. This wasn't Dylan nosing around. This was Dylan following something. What kind of records were they?

Unclear. The town's old filing systems are all over the place. So really, all you could tell was that the files were for people born about one to two years apart.

But that doesn't really tell us much if we don't know what he was looking for. Yes. Yeah.

There's something weird about the filing codes on the ones he pulled. Even with the just like fucking feral system they used back in the ancient times, these had subcodes that the majority don't seem to have. It felt... off.

So you don't know what Dylan was looking for. Nope.

Just that whatever it was, someone else wanted it hidden.

All of this. Dylan's request, the rerouting, it all happened within 48 hours of his murder.

It's a common theme in this town. But that's all it is. A breadcrumb. A paper trail to nowhere. Until we find where it bends. But Dylan thought it meant something. Which means... it probably does. Honestly, these kids have done real investigative work. Messy, enthusiastic, probably illegal work, but real nonetheless. And they've uncovered something that might actually matter. Something that explains why Dylan was at those docks. Why he had that satchel. Why someone wanted him dead.

So, do you think this helps with the investigation?

There is no investigation. This is police business, and you need to stay out of it.

Right. Because the AFPD is known for their thorough investigative work.

We are not going to stop looking into this.

The truth wants to be found.

And there it is. That spark in their eyes. The same one I used to see in the mirror when Amy and I were their age, convinced we could solve anything if we just dug deep enough. The same spark that got us into more trouble than any 12 year old should have faced. This isn't a game. Someone killed Dylan Holt. People are watching us, following us. You could get hurt.

So could you. So could Amy. At least together we have a better chance.

We're already in this. Some of us longer than others.

Do your parents know what you're doing?

My mom thinks I'm studying at Val's house.

My mom thinks I'm helping Miles with his economics project.

Oh, no, no, no. I haven't told my mom about any of this. No, no, no, no, no. Oh, boy.

No.

I'm handling my situation.

I need to go. You've all done enough. Go home.

We'll be in touch.

Right.

The recipe for the trail mix is on my blog.

Hey, you know, I will actually check that out. As I head back to loose ends, I can still hear them in the van, voices overlapping, already plotting their next move despite my warnings. Part of me wants to confiscate their laptops, but another part gets it. In a town where everyone looks away, those kids and jenki's actually care. My phone stays quiet. No word from Amy, and the not knowing is worse than anything they could tell me. Panic at least feels real. This floating anxiety, it's just exhausting. The shop is too quiet without her. Her duffel sits on the futon like a promise she'll come back, but promises break. People disappear. I learned that when my family left this place, and Amy, behind. I make coffee I don't want and try to focus on what Miles and Val and pipes told me. But all I see is Amy. Amy, sitting in that police station, spinning some story while Carter tries to pin a murder on her. Amy, who's never backed down from a fight, even when it might destroy her. I need to see her. Soon. Whatever th is is. The Murder. The Shop. We're stronger together. We always have been. Some connections are worth the risk. Some truths are worth the danger. And some friends are worth following into the dark.

The Avalon Falls PD interview room is just as bleak as you'd expect. Beige walls, a dented metal table that looks like it's been through a bar fight, and a water stain on the ceiling that might be Slenderman if you're high enough, or the Virgin Mary if you're desperate enough. No two-way mirror like on TV, just a sad little camera blinking red in the corner, judging me. The whole place smells like burnt coffee and bad aftershave. I've been stuck here for 20 minutes. My leg won't stop bouncing. Being watched like this makes me feel like I'm on an autopsy table. Breathing, cataloged, twitching. I hate it. I hate being observed. It reminds me too much of...

Hospital rooms after the accident.

Jesus, dad. Now? Really? I'm literally under surveillance.

And you're still talking to ghosts. That camera catching this too?

You know you're not real. You could at least be supportive.

I was.

I am.

But you always knew it would end here. All the digging, the sleepless nights, chasing shadows through dead ends. You knew.

This is different. It's about Dylan.

Or is this just your obsession in a new disguise?

He's different today. Not the soft, protective dad I usually hallucinate. This one's steelier, like the man who used to read my diary and tell me I was full of shit. But gently. I'm not obsessed. I'm investigating.

You're trying to feel powerful again.

Admit it.

Every time something slips out of your control, you go hunting ghosts. First mine, now Dylan's.

That's not fair.

You know what's really not fair? That video. The one of Mags getting attacked. The one you've been sitting on. Don't. She can't find out like that. Not from someone else. If she does, it won't just wreck your investigation. It'll wreck you and her. What you still have. All of it.

She doesn't need to...

Ames. Secrets don't just destroy people. They corrode them quietly until all you've got left is rust.

And just like that, he's gone. Leaving me blinking back tears I don't have time for. I breathe through the pressure building behind my ribs. No cracks. Not here. Not on camera.

Amy, sorry to keep you. You want some water?

Coffee?

I think we've got those energy drinks you kids like.

I'm fine. Carter doesn't seem to be playing the hard ass. No chest puffing, no cop voice, just gray hair, tired eyes, this whole dad who happens to wear a badge aura, which somehow makes him more dangerous.

This isn't an interrogation, just a conversation. You've got a sharp eye, just like your dad. Always notice things others missed.

Carter bringing up dad hits weird after, well, dad. But it's how Carter says it. Like he knew him, like they were familiar beyond just living in the same town.

You know, your dad, he was always good at this sort of thing. Seeing the little details, kind of uncanny actually.

That why you called me in? To compare me to my father?

Just making conversation, Amy.

Yeah, well, it's a weird conversation.

Look, I'm just saying, we both know you see things, you always have. This town, most people walk through it half asleep, not you, you notice things.

Yeah, well, give me your exact birthdate and a pack of tarot cards and I will totally blow your mind.

Joking aside, it's a gift, you notice what others don't.

Well, somebody has to.

Exactly, somebody has to. You've always had that about you, Amy, even back then. Couldn't help yourself, could you?

I mean, depends who you ask, right?

Guess it depends if you're on the side of the truth or hiding from it. Look, I'm not here to make trouble for you. I hope you understand that. But if anyone can help me make sense of what Dylan was into, it's you.

I mean, someone has to figure it out, right?

I agree. So, let's figure it out. We know Dylan was down at the docks about 1145. What I can't figure is why there. Didn't strike me as his kind of hangout, kind of random, isn't it?

Ah, there it is, the opening. And I can't help myself. No, not random, not even close.

No? You think he just liked the ambiance?

Sure. Because nothing says family heir like rusty chains and seagull crap. Nah, come on, guy. He was there for a reason.

Like what? You think he was meeting somebody?

Yeah, I think he was meeting somebody. Obviously. That's usually what slinking off to dark abandoned docks means, Sheriff. Don't you watch procedural dramas or, you know, like, Scooby-Doo?

Okay. So drugs, gambling, girlfriend on the side?

You're adorable. You really think Dylan Holt was buying weed down at the old docks? Nah. That boy was in deep with something way bigger. Family business or worse? Worse?

Like what?

Oh, come on. He's a Holt. You've seen what they're up to. Same as me. Land deals, Niseqa harassment, cover ups, generational shadiness. A Holt doesn't meet someone down at the docks at midnight because they lost a poker hand.

Okay. Okay. So we find out who he was meeting at midnight. We find our murderer.

I mean, probably. Maybe. As I mentioned, Dilly seems to have a lot of people not so thrilled with him.

Even if that's true, only one of them was meeting him at the docks at midnight.

I don't know, dude. It feels more complicated than that. Like, you're the cop, right? You can't see that.

Enlighten me then.

Let's be real. Dillon was no angel. And it's been pretty obvious that this omnia thing is coming to some kind of climax. Like the point of no return is looming. Yeah?

Sure. And?

And it doesn't seem like a lock yet, right? Far from it. And if you believe the gossiper on this place, a lot of that seems to be his fault, at least from everyone's perspective on it, except him.

So?

So, Dilly was desperate, running plays on all sides. That muddies the waters for you, man.

How do you figure? He was murdered at the docks. That's confirmed, right?

Right. Obviously.

And also obviously, as you've pointed out, that means he was meeting someone.

Okay. Yeah. But.

So doesn't matter how many enemies Dylan had, only one of them met him at the docks, the one that murdered him.

But it kind of does matter, though.

Why?

Because it's a lot more complicated than just a midnight meeting at the docks.

Why?

Oh, my God. Again, you're a cop. Aren't you reconstructing a timeline or whatever?

We are. But we're also waiting on Dylan's phone records. Once we have those, we'll have who he met at midnight. And that's it. Checkmate.

Sure. Maybe. But you're treating it like it's just one thing. One meeting, one bad choice. Like Dylan just shows up at the docks at midnight and bam. Dead. Neat little bow on the timeline.

Isn't that what happened?

I already told you he had multiple enemies, multiple moves, multiple flaming plates spinning. Dylan was a problem to a lot of people all at once. That's the issue you're facing, man. You don't even know how many people were gunning for him. You don't know how many problems he was causing. That means you can't possibly know how many people wanted to body him, or how many would have paid for the privilege, or how many would have just done it if the opportunity decided to knock. Any one of them could have set something in motion. All of it could overlap. All of it could cascade and crash. You don't know the order of anything. You don't know the scope. You're walking into a hurricane with a flashlight and a clipboard, man. Good luck. Shit. You probably think that was the only meeting he had at the docks that night.

You're right. I did think that. Sounds like you know better.

Shit. I see it instantly. The shift. He's not the nice dad cop anymore. He's a hunter. That whole friendly act? Bait. And I just bit. I mean, I assume if he was meeting someone, maybe he scoped it out first, you know, earlier.

But you said that I probably think that was the only meeting he had at the docks that night. Sounds like you know something I don't.

Just, you know, theorizing based on...

Look, Amy, I need you to be honest. How do you know Dylan was at the docks earlier?

The room shrinks. Fluorescence go harsh. He's all cop now, professional, patient, predatory. I don't know anything. I was just...

Were you following him?

No, I wasn't following anyone.

But you were there. You and Marguerite. Otherwise, how could you know?

My pulse spikes. Not adrenaline, fear. Trap sprung kind of fear. Jonathan's voice whispers. Secrets corrode. And I'm sitting on the biggest one. We heard sirens, like half the town.

Sirens? Sure. After midnight. But not earlier.

We were at Lucens, going through DD stuff. Mags hasn't decided what to do with the shop. And I was just...

How do you know Dylan was at the docks more than once that night, Amy?

Spiraling. I can feel it. Carter's voice is calm, but there's steel under it. He knows, and he's tightening the net.

You've been chasing ghosts for a long time, Amy. Your father's death, the seizures, the theories. Feeling like this town gave up on you. That's a lot for anyone to carry. That's heavy.

And there it is, the slow pivot. From me being a helpful witness to me being unstable, as predictable as it is brutal. Every part of me, grief, illness, stubbornness, turned into a weapon to be used against me. My brain becomes evidence. My trauma becomes motive. I'm not unstable, and I didn't kill anyone.

No one's saying you did. But you know more than you're telling me. About Dylan. About who he met. About what happened last night at the docks. So I need you to tell me before I find it all out on my own. And I will find it all out.

Evening, Sheriff. Marion Caldwell, attorney at law. And I'll be representing Ms. O'Connell from this point forward.

Marion?

Sheriff, I trust my client has been treated with courtesy?

Ms. O'Connell agreed to speak voluntarily.

And now she's exercising her right to counsel. Have you been merandized?

Nope, he said it was just a conversation.

A conversation? Curious. Because what I saw on the monitor looked remarkably like an interrogation. No waiver, no lawyer, just a young woman with a medical condition fielding accusations alone.

She's not under arrest, she's free to leave.

That's excellent. Because as of 10 minutes ago, Nora Chen, your actual suspect, vanished. Whoa, what? So, I don't know, maybe you want to focus up and deal with that.

Uh, that's...

Yes, it's quite a thing, isn't it, Sheriff? Your main suspect disappearing into the night, all while this conversation was going on. Uh... So, to recap, Nora Chen, the same woman who filed a theft report last week about a.38 caliber pistol, which incidentally is the same caliber as the slugs pulled from Dylan Holt, is now in the wind. Your officers were waiting at her condo in Cedar Brook. She never came home.

The shift is instant. Carter stiffens, recalibrates. Marion didn't just bring backup, she brought ammo. She knows things she shouldn't know, and she's using them with surgical precision.

We're pursuing all leads.

Are you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're leaning hard on a grieving young woman, while the person with a motive, a potential match to the murder weapon, and a reason to run is already out the door.

It's like watching someone flip a switch. Marion takes the room, commands the space. Carter's posture shifts. Less authority, more damage control. I can almost hear him weighing his next re-election bid.

I don't think I have to tell you that the victim's family is very interested in the outcome of this investigation, Sheriff. I'm sure they'd be disappointed to learn their vast influence was being wasted on showboating rather than results.

Ms. O'Connell is free to go.

Glad we could clear that up. Unless of course there's a warrant hiding under that pile of unsent subpoenas.

Oh my God, Marion, thank you. But how did you know I was here?

I didn't. Marguerite shot me a text, said you might need help.

That hits harder than it should. While I was melting down in a beige box under fluorescent lights, Mags was making sure I had backup. After 10 years of silence, after everything.

Go home, Amy, get some rest. Carter has bigger problems for the moment. Make sure it stays that way.

All right, thanks again. The night air feels colder now. Crisper. I can still feel Carter's eyes on me. Even though he's behind a wall of brick and glass, he knows I slipped. I told him something I shouldn't have. The twice at the docks detail, he clocked it. He'll chase it. He's not stupid. And now that breadcrumbs in his hands, which means the clock just started ticking. And then there's the video, the one I never showed, Mags. The thing I've been pretending doesn't matter because facing it means facing what I did, what I chose, what it cost her. Some secrets rot from the inside, some burn and some just wait for the moment they can wreck everything. Time to go. Time to decide what matters more, solving this case or not losing her again.

The shop feels different when it's empty, quieter, but also more present somehow, like Dee Dee's spirit settles into the spaces between the curiosities when there's no one around. I should be doing something productive. Instead, I'm spiraling into that familiar pit of self-recrimination. I let Amy go to the police station alone. Again. Wasn't there when it mattered. Again. It's like Seattle all over. Med school. My carefully constructed future. All of it dissolving between my fingers like fog the moment real pressure hit. I'm supposed to be the level-headed one. The responsible one. But all I've managed lately is to look like a burnout with a savior complex and a collection of expired anxiety prescriptions. That's when I hear it. Not a voice exactly, but a memory so vivid it might as well be. Dee Dee, probably two years ago when she visited, the two of us walking through the market, she was looking to buy vintage medical equipment for the store and brought me along for my expert opinion. I didn't know shit ab out fuck when it came to turn of the century stethoscopes or whatever. And I think she knew that. I wish she hadn't felt that she needed that sort of pretense just to get me to hang out with her. I don't remember why we were talking about Amy, probably about something that happened during the case, something she and I did. I remember the way Dee Dee tilted her head when she said it, eyebrows arched like she knew it would haunt me later.

You and Amy are like Magnet Sisters, you know that? Doesn't matter how far apart or for how long. You don't have to try to pull each other back in, it's just what you do. Even when one of you is chaos and the other's calamity, one falls and the other jumps after. That's not a weakness, Maggie Mae, that's physics. That's the strongest thing there is.

The memory cuts through my shame spiral like a life preserver. I close my eyes, breathe in the scent of dust and old wood and something faintly medicinal that might be leftover sage or expired Vicks Vapo-Rub. When I open them again, the weight in my chest has shifted. Not gone, but manageable. Amy's out there, and I'm sitting here feeling sorry for myself when I could be doing something useful. I'm not the hero of this story, probably not even the protagonist most days, but I'm one half of something that refuses to stay broken. Oh, oh, she's here. Amy's here.

Hey.

Hey, you okay?

Yeah, yeah, I'm thanks to you. Marion said you texted her in.

It seemed like the right call to make, or, you know, text.

Well, thank you. I don't know what would have happened if-

Don't. We look out for each other. That's what we do. There it is again. That thing that's always been between us. This gravitational pull, this sense that we're stronger together than apart. Even after 10 years, even with all the secrets I'm keeping, it's still there. Magnet Sisters, just like Dee Dee used to say-

So yeah, Carter isn't exactly building a case against me, but I might have opened my big stupid mouth again.

What did you say, Amy?

Too much. Basically admitted we had information we shouldn't have.

Dee Dee's machine?

I mean, obviously I didn't tell him any of that, but he knows we were watching somehow. He's going to follow up on that.

I can see the weight of it settling on her shoulders. Amy's always been reckless, but she's not one to fool herself. She knows she gave Carter ammunition and she's beating herself up about it.

But I learned some things too. Nora Chen never came home tonight, not after the storage space. Get this, the cops were waiting at her condo to bring her in for questioning and she just never showed up.

Wait, what? She ran?

Baller move, right? Gets better. She reported her gun stolen last week, a 38 caliber pistol. Same type used to kill Dylan.

So either she's running because she's guilty or she's running because she's scared.

Or her gun was used without her knowledge and she panicked when she realized how it would look.

I mean, that's not even throwing in whatever happened in the probable meeting with Richard Holt earlier. She could easily be missing, you know, like missing, probably murdered missing. That kind of missing, the murdered kind of missing.

Right, the murdered kind of missing. Shit.

We sit in the comfortable silence that comes from years of thinking through problems together. Even with everything that's happened, this feels natural, like muscle memory.

So what were you doing while I was being detained without charge?

Getting ambushed by a swarm of drones and a van full of Reddit children.

Uh, what?

Remember Miles from the E-Rickshaw and Lula's daughter Val and like this sort of taciturn hacker named Pipes?

Pipes?

Yeah, pipes. But like also and unexpectedly, there's your neighbor Jankies.

The fuck?

Turns out they have this group of local kids who've been following our investigation.

So what? I got arrested basically and somehow you did something more exciting than me?

What the fuck? I know, looks like I'm the cool one. No offense, babes.

Some offense. So these kids? What? They're like Sherlock Holmes' little helpers? The weirdos?

You mean the Irregulars?

Yeah. Irregular is just British for weirdo, okay?

Fair. Still, it really looks like they found something. Something about Dylan that seems to connect to what happened to him.

What kind of something?

You know that wellness initiative thing the town's been pushing? The digital health record system?

Right. The one, the Holtz and the other fucking originals are all over. I figured that was just a dog and pony show for Omnia.

I'm sure it is, but that's not the whole story. Something definitely seems off. Dylan requested specific patient records from the archived files of the initiative a few days before he died.

Okay, so what kind of records?

Unclear. They're old. They're all paper only.

Huh. So what, he was looking for something?

It definitely seems like it. But here's the weird part. The files he requested were never sent to him. Instead, a box of physical records was pulled from the archive and delivered to an address that doesn't match Dylan's apartment, the Holtz mansion, or any medical facility in town.

Someone wanted it off the grid.

The box was marked as received the day before Dylan died. But there's no record of who signed for it. I can see and feel the electricity building in Amy. A lead. A real, tangible lead that might actually explain why Dylan was killed and by whom. This is why she can't let go. Because sometimes, if you dig deep enough, you find the truth.

So we find the box. We find out why Dylan wanted those records. And maybe we find who killed him. And holy shit, you're a fucking doctor now, dude. We can totally use your education to solve this crime.

Uh, oh, huh. Yes, yeah, yeah, totally.

So we have missing medical files, a mysterious delivery address, and a dead heir who was asking the wrong questions. You know we're checking that out, right?

You know this is probably going to end badly, right?

The best mysteries always do. Also, this is starting to give off the slightest Resident Evil vibe, and I am frothing for that.

As we step out into the night air, I realize something has shifted between us. Not back to what we were as kids. Too much has happened for that. But forward, into something new. Something that acknowledges the decade of silence and hurt, while choosing to move past it. Whatever we find at 47 Birch Lane, whatever danger we're walking into, we're walking into it together. Magnet Sisters. One falls and the other jumps after. That's not weakness. That's physics. The strongest thing there is.

The Avalon Falls Business Park might be built at 47 Birch Lane, but it lives in that liminal space between commerce and civic delusion. Built during the early 2000s tech boom lid, it's now a graveyard of taupe and teal office husks. By day, it pretends to be alive. By night, it dreams of being bulldozed. Half the parking lot lights are out, casting the whole place in a flickering Lynchian glow, corporate America, but make it haunted. So remind me again why we parked at Lula's and walked half a mile like we're sneaking into Area 51?

Because parking in front of the building you're about to illegally enter is what we in the biz call a rookie move.

The business park is a charisma blackout zone and features a lineup of tenants that sound like fronts. Coastal marketing solutions, Northwest administrative services, Pacific business consulting. It's definitely a place you set up shop if you don't know what you're doing or if you know exactly what you're doing. So on a scale from heroic investigation to felony oops, where does this rank?

Are we in a noir or a true crime podcast?

Feels pretty noir so far. Still holding out for survival horror though.

Okay, Jilly V, relax.

Through the glass doors, the lobby looks abandoned. Not quiet, not closed, abandoned. There's a security desk with a bank of monitors, all dead-eyed black, not asleep, just off. Like someone hit the kill switch and walked away mid shift.

That's not normal, right? I mean, even a knockoff dentist's office has a red light blinking somewhere.

Either someone's really into low overhead operations, or, yeah, something's off. We just stand there, arguing silently with our own guts about whether opening the door is brave or suicidal. The D&D moment when everyone stands around looking at the locked door and the dungeon master just smirks from behind their screen. Time standing still until someone is crazy enough to just roll the dice. Screw it, I'm opening the door.

Oh, Amy, wait, don't.

Okay, it's unlocked.

Oh, good, somehow that's way worse.

The lobby's got that aggressively neutral vibe, like it was designed by a sentient HR manual, framed stock photos of mountains that probably don't exist, a water cooler in the corner. The walls aren't a real color at all, just some shapeless, shifting tone that absorbs the worst of the light and reflects nothing back. Like even the paint gave up and decided to stay neutral until the end of time. But then the weirdness starts creeping in. Half-finished cup of coffee on the security desk, a flashlight lying on its side like it fell mid-movement and...

Amy, look.

Dark spots on the desk, three of them. Circular, still wet.

Blood. Maybe less than an hour old. I'm not gonna touch it if that's cool.

Oh my god, you're doing your doctor thing.

Let me just turn on my phone flashlight. Whoa, fuck.

Further behind the security desk, standing like the world's creepiest Walmart greeter is a life-sized cardboard cutout of Amber Holt. Jaunty blazer, Stepford smile, finger guns aimed at a banner that reads, Avalon Falls Wellness Initiative, your health, our priority. Her grin is so forced, it practically squeaks.

Oh, she wasn't always this scary, right?

Nah, you know, she was actually pretty great on that show.

Fatal Shores, yes, yeah. Just like a super dumb show. Yeah, but she was a lot of fun on it as that like medium or whatever. Now though, she is kind of terrifying for some reason.

Okay, okay, let's focus, all right? Blood trail heads that way, toward the back offices.

Avalon Research Associates is upstairs, Suite 2B.

Amber's cutout, along with Dylan's requests, getting rerouted here, is definitely making it seem super connected with the wellness initiative. We find the stairs. No way we're risking the elevator. Too loud, too slow, and it's giving final destination energy. As we climb, the building exhales around us, that hollow, deadened quiet of empty space and bad insulation. Every step echoes like we're on a stage and someone forgot to close the curtain. On the second floor, half the fluorescent lights are flickering, casting weird shadows. The hallway stretches ahead of us, lined with doors that could hide anything or anyone. At the end of the hall, there's a door that still reads A. Ashford Holt, Outreach Coordinator, in peeling vinyl letters. The kind of detail Mags notices and files away while I'm already easing the door open. Huh, full hyphen today. Amber Ashford Holt.

Means she's not trying to be a Holt.

Yeah, and when she's playing House, it's just Amber Holt.

But when she smells an exit plan, Ashford Holt.

Rolls off the tongue like a wire transfer.

Let's take a look.

The room smells faintly like perfume. Ambers, I guess. Sharp, floral, expensive, cloying. But the life's been stripped out of it. It's just air freshener over panic now.

She cleaned this place out.

The desk's empty. The filing cabinet's gutted. A single dusty potted plant and a cracked coffee mug that reads, World's okayest stepmom are all that's left. Not an office. A cover up.

Dust and a single staple. How generous.

It's like she knew we were coming.

No. Not us.

Oh, shit.

She was worried about someone else. Someone bigger, scarier.

Someone worth cleaning house for.

Someone who leaves blood trails behind.

And just like that, we hear it. A man's voice muffled but getting clearer. Who the hell? We slip out of Ambers' hollowed out office and back into the hallway, following the sound of the voice. It's coming from the direction of the Wellness Initiative Suite, where we were supposed to be going all along. We creep closer, staying close to the wall, until we're outside what looks like the main Wellness Initiative office. The door is slightly ajar, and through the gap, we can hear the conversation more clearly.

We should go.

Or we could listen, see what we can learn.

Oh, my God. Right, right. Okay, yeah, yeah, sure. Let's listen. Let's listen to the strange man's frustrated, angry voice, okay? Yes, yeah, yeah.

We creep forward, staying close to the wall, until we're outside what looks like the main office. The door is slightly ajar, and through the gap, we hear the conversation sharpen into focus.

I told you I haven't found anything concrete yet. She's been collecting something. Records, files. I don't even know what half of it means.

Holy shit. That's Thomas Holt. I'd know that tone anywhere. Impatient, calculating, like he's already decided how the conversation's gonna end, and you're just catching up. Dylan's uncle, the one they send when they want something done, and don't care who gets hurt in the process. I know Mags is probably silent screaming right now, but we're here for a reason. We have to listen to this for as long as we can.

No, I'm not stalling. I just... Look, you know this isn't exactly my strong suit, right? Yes, I'll check the back offices. Maybe something got moved. But if there's nothing here, I'll deal with it. Just like I dealt with the dumbass at the front desk. Ah, don't worry, don't worry. I just punched him in his stupid fucking face and sent him home. Tried to get me to sign in. Can you believe that shit?

We should go.

Now.

Come on, Tommy Boy went out the other way, and we still need to see what's in there. The office is a mausoleum of bureaucracy. Motivational posters with phrases like, Your health is your wealth in soulless fonts, and a desk buried in paperwork that feels like it's been multiplying in the dark. But there, on a side table, like it's just part of the decor, is a cardboard file box labeled in Sharpie, Archives, AFWI.

That's it. That's the box Dylan had sent here. Like, it's just right there. Is, you don't think, like, it's not a trap, right?

We move fast and quiet the way you do when your adrenaline says, We're burglars now, I guess. Mags dives into the folders while I keep an eye on the hallway.

It's dense. Medical records for a bunch of people. Could take hours.

Snap pics. We'll sort it out later.

Piper, Pipes was right. These files seem to have a different filing code system. Hard to tell if there are any other anomalies, though. Shit, shit, shit.

He's coming back. He's coming back. We bolt straight up cartoon logic. Flight over fight powered by dread and caffeine.

Stairs, stairs.

We tear down the stairs like final girls in a horror movie with budget constraints. Back into the lobby, past the ghost blood desk, past the flickering fluorescence, past.

Whoa, shit, shit. Sorry, Amber.

Did you just punch and then apologize to a cutout?

It startled me. Her eyes follow you.

We don't stop running until we're halfway back to Lula's. Lungs burning, adrenaline fading into laughter, we try to swallow. That specific kind of laugh you only get after almost dying or absolutely bombing on stage or both. Fuck, this reminds me of, you remember Osprey Island, that weird lab?

Oh my God, yes. We knocked over that shelf of chemical powder that got all over us and we ran all the way to the boat and then rode the boat nonstop and then ran all the way home.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. And then we spent the whole night and half of the next day coming up with like our seven best theories about the whole case. Plus I was able to do that speed run of Undertale.

Yeah. So that powder, that was meth, wasn't it?

Oh yeah, fuck.

Oh man.

We stand there, doubled over, laughing like we've been exercised. It's not funny. Not really. But it's exactly the kind of funny that keeps you from falling apart. Lula's is a ghost town at this hour. Just us. A long haul trucker face down in a slice of pie and a waitress with the thousand yard stare of someone who's seen enough weird shit to stop asking questions. We slide into our old booth like we never left.

Okay, I only snapped one pic before Thomas showed up, so let me zoom in and see. Danielle Chase, born Avalon Falls, 1973, lives in Cedarbrook now. Nothing major. Seasonal allergies, laparoscopic gallbladder removal, some heartburn meds, one kid, all vaxxed. No psych flags, no blood work anomalies.

Oh my god, I can't focus. You're doing the doctor thing and I'm melting.

Stop it. I'm literally just reading the file. It's not written in code.

Okay, okay, focus, focus, Amy. So, why her? Why did Dylan want this file?

Maybe it's not about what's in the file. Maybe it's about what's missing. Or maybe the file's useless without the rest of them. There were what, 12, 15? However many were in that box. This is like finding one page from a burned book and trying to guess the plot.

We sit in that thought for a beat. The kind of silence that hums with static, like the signals trying to break through. All right, all right, all right. Back to the start. It's been what? Like basically 24 hours since Dylan died?

We should go full murder board, map it all out.

We're in the perfect place. Unlimited coffee, infinite fries.

Infinite?

Well, like until you run out of money, hot stuff. We spread it all out. Paper scraps, phone notes, half-remembered conversations. The case doesn't make sense yet, but it's starting to. Threads pulling together, patterns in the static. Let's get this sorted and then hit the basement.

Yeah, I can't believe we haven't done that yet.

It's called building dramatic tension, babes, look it up. The coffee arrives, bitter and perfect, and we spread out what we know like pieces of a puzzle. And it's all starting to fall into place. We weren't exactly back to who we used to be. But for the first time in a long time, it felt like maybe we could get there. The case was messy. The town was worse. But we had french fries, caffeine and each other. For the moment, it was enough. But Avalon Falls wasn't done with us, of course. It doesn't forget and it doesn't forgive. And by morning, we would learn that lesson well enough.