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Murder Girls is created, written and produced by Eternal Teenager. Content warning, this episode contains discussion of murder and violent death, grief and loss, anxiety and panic symptoms, seizure disorder and medication, surveillance and stalking themes, breaking and entering, corporate and environmental wrongdoing, family conflict, manipulation and gaslighting, intimidation, depictions of physical violence, cannabis use, alcohol references, and strong language throughout. It also includes intense scenes involving pursuit and threatening behavior that may be distressing for listeners with trauma related to being followed or attacked. Listener discretion is advised.

Previously on Murder Girls.

Look there, under the dock. Paper! It's a page from Minerva's book.

It's from when we hit out at that crazy old crazy terrifying ruined cabin.

After that swarm of mystery dudes in the football mascot masks chased us through the forest. What even was that place? I totally forgot about it until now.

Probably still there?

Probably.

My eyes are drawn to the peeling wallpaper and that's when I see it. A mural painted directly onto the plaster. There's handwriting under the folds of the torn wallpaper. DS, look closer.

Nora climbs into a silver Honda and starts the engine and pulls away from the curb. We're tailing her. Let's book. She's heading away from downtown toward the highway that leads to Cedar Brook. She's pulling into that storage place.

Secure store, secure self storage. Oh, hey, she's getting something out of the trunk. Nora yanks out a big duffel bag, heads for a smaller unit halfway down the row, punches in a code on the keypad and disappears inside. Nora emerges. No more giant duffel, just a small backpack slung casual over one shoulder. Dylan Holt's Tesla whips in to Falls Mart around 8:30 p.m. Someone's filling up and Dylan's practically running at them already yelling and the person he's screaming at is Evan Parker. The Omnia Executive.

Is that?

It's a USB drive.

What's on it?

One file. Video.

Here goes. Holy fucking shit, that's Dylan.

I don't know if you'll ever see this, but I found something about my family, about this town, about what really happened. If you want to know everything, then we can arrange to meet at the old ruined cabin.

He's dead.

He is. But whatever he found is still out there.

At the cabin.

The ruined, terrifying cabin. The cabin is both exactly as I remember and completely wrong.

What is that?

Under the wreckage, there's a hatch. Recently disturbed. Someone's been here.

Dylan.

He found this. Whatever he was looking for, it's down there. Paint tubes, plastic brushes, metal palette, knives. This was an artist's studio.

Down here? In a cabin basement?

Someone created here. And someone destroyed it. There, in the corner.

Sculptures. Bronze, I think.

Two figures. A man and a woman.

Oh, hey, there's something carved underneath.

Says Dorothy Calhoun. Wait, there's something else. Initials. DS.

DS. That's what Dylan wrote in the Otter, right?

Yes. So DS is connected to all of this. The cabin, the studio, the artwork.

But who is DS.?

Murder Girls, episode 11, metadata.

There's tired, and then there's the kind of tired that chews holes in your brain. But sometimes that's when the picture finally sharpens, when you're too fried to lie to yourself. I've been awake since four. Mags is upstairs, finally getting actual sleep after we crawled out of the woods last night like discount zombies. I got maybe two hours, enough to keep me upright, not enough to shut my brain up. So I took a little, you know, doom scroll tour of the local social medias to catch a whiff of how Tlaqua County is vibing right now. I started things off with a couple of wins. The cops postponed their big Dylan Holt murder investigation press conference this morning. Makes sense since, you know, they have nothing unless you count that they falsely accused and arrested an innocent woman for the murder. Second win, and this one may actually be sweeter if you can believe it, Minerva canceled her podcast's big teaser episode. That's a relief, definitely. Although, considering Minerva's big exclusive guest was going to be Amber Holt, and Amber wasn't answering Jake's calls yesterday, it makes me worry a bit for her safety, given that she was looking to drop a nuclear-grade blackmail scheme on the Holt's and the rest of the originals. On top of that, Minerva is like Bruce the Shark in Jaws, down but never out and always circling, sniffing for blood. I mean, dated reference, but you get my point, right? Other than that, nothing standing out in the Avalon Falls social ecosystem. So, I'm down here in the machine, watching Dylan Holt tell me he trusts me over and over and over.

I'm trusting you with this. I don't have anyone else I can trust to help me. I'm trusting you with this.

Seventh time, or maybe eighth, who knows? I keep hoping I'll notice something new, a twitch, a breath, a clue hiding in the pixels.

I want to tell you everything.

Instead, all I see is a dead kid asking for help I never gave him. God, I need coffee or sleep or a complete personality reboot.

You're spiraling.

Go away, Jonathan.

No, no, no, that's not how this works. You know that.

He's standing at the bottom of the stairs now, arms crossed, doing his patented, dad that means business glare.

What are you looking for?

I don't know, something.

Really specific.

Shut up.

You've watched this thing how many times?

Not enough.

And what's enough? When you can reenact it frame by frame? When you start speaking in Dylan Holt subtitles?

I hate when my hallucinations are right and smug. I'm looking for clues, okay? Context, subtext, any text.

You think you missed something.

I know I missed something.

Or you're terrified there isn't anything to find. That he gave you everything and it still got him killed.

I guess this says more about me than him, but real Jonathan was never this much of an asshole.

Amy?

Down here.

It's 6.30 in the morning. Why are you... Oh, you didn't sleep?

I slept a little.

You're watching Dylan's video?

I'm looking for clues.

Amy.

Do not concern, Doctor. Voice me, I'm fine.

Almost doctor. And you look like a ghost someone forgot to finish coloring in.

She's not wrong. My reflection earlier looked like if insomnia was a person. Can we just watch it together?

Yeah, okay.

Mags watches things like she's absorbing data directly through her pores.

I don't know if you'll ever see this. In a way, I hope you don't. That would mean I, well, doesn't matter, I guess.

But having her here, it helps. Turns drowning into treading water.

I want to tell you everything.

He really thought we'd help him.

We are helping him, which is exactly why we need to... Wait, rewind. There. How did I miss it? How did we miss it? Do you see that?

The satchel.

Same one he had at the docks. And look at the room. The walls, the echo, the lighting.

No echo, no natural light. A basement, maybe.

He confirms this was after he came here. Is it before he went to meet Lily at the docks?

Unclear. The machine can help, but we could be digging for hours.

We can start at Falls Mart when he confronted Evan. Work back from there.

Still sounds like a long walk for a short kiss.

Adorable. But that is not the saying, dude.

Whatever. I'm tired. I like my way better.

We need to figure out who the Calhouns were, why there are statues of them, and who the hell DS is.

Okay, okay. Dorothy Calhoun, starting there. Dorothy Calhoun, born 1891, contradicting locations for her birthplace. Most are in the Pacific Northwest. Says she died 1934, prominent family, married to Nathan Calhoun, lumber baron.

Of course it's lumber. It's always lumber. So Dorothy and Nathan are husband and wife. Okay, figured that out, I guess.

There's mention of a tragic and shocking incident in 1934. Violence. No details.

Avalon Falls history is basically a choose-your-own adventure where someone ripped out all the endings. Try Calhoun and Holt.

Nothing.

Classic cover-up energy.

Try DS.

It's pretty all over the place. It's initials, so yeah, hard to get anything solid, but oh, wait, wait, wait. Driftwood School. Closed art. College, I think. It's sort of confusing. Based in Cedarbrook. Art?

Okay, interesting.

Try DS. Calhoun. Art.

Google says no and also no. And also, here's a DeviantArt account from 2009.

I hate the internet.

Oh, come on, buddy. You adore the internet.

I adore answers. This is digital gas lighting.

Maybe we're searching for the wrong thing.

Then what is the right thing?

Let's try Dylan's metadata.

It's such a Mags move. The kind of thing she'd think of before I even remember metadata exists.

Okay, let's see. File created October 6th at 527 p.m. Camera type unknown. GPS blank. Comments field. Whoa.

What's it say?

2447U141823 Pinecrest Drive, Cedarbrook.

Holy shit, that's Secure Store Self Storage. The exact fucking one we followed Nora to.

Address, unit number, access code. He left us the key. Literally. Yes, yeah.

He knew. He knew he might not make it, and he still tried to leave a trail. We need to go.

Now.

Seriously? Val, can it? Okay, okay, okay, okay. We'll be there. Weirdos, Danielle's file. Something big.

Yeah, okay. Let's hear them out.

We grab our jackets, bags, keys, the thumb drive. Everything feels heavier, more real. Whatever Dylan put in that storage unit, it was worth dying for. And we're about to find out why.

The Avalon Falls Public Library smells like old paper and optimism. Or maybe that's just nostalgia with good lighting. It's this 1920s brick box with stained glass windows that throw color across the tables like a low-budget cathedral. When we were kids, Amy and I spent half the Osprey Island case in here, swimming in yearbooks and microfiche, wrapped in that special kind of silence that makes you feel like you're doing something important. Libraries were our first real freedom. No parents, no teachers. Just shelves and search terms and the fantasy that if you looked hard enough, you could find the truth about anything. There's a teenager at one of the computers by the door, headphones on, typing like the world depends on it. I wonder if she feels the same way. Like the universe is one good keyword away from making sense. Study room 2, right?

That's what Val said. You think they actually found something, or are we about to walk into a TED talk about the back rooms?

6040 either way.

And I'm telling you, that's not how force ghosts work.

It is absolutely how force ghosts work. Yoda literally appears to Luke in-

Both of you are wrong, and also nobody cares.

His eyes were like dark pools of mystery, reflecting the moonlight as he leaned closer, his breath hot against her.

Piper, no.

Her trembling.

Come on, you know Raylo fanfic is the one thing that is forbidden here.

Do we need to bring up what happened last time?

Hey, not interrupting, are we?

Oh, thank God, actual adults.

Okay, okay, let's not get crazy, but yeah. You called, we came, what's up?

We found stuff.

Big stuff.

They're all jammed into this tiny study room, like a chaotic group project, chip bags, energy drinks, candy wrappers, three laptops. And on the wall, they've built a conspiracy corkboard that would put a police procedural to shame. They look proud, like puppies that just learned fetch and dragged back a live grenade.

Do you want the efficient version or one where we drill down into all the different, OK, OK, right, right, just the efficient one? Got it. Got it.

OK. Danielle Chase, here's the headline. She's boring.

Boring in a healthy way. Normal job, normal town, normal mom. Boring.

No criminal record, votes most of the time. No unpaid parking tickets.

Just a single mom who keeps her head down. No drama, low online footprint.

So really all there is is that weird file tag is what you're telling us.

Right, Danielle has the file tag, and so do her kids.

Both?

Both.

They're in their 20s now. We didn't go deep on them because like, privacy or whatever.

Piper's our conscience.

They're real people, not NPCs. Boundaries are important.

Danielle's ex-husband though, no file tag, nothing weird on his end.

So the tag's following her side of the family.

Looks that way.

What about Danielle's parents?

Her mom died about 15 years ago. Cancer. Pretty straightforward. But her dad?

Her dad is 78, currently parked at Black Cedar Residence, an assisted living facility in Cedar Brook.

His name is... Here it is. Anson. Anson Calhoun.

Calhoun.

Holy shit.

Is that good holy shit or disaster holy shit?

You guys know that name?

Long story. We know that surname.

I swear I've heard of the Calhoun somewhere before. My grandpa, maybe.

Local legend vibes?

Sort of, yeah. Grandpa used to talk about some prohibition thing. You know, like a massacre in Talacqua County. Bootleggers versus rich people. No details, very spooky.

The rich people being Calhouns?

Maybe. He'd call it the night Al Capone came to Avalon Falls, which probably not literally, but you get the vibe.

Al Capone, huh?

Look, in grandpa stories, everything was scarier and had better lighting.

This is the same grandpa who thinks Bigfoot stole his tackle box.

There were footprints.

Okay, Miles, back on the rails there, buddy. Anything else about the Calhouns?

Just that they lost everything. Money gone, estates sold off, family scattered, very gothic.

78, that would put him born in 1947.

Yes. Yeah. At the Black Cedar Residence.

Black Cedar Residence, a premier senior living community. Meditation gardens, art therapy, elevated dining experiences. It just looks like the usual cut corners, corporate elderly care zoo.

It's run by the Threshold Group.

Who?

The originals. Threshold is one of their shell empires, mostly warrens, but they're all up each other's asses, as you well know.

Should we be worried that we found this?

You should be proud. This is huge.

There's more, actually.

The tags Dylan was tracking, they're not just in Cedar Brook. We've seen pings all over the county, different clinics, different towns. It's like a constellation.

We didn't go too deep. Kept it to the file numbers, birthdates, a few locations. We stopped before it got, you know, stalkery.

That was smart, thank you.

But the files Dylan requested, those were all people born around the same time, right?

Yes. People who were born in the early 1970s. So like, people in their early 50s.

So age seems to be the key where Dylan's search is concerned. Points more to a specific person, maybe?

Or skinwalkers.

Walter!

What?

I'm just advocating for a diverse theory portfolio.

We need to go to Cedar Brook.

Agreed.

You're going to talk to him? Anson?

If they let us.

Can we come?

Hard pass.

Rude, but fair.

You've done more than enough. Seriously, this is a lot.

We're good, guys. I promise.

At least text us what happens.

Depends on how cursed it is.

I'm tracking your phones anyway.

What?

What? I said have a safe trip.

They look a little deflated we're not taking them, but the buzz is still there. Miles is already back on Google Maps. Val's reading through wikis with sniper level intensity. Walter is writing notes on a napkin. Piper keeps glancing between us and her screen. They look like Amy and I probably did 10 years ago. Untouchable. Convinced knowing the truth is the same as being safe. Thank you. Really, you've been incredible.

It's not a big deal.

It's kind of a big deal.

Just text us, please.

If you need an extraction team, just let us know.

Thanks dude. We'll keep that in mind. Storage unit first or Anson first?

Anson, he's 78 in a threshold facility. The storage unit isn't on life support. He might be.

Fair point.

We step out of the study room. The weirdos wave like we're shipping out to war. Maybe we are.

You think he'll talk?

No idea. He might not even know what year it is.

Bright side as always.

I'm just calibrated to realistic.

Hey, at least we get to go to Cedarbrook, right?

Woo to the who. We step into the morning light like a slap. Anson Calhoun is 30 minutes away in Cedarbrook, resting somewhere inside a sad retirement palace, holding pieces of a story we're still trying to see the outline of.

There's a special kind of cosmic timing that kicks in when you're investigating a murder. You can spend hours trying to track someone down, and then bam, they just walk out of a coffee shop in front of you like a glitch in the simulation. Still undecided if that counts as helpful or we're being toyed with. We're halfway back to the car when I see him. Evan Parker, iced latte, phone, zero awareness of his surroundings, full awareness of his reflection. He looks like the kind of guy who thinks this worst day of my life means my flight was delayed, which makes me really want to ruin his morning.

Hey, why are you like, you know, all torqued up and angry looking, buddy?

Evan Parker, over there.

Oh, yeah. And look, his car is over there. And the same ambiguous gremlin we saw at the sloppy otter is riding shotgun. They were also at our boy Evan's gas station confrontation with Dylan.

We're talking to Evan, let's go.

Okay, okay, I'm coming, wait, Evan!

Oh, hey, it's you, both.

There it is, the party smile, polished, automatic, something he practiced in a mirror, but under it, just for a second, a hairline crack.

What are you guys doing?

We need to talk.

Okay, about?

Dylan. Yeah, the smile doesn't survive that one.

Look, I already talked to the police.

Monday night, gas station on Route 14, you and Dylan, less than three hours before he died.

Bingo. His eyes flicker just a bit too wide. Mouth opens like he's going to deny, then decides not to.

Who told you that?

Does it matter?

I guess not.

So what happened?

We argued. That's it. It wasn't a big deal.

Dylan was murdered three hours later. Everything from that night is a big deal.

I didn't kill him.

Nobody said you did.

Then what do you want from me?

The truth?

Look, it was, it was complicated.

Uncomplicated.

Okay, so high level view, Dylan was stressed. You know, he was mad about a lot of things. Yeah, a lot of things. His family, the deal. He thought his parents were selling out the town.

I mean, they are, dude, right? Like that's not exactly breaking news.

He also hated me.

Why?

Because I'm Omnia, the guy in the room with the Holt's, the guy signing the deals. To him, I was the enemy. No matter what I did, nothing could win him over. I mean, I put actual time and effort into the official land acknowledgement we wrote for the Nisika. And he just crumpled it up, like right in front of me. Didn't even show anyone from the Nisika. It was just brutal.

Yeah, that's brutal, all right.

But he didn't pick a fight with you at 8 p.m. at a random gas station just because you're, you know, you.

He confronted me because I bought something or was going to buy something from his family. Something he thought should stay in the county.

The painting.

Yeah, how did you?

We know you met with Eleanor at the gallery, and we know Dylan was not thrilled you were getting the painting before he was killed.

He wasn't, no. I was originally going to buy it and pay a lot for it, I might add, but when Dylan seemed to be angry about it, I worked out a trade instead. So it was less dirty feeling, I guess. It was a private transaction. Not secret, just sensitive.

You keep saying complicated and sensitive. None of those are actual answers.

Because it is complicated. It's a rare local piece.

And Dylan didn't want you taking it.

Dylan didn't want me taking it out of the county. He thought it was connected to something bigger, like some kind of local movement or whatever. I told him I would prominently display the painting in the Omnia campus, when it's built, of course, as a show of good faith. And I donated a piece from my personal collection to their gallery as well. Despite what everyone probably believes, this deal is about keeping them happy, just as much as it is about keeping us happy. If it's not win-win, it's lose-lose, right?

Uh, bigger how? What did Dylan think it was a part of?

Some art movement? I don't know. He seemed confused. And he was definitely scared and angry. He kept saying he'd found something nobody was supposed to find. Some conspiracy.

Conspiracy?

Yeah. What conspiracy?

I don't know. It's not like he fucking told me anything. You're getting that we weren't BFFs, right? I don't think he told anyone anything straight. It all came out, like, sideways.

So where did he tell you this? At the gas station?

No, before that, earlier that day, at the Holt building.

You were in the Holt building? With who? With Richard?

Richard...

and Elizabeth.

Elizabeth?

Wait, Elizabeth Venering? Dylan's mom?

Yes.

She was here in Avalon Falls on Monday?

She flew in to facilitate the deal. She still handles the family's private art collection and acquisitions.

I think everyone, including the sheriff, assumes she was in Europe.

Well, she wasn't.

So all three of you were in a meeting?

Yes. And Dylan just stormed in, completely unhinged. He was furious, yelling about lies, history, things his family was still hiding, yelling about the painting, saying they were doing it all again. But it was all over the place. The dots didn't connect. At least, not for me. Maybe they knew what he was talking about?

Doing it all again? What does that mean?

I told you, none of it made sense. He was angry, and honestly, he looked scared.

What did Richard do?

Started calm, then he lost it too. He said, he told Dylan, there's gonna come a point where I can't protect you anymore.

That's a threat, straight up.

He didn't mean it like that. It was frustration, embarrassment. I'm not exaggerating when I say that Dylan was completely unhinged. I've never seen anyone in that kind of state. His mother was shocked, and Richard, he got dark. But Dylan just kept accusing them.

Accusing them of what?

I don't know. He wouldn't say what. I told you it was all a bunch of inside baseball stuff. Some of it was about the painting, but there was all kinds of other shit he went on about.

And you didn't tell the police any of this?

Why would I? It's all circumstantial anyway. And if I tell the police Richard Holt vaguely threatened his son hours before he died, my life is over. Career, over. Deal, over. Everything I worked for, over.

Yeah, Evan, we understand exactly what's at stake. Evan?

Of course, Edie Bergman spawns like an angry, irritated magical girl mentor who refuses to take a hint.

Fucking hell. What's taking so long? Ugh, you two. Unbelievable. Are they harassing you?

No, we're just-

Just having a conversation. Holy fuck. Why does everyone fucking talk to you two?

I mean, we're super disarming. Like, obviously.

We're trying to figure out what happened to Dylan.

Evan, shut your mouth starting now.

You know they're just some randos on the street, right?

You know you don't have to talk to them, yeah?

This isn't fucking Riverdale, right?

Riverdale? Uh, okay, right.

Let me tell you something. Dylan happened to Dylan, okay? He poked a bunch of skeletons. One of them finally went and shot him.

What did you just say?

You heard me.

He went looking for trouble and found it.

That may be tragic, but it's no mystery. That's cause and effect.

You're saying he deserved it.

I'm saying he wasn't a martyr. He was reckless and privileged and assumed he was untouchable.

Spoiler, he wasn't.

Evan, what happened at the gas station?

Don't you fucking talk to them.

Let's go.

All I know is he believed he'd found something, something he shouldn't have found.

And how do you know that?

Because if he wasn't right, he'd still be alive.

That's not the answer I was expecting. It's worse.

Let's go. Elizabeth Venterring was in town.

And Richard Holt basically threatened his own son.

Or Victor Holt in the originals did through Richard.

And Evan Parker is terrified.

Well, at least Edie Bergman is still, you know, like a fucking Lovecraftian ancient cosmic horror or whatever the fuck she is. Holy shit.

We need to get to Cedarbrook.

We need to get to Cedarbrook.

Come on.

Cedarbrook is 23 minutes from Avalon Falls if you take route 14 and don't hit traffic. Which we won't, because it's a Thursday morning and most people are at work doing normal things with their normal lives. Unlike us, apparently. Cedarbrook is the largest town in Tlaquah County, though Avalon Falls functions more like the county seat, the place where decisions get made, where power lives. Cedarbrook is where the originals experimented. Different urban planning models, mixed use developments, green spaces, transit hubs, some of it worked, some of it failed spectacularly, and some of it is just weird. Like the roundabout with the abstract sculpture that looks like either a tree or a screaming face depending on the angle. Or the pedestrian plaza that turned into a de facto skate park within six months. Or the community gardens that are now just fenced off rectangles of weeds. Cedarbrook always feels like it's smiling too wide. Like it's trying to convince you it's normal while something under the floorboards tw itches. The wearens and the handlers mostly live in Cedarbrook now. Originals, old money and new buildings, which feels fitting somehow.

DS? Driftwood School? Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Driftwood School.

Has to be, right?

The Calhoun sculptures were signed DS. So what's the connection between Driftwood School and the Calhouns and Dylan's murder? You know, besides like Dylan, of course.

I don't know yet. All I've got is that maybe it's an art movement and not an actual school. And maybe it's the one Evan mentioned Dylan going off about.

On that note, why was Dylan so angry about his mom selling a painting? I mean, yeah, it's local art, but it's a painting. People sell paintings all the time. I mean, they do somewhere, right? Like, I guess, hypothetically.

Sure, sure. Maybe it's not just about the painting.

What do you mean?

Dylan said the truth needs to come out, not, this belongs in a museum, or, rawr, this is culturally significant. He specifically said, the truth needs to come out.

Okay, so, number one, that was ridiculously cute, dude. Holy fuck. What are you doing to me?

Well, okay, come on now.

And number two, so the painting, what, has evidence on it, like a fucking treasure map on the back?

I don't think it's like, you know, it's not fucking national treasure, Amy.

Hey, you don't know. Maybe Nicolas Cage is behind this whole thing.

Might help as long as there's no bees involved, I guess.

Okay, so before we get to Black Cedar, we're making the slightest, tiniest, mini, small, whittle pit stop.

Before we get to Black Cedar, I'm giving them a call to see if they have set visiting hours to see if we can even get into the place.

Cool, cool, cool. Yeah, yeah, that's smart. Totally have to shelve my sneaking in stealth infiltration social engineering hacker idea, but sure.

So provisions, what provisions?

Oh, hey, well, you know, like supplies, equipment, things we might need for an undercover or non-undercover now that you ruined it operation at a fancy assisted living facility or whatever.

Amy.

Mags.

It's Bud, right? You want to buy Bud?

Here's the place, Fogline Botanica.

Why now? Or like, you know, why at all?

Because old people love weed, friend. It's a known fact. We show up with some artisanal cannabis and suddenly we're everyone's favorite grandkids.

That's, you know, that's actually not the worst idea you've ever had.

Right? We're being thoughtful visitors instead of just rakish, memorable, simply lovely bad influences. Welcome to detective work, almost Dr. Park.

This is insane. But then again, so is everything else we've done in the past week. What's a little marijuana bribery in the grand scheme of things? As we pull into the parking lot, I catch Amy grinning to herself. She's in her element, making plans, taking risks, improvising solutions that are equal parts brilliant and absurd. And I'm along for the ride. Which is fine. Good even. As long as we're riding together.

Fogline Botanica looks like what happens when a cottagecore bestie and a rave goblin try to open a business together and refuse to compromise. There are tapestries. There are vintage rave posters from parties that probably ended in a wellness check. There's a mural of a cedar forest dissolving into a galaxy like it's having an out-of-body experience. Everything smells like incense, espresso, and not sure what that last smell is, honestly. I mean, weed probably, right? It is deeply aggressively cedar brook.

Oh, hang on. This is Black Cedar. Hello? Hi? Yes, this is she. Yes, I did phone about that earlier.

I drift toward the counter while Mags handles Black Cedar. Behind it is a guy in dad jeans with a chain, a band tee from a group that probably only played one basement show, and the vibe of someone who describes going through 78% of his experiences as being for the art.

Welcome, welcome, welcome. First time at Fogline?

Yes, I mean, I think so. Hello? Yes, hi. My friend's just finishing a call.

No rush at all. I'm Kip. Nightshifter. Yeah. Yeah. My DJ name from back in my club era. People still call me that. I don't fight it, you know. Names are just vibrations anyway.

I'm Amy, and excellent to meet you, my good man.

Yes. Oh, wow. I love that. And, oh, what are we looking for to die, my lady?

Something for a grandmother with arthritis.

Ah, yes. Yes. Inflammation. The body's alarm system glitching out. I've got exactly the thing.

Okay, thank you. Goodbye. Visiting hours don't start until 1.

Seriously?

The receptionist was extremely firm about residents needing their morning time.

Okay, so storage unit first, then Black Cedar.

Roger, Roger.

Big day of adventuring. You two need fuel?

What is happening?

Magic.

Now, obviously, I'm a little biased here, but might I recommend Ze Cafe? Coffee Plus, microdosed cannabis. Gentle, smoothing. Opens the mind without making you contemplate the birth of the universe or, you know, like late stage capitalism or, well, I mean, you get it.

Kip, we are in. We are about to break into a storage unit.

Exactly. So we need to look chill. Also, it's not breaking in when you have the key or code or whatever. Facts.

That's a fundamentally flawed perspective, and chill is not a defense strategy.

Not with that attitude, it isn't.

Five milligrams tops, a mood, not an experience.

Aw, come on, buddy. It's been a long morning.

It's like 23 minutes from Avalon Falls.

A long, emotional morning.

Ugh, fine. One coffee.

Two coffees, please.

You got it. Oh, and what's grandma's pain level? Topicals, edibles, tincture of cosmic relief?

Gummies, CBD heavy.

Perfect. The olds don't need to be any more paranoid than they already are, right?

Also, maybe throw in a little smokable, sativa sticky stuff for later.

No problem. So check it out. Today's coffee choices. We got the Clarity Brew. Citrusy, light tannins, uplifting and clean. Second choice is the Cosmic Latte. Chocolatey dark roast with oat milk and a light dusting of shaved vanilla bean. Yeah, definitely a solid grounding vibe.

Clarity.

Cosmic Latte, please.

Awesome. You two are so synced. I love it.

Kip's the best.

He thinks we're twin flames.

Dude, you know we are synced. Like, why do we even have to have this conversation right now?

Not a real concept.

You don't know that.

I'm a medical professional.

Almost.

Funny, yeah. Laugh it up. What am I thinking right now, then, Jerky?

Hmm.

Oh, oh, oh, yeah. You're thinking that you're having a really great time right now and you wish you could hide it, but you know you could never hide it from me and you hate but love that you have to admit that to me right now.

Holy, holy fucking shit. Yeah, okay, this is good.

Told you.

The cafe is mismatched chairs and grandma couches and local art and a zine pile. It shouldn't be cozy and yet extremely cozy. So, I've been thinking.

Always dangerous.

Ha ha.

Yeah, I was thinking about going back on my meds. You know, like when we get home.

I'm glad to hear that.

Yeah, I know you can't prescribe anything. You're only an almost doctor.

A very almost doctor.

Exactly. And I also know that if I say this out loud, you won't let me flake.

That is correct.

So, this is me saying it. I'll call Dr. Tanaka when we get back. Maybe if I'm gonna solve crimes and break into storage units, I should have my brain chemistry less, you know, choose your own adventure.

This is really good, Amy.

I know. It's just... Whoa, hey, have you looked at some of the art on the walls?

No, but I know what you're thinking.

Hey, Kip, any Driftwood school pieces on these walls?

I don't think so. You know, Mary Beth at Timberline Curios would definitely know. For anything art related in Cedarbrook, she's your person.

Perfect. We'll talk to her.

Here's your gummies. Tell your grandma to stay cosmic. Oh, oh, and I also included some hazy Durban diesel, which is, it's strong, fam. Yeah. I would say try it in a safe space the first time around. Also, you will be laughing for like probably two or three hours, so prepare for that. Okay.

Hey, thanks, dude.

Safe travels, Energy Twins.

We walked to the car feeling lighter because of the coffee, because of the THC, because for a small moment, the world stopped being sharp and started being bearable. We've got leads, we've got caffeine, we've got arthritis gummies for a man who might hold the key to this whole thing. What could possibly go wrong?

To the Curios. And then to Secure Store.

Although like maybe to, I don't know, maybe to Subway first.

And then, and of course, on to Black Cedar, Home of the Damned.

Park, you are a certified lightweight. No offense, babes.

Hey, some offense, okay? Some offense taken. Yeah. The Timberline Welcome Center in Curios Lounge is what happens when someone tries to cram an entire county's identity into one building and refuses to accept the concept of editing. It's chaos, sincere, over-caffeinated bulletin board chaos. Outside, it's all glass and clean lines. Inside, it's a museum exhibit that lost a fight with a yard sale. There's a giant taxidermied bear rearing up by the entrance, a life-sized Bigfoot holding a Welcome to Cedarbrook sign, and at least three racks of brochures promising hikes you probably won't die on. In the corner, there's a Niseka history section. Artifacts, photos, careful captions. It's actually good, respectful, which almost makes everything else feel even more unhinged.

Oh, uh, Mags, look.

It's a book display. Of course it's a book display. Lights Over Osprey Island, A Mags and Amy Mystery, The True Story of Avalon Falls Girl Detectives by Minerva Maddox. Newest edition. Our faces on the cover. Younger, smoother, smiling like we're on the tween detective payroll. There's a little placard just bellowing with all caps energy. Local true crime, the real life teen sleuths who cracked Avalon Falls' biggest case. My jaw tightens so hard I can hear it.

Well, that's unfortunate.

Yeah, of all the atrocities she committed with that book, that new fucking font is the most unforgivable.

Oh my god. Oh my god. You're them. You're them. Mags and Amy. You're Mags and Amy. I can't believe this. I'm Mary Beth. I run this place and I am such a huge fan, like embarrassingly huge. And let me tell you, I have read the book, not one, not two, but oh my stars and bars, five times. Yeah, bonkers, am I right?

Yeah, that's commitment.

It is such a great local story. Yeah. And who knew that tween sleuths were a real thing, right? Who knew you could just like go out and just go do that? I thought it was just some weird old trope.

Well, I mean...

Oh, oh wait. Shut up. No way. Are you, are you working a case right now? Please tell me you're working a case. You're working a case, right?

Oh, well, we can't really, we can't really say, right? You know, confidentiality and all that. Yeah. Uh, I guess? Uh, sure?

Got it. Totally. Confidential. Detective things. Keep it all on the down low. Right, right, right.

Right.

She's early 40s, probably. Pacific Northwestern U hoodie, jeans, crocs with socks. Hair in a messy bun held together by what might be a pencil, might be a wand. I kind of love her. We're actually here for information, like research or whatever.

Research? Perfect. Perfection. Yes. I am obsessed with being useful. What are we talking? Hiking trails, bird migrations, haunted culverts? Oh, there are technically 12 culverts that we list, but only eight of them have been officially designated as haunted.

Looking for more of an art history lesson, rather than geography. What can you tell us about the Driftwood School?

Oh, wow. Okay, okay. Driftwood School, huh? Yes. You have absolutely come to the right place. Come here. Come here. First thing, no, it is not an actual place and or educational institution. Yeah, that's a common misconception. What it is? Well, was, was an art movement based in Tlaquah County. Can you believe that? Picture it. Late 60s, early 70s, radical art collective. They hated galleries, hated gatekeepers, hated the idea that art was just decoration for rich people's walls. So, here's our little Driftwood school space. No actual pieces of art, unfortunately. Yeah, yeah, no. Way too expensive these days. Really hard to find too. Stuff pops up every now and then, though. In Seattle or Portland, San Francisco even sometimes. Yep, they're a kind of, if you know, you know, sort of thing. I-Y-K-Y-K.

The display is tucked between a logging history exhibit and a rack of Bigfoot postcards. A collection of clippings and other paper in a surprisingly well-cleaned glass case. Inside the case, a faded exhibition flyer, a yellowed newspaper clipping, a couple of grainy black and white photos.

What's that say? Driftwood school exhibition, Pineview Diner, Avalon Falls, September 1969.

Pineview Diner, isn't that?

Oh yeah, yeah, yeah, that's the sloppy otter now.

Yep. Diners, libraries, union halls. They wanted regular people to see their work, not just rich folks pretending to understand it over shrimp cocktails and cigars.

Wow. Yeah, this article is, it's actually pretty hostile.

Oh yeah. The County Gazette called them indecent and subversive. But if you actually read it, they were pissed because the art was calling out environmental damage, local corruption, Niseka land theft, all of the stuff no one wants on their pancakes wall.

So they were activists.

Artists and activists. Yep. For them, same thing. Paintings, installations, murals, all just delivery systems for a very pointed message.

A group signature, right? That's just Driftwood School?

Yeah. That was their collective signature. But they never signed individually. Ego was bourgeois. A movement has many voices speaking in unison, not one shouting their own name.

What happened to them?

Early 70s, federal sting, conspiracy charges, incitement, whatever they could throw. Some got arrested. Some vanished. Some just stopped showing up.

And the art?

A lot of it disappeared. Confiscated, lost, accidentally destroyed. Yeah. But about 30 years ago, pieces started turning up on the private market. Dribs and drabs, little auctions, quiet sales.

30 years ago.

Give or take, there's definitely a pattern if you squint hard enough.

And they were based where? Here?

Yep. Mostly here in Cedarbrook. A few satellite spaces around the county, but the main hub was here. Not that you'd find any of the original buildings where they hung out or live now. They've been redeveloped.

Of course they have.

Oh, before I forget, a picture. Please, please, please, for the Wall of Fame. I need you on the Wall of Fame.

Yes, that is a thing I very much want to do. Thank you.

Yay! Amazing! Okay, okay, it's going to be a selfie. And stand right here. I know, I know, retro. But digital is soulless. Polaroids are like tiny ghosts. Okay, smile.

We stand there, arms around each other, smiling like we have any idea what we're doing. For a second, it feels normal. Like we're just on a road trip, not trying to unravel a dead boy's last message.

This is so good. Come on. You have to see the wall.

The wall of fame is jammed with faces. A couple of grunge musicians I vaguely recognize. Some pro athletes, a Seahawks player, couple of trailblazers, I think. A woman in a Sounders jersey flipping off the camera. And then, yeah, there they are.

Is that?

Amber Holt, pageant smile, dead eyes. In another Polaroid, Dylan Holt, slightly stoned, half smirk crooked. Thomas Holt beside him, all clenched jaw and leashed violence. And in another, Minerva Maddox, glowing like she personally invented narrative.

She probably sent them the photo herself.

There, perfect.

I look at our photo, me and Amy, side by side, not kids, not the girls on Minerva's cover. Just us, older, messier, still here. Thank you for all of this. The info, the wall, everything.

Are you kidding? This is the most exciting Thursday of my life. If you ever need more art history, local gossip, best fries in Cedarbrook, I am your woman.

We will absolutely take you up on the best fries thing, for real, for real.

Good luck with whatever you're not investigating. Stay safe, Murder Girls.

Yeah, I still hate that name.

Secure Store Self Storage looks exactly like every other storage facility in America. Rows of identical metal doors, chain link fences, hidden in the weird blend of outskirts between towns. And that smell, concrete rust and other people's abandoned lives. We've been here before. We followed Nora Chen here, watched her vanish into the storage space we're about to enter. There it is, Unit 14.

You ready?

Come on dude, it's me.

Oh god, I forgot about him. How did I forget about him?

Barry Lockjaw.

Nark Bear.

Barry Lockjaw, a 10-foot concrete bear at the entrance, wearing Oakley shades, cargo shorts, and proudly saluting the flag, I would imagine. The statue is probably supposed to evoke, your stuff is safe. It actually gives, I definitely eat lost children, but also find time to make angry YouTube videos about civil governance and public washrooms alone in my pickup truck. Still hidden, barely visible, no pun intended. Okay, maybe some intended. Is Dee Dee's tiny perfect surveillance camera placed deftly in the palm of Barry's giant concrete saluting hand. Shit. We still need to pull Dee Dee's footage from this thing, especially now that we know there's gonna be Dylan footage on there.

Yeah, we watched Nora in real time, and then just never checked the recording, did we?

If she was here while Dylan was using this place?

She definitely knows more than she said.

We pull that footage as soon as we get back.

Yes, for sure, of course, you know, unless like something else ambushes cliffhangers or takes us by surprise, other than that, yes, let's pull that footage, buddy.

I mean, obviously that's what I meant. The building with units 10 to 19 is in the back corner, away from the office, away from the legit working cameras. If you wanted to hide, this is where you'd rent. All right, unit 14, this is it.

What's the code?

2447.

Okay, unlocked, just gotta raise up the door.

On three?

Yep.

One, two, three. Whoa.

Wow.

This isn't a storage unit.

No, it is definitely not.

It's a hideout, a studio, an apartment made of rental space. Someone knocked down the interior walls between three units. Outside, it still looks like three doors. Inside, it's one open room. There's a bed in the corner, a small but solid kitchenette, kettle, mini fridge, small stove, rugs over raw concrete, warm lights replacing harsh functional white lighting, a desk drowning in papers and folders, a corkboard with photos and notes and red string like a conspiracy cliche that got too real, boxes stacked along the walls, Dylan's handwriting on the sides. This is where he was living, or hiding, or both.

He wasn't spiraling. What? Everyone kept saying that. Dylan's spiraling, paranoid, losing it. But look at this. This is organized. This is methodical. He was building a case.

She's right. This isn't the chaos of someone who's lost their mind. This is the work of someone who knows exactly how bad things are and how little time they have.

Well, look at this.

There's a painting propped against the wall, two feet by three, deep greens and blues and browns, forest dark, shapes flowing into each other, Nisika-influenced lines, symbols that feel like they're almost speaking. Yeah, this doesn't look like the cabin stuff.

Different artist, probably. Like Mary Beth said, the Driftwood School was a collective. Multiple artists, one signature.

I pick up a nearby folder, sketches, dozens of them. Dates, 1968, 1969, 1970. Each stamped DS in the corner. Faces, coasts, abstract nightmares. Some quick, some meticulous.

This one, look. Shit. Yeah, the line work, the overlapping shapes, the way the figures blur into each other.

Same artist as the cabin.

Yes, yeah, and the otter's washroom, too.

He was tracking them, whoever they were.

Definitely, but this one particularly. Look, this file box is nothing but work and photos of work by the mural artist.

You're right. All the different artists' stuff is collected over there together. Good catch, Park.

Aw, thanks, friend.

Dylan Holt, hunting ghosts through old newspapers and forgotten art, trying to protect work by someone the town never even bothered to credit.

There's a bunch of non-art related stuff over here, a list on top.

It's a bunch of sites to check. Oh, but yeah, there are a lot of familiar faces on here. Wellness Initiative, Avalon Research Associates, Black Cedar Residences.

No way. And look, beside it underlined like a million fucking times his threshold, so yeah, significant.

Dylan was ahead of us, by miles.

And he knew exactly how dangerous that was.

We stand there staring at his handwriting. Places he meant to go, questions he never got to answer. Mags, there's a rubber banded stack of polaroids in a shallow box on the desk. At least 50 of them. They all have notes written in a now all too familiar red pen. Connected? Ask about this. Check insurance records.

Whoa, whoa, wait, back up, that one.

Jake Mitchell, grinning warmly behind the bar at the otter. Looks like Dylan just asked everyone for a pick and they just straight up trusted him. Like this was going to go on one of the fridges in the Holt mansion with its own specially picked out SpongeBob magnet or some shit. Below Jake's usual sleaze-adjacent charm is written, who is 157 with three question marks.

157, that's the number Jake kept getting texts from. Dylan was on to that too.

We don't have time to decode all of this now.

Then we take them and decode later.

Hey, check this out, business card, no name, just a phone number, local area code. Yeah, nothing's sus at all.

We calling it?

Not here, not yet. We move fast, art folders, the Polaroids, the business card, into Mags tote, shove, shove, shove. We don't have time to understand it. We just have to get it somewhere that isn't here. That's when the back of my neck goes cold. Mags, we need to go.

What? Now. What?

We turn away from the door and they're already there.

Amy, what the fuck?

No. Nope. No.

They're sliding out from between the rows of units, from the gaps, from behind Barry Lockjaw. Eight, nine, maybe more. Cedarbrook High Letterman jackets, Cedarbrook High Wolves mascot masks. Those masks, the same ones from when we were kids, the ones that chased us through the woods, the ones that haunt my nightmares.

Oh, fuck.

Go, go. Oh, fuck.

They don't run. They stroll.

Slow.

Deliberate. Like this is inevitable, not urgent. That's when I noticed they're all carrying some kind of leather straps. Thicker than a belt. Like those pieces of leather they sharpen razors with.

Shit, shit, shit, fucking shit.

This can fuck all the way off. Belts hit the car. Doors, hood, trunk. Again and again, each strike a gunshot made of leather and stone. One of them steps right in front of the yards, raises his belt high like he's winding up.

Mags on three.

No.

One.

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

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

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

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

You maybe, I'll be totally fine.

Yeah, that tracks.