Small Town Tween Detective Powers Activate!

Murder Girls is created, written and produced by Eternal Teenager. Content warning, this episode contains discussions of murder, references to past trauma, references to substance use, threatening situations, descriptions of a home invasion and property damage. It also contains mild language and references to a character experiencing hallucinations. Listener discretion is advised. Previously on Murder Girls, Avalon Falls is one of those towns where the mists never quite lift. My dad's been dead for 10 years. My brain likes to conjure him up when I skip my meds. The doctors call it a complex neurological manifestation due to traumatic brain injury.

My recently departed aunt Didi left me her curiosity shop.

Mags Park is back in town.

Mags will get in, deal with the shop, get out. Clean break, no complications. Hey, Holt!

O'Connell, seriously? You're following me now?

You think I haven't noticed your dad swooping in every time someone in this town can't make rent? Uh, uh, killed. I've got...

She needs help. She's having a seizure.

When I needed you the most, you were just fucking gone. Gone for 10 fucking years.

The accident happened and your dad died. Amy, I thought you were going to die.

Look at us. We survived our big reunion. If the main floor is this weird, imagine what Didi kept in the basement.

Whoa, what is all this?

This is some serious shit, Mags. Your aunt was like fucking Batman.

These feeds? They're from all over AF.

All units.

We have a 10-54 at the harbor.

10-54?

Whoa, whoa, whoa.

That's a body.

That's a Tesla. That's Dylan Holt's fucking Tesla. Dylan.

Think, Mags. We're sitting on an illegal surveillance system that was watching the exact spot where a murder victim was last seen.

We just pretend we don't know anything.

We don't just pretend. We investigate like we used to.

This isn't finding out who stole the school mascot, Amy.

Fuxxing right. And if it's connected to everything else, then we might be the only ones who can actually solve it. Come on, Mags. You feel it too.

And the worst part is, she's right. Woohoo!

Murder Girls! Back in action!

Please don't call us that.

Murder Girls. Episode 3, Small Town Tween Detective Powers Activate. Insomnia is a funny thing. People always complain about it like it's this huge inconvenience. And yeah, don't get me wrong, it sucks not being able to shut your brain off when everyone else is getting their beauty sleep. But when you have a massive surveillance network at your fingertips and a murder to solve, suddenly being wide awake at 5 a.m. feels like a fucking superpower. Actually, it's 8 47 a.m. now, according to the ancient clock on Didi's wall. Haven't slept more than two hours, but that's nothing new. I've spent the night piecing together footage from Didi's surveillance system, trying to make sense of what happened to Dylan Holt. Not because I give a single shit about Dylan. Trust me, I don't. But because in this town, nothing happens in isolation. Every death is connected. I learned that the hard way. I'm not a film editor. I don't know shit about splicing videos together or whatever, but hours of staring at grainy security footage gives you a weird kind of focus. Like, if I just keep watching, keep clicking through the different feeds, eventually the killer will just materialize on screen, holding a sign that says I did it with a helpful arrow pointing to their face. I've managed to piece together various clips from before and after the murder. The docs are like a maze of different walkways. Some well lit, others dark as shit, even in the day. There are blind spots in Didi's coverage. You know, she was surprisingly good, but she wasn't a god. The actual moment Dylan was shot, missing. But I've got him arriving at 11.15, parking his stupid Tesla and then checking his phone about a dozen times like he's waiting for someone, just like he did earlier in the night when Mags and I first discovered this insane setup in the basement. Then he walks off into the blind darkness. Then there's a gap. And then this. It's not easy to watch, even for me, even knowing it's Dylan fucking Holt. He's dragging himself across the planks, one han d clutching his chest. There's a trail of blood behind him. He collapses once, twice, keeps going. He's determined, trying to reach something. His car maybe? His last moment's caught in low res black and white, captured by my dead friend's secret cameras.

You really think this is a good idea, kiddo?

My dad's voice comes from behind me. I don't turn around. I know he's not really there, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have a point sometimes. What, dad investigating a murder? You know we've done it before, right?

When you were 12. And if I recall correctly, it didn't exactly work out great for everyone involved.

We saved the town from a massive drug smuggling operation, dude.

And destroyed its economy in the process. Turned yourselves into pariahs.

Right, because the fishing industry collapsing was totally our fault and not the fault of the fucking adults using it to smuggle drugs. Okay, man.

I'm not saying you were wrong to do what you did. I'm just saying there were consequences. There always are.

Yeah. I know all about consequences.

What you're doing now, what you've been doing for the last 10 years, it's not about justice, Amy. It's about vengeance.

And what's fucking wrong with that? They killed you, dad. They made it look like a fucking accident and no one believed me. Not the cops, not the town, not even-

Not even Mags.

Yeah. Not even her.

And now she's back. She's here wanting to help. But you haven't told her, have you, about the video?

Look, I'm going to, okay? When the time is right.

You're keeping secrets from her already, just like Didi kept secrets from both of you.

No, it's not the same thing.

Lies of a mission are still lies, Ames.

Little late for character development, don't you think?

It's never too late to choose who you want to be.

She's up. Go away.

Be careful, Amethyst. Not everyone deserves your trust, but not everyone deserves your suspicion.

Mags is coming downstairs. I quickly close the window with the footage of Dylan's final moments. Not sure she's ready to see that yet, or maybe I'm not ready for her to see me watching it.

Were you talking to someone?

Just myself, you know, wandering the scary halls of my old mind palace.

What time is it?

Little after nine. There's coffee upstairs. It's old, but that gives it character, right?

So, you've been doing this all night?

I mean, I wasn't going to sleep much anyway.

Amy.

Check this out. Check this out. I've got something to show you. I've been putting together a visual timeline of Dylan's last hour or so. There are a lot of gaps, but we've got him arriving at the docks at 1115, then nothing until 1137, when, well, you know, shooty killy happens.

When what?

When he's dragging himself across the pier, bleeding out. I'm guessing he was shot somewhere else on the docks, probably in one of the blind spots in Didi's Surveillance Network.

Jesus, Amy, how can you be so clinical about this?

What, you want me to get all weepy over Dylan Holt?

No, but he didn't deserve to die like that. And how do you know he was shot? Is there footage of that?

Huh, well, I guess there isn't any footage of it or whatever, or any of him being attacked. But yeah, I guess I just assumed he was shot. See, good thing you're here now.

So he was stabbed or, you know, shot most likely, since it looks like he bled out from what we can tell, right?

Yeah, well, I found something else. Watch this part. See that at the edge of the frame?

Whoa, is that a person?

Someone was there watching him die, didn't help, didn't call for assistance, just watched. Fucking twisted, dude. Shit.

The killer?

Or a witness? Too scared to come forward or even call a fucking ambulance?

Either way, it's something the police probably don't know yet. Yeah, that part of the docs is a maze, not to mention, you know, it's abandoned. Lots of blind spots. Makes sense why someone would choose to meet there at night if they didn't want to be seen.

Right? And check out his path. He wasn't heading randomly. He was trying to get somewhere specific.

Wait, wait. Go all the way back to the earlier footage, like when he first arrives. There, he's carrying something.

What, like a bag?

Yes, yeah, yeah, like a satchel or portfolio case, see? But he doesn't have it in the later footage when he's, you know.

So whatever was in it might be what got him killed.

And it's missing now. Maybe the killer took it?

You know what else is weird? How fast the police showed up. The timestamps on these videos show they arrived at the scene less than 10 minutes after Dylan collapsed. I know the AFPD are like the worst, but even fucking Robocop couldn't show up that fast. I mean, dated reference, but you get my point, right?

Someone called it in or Dylan did?

I don't know, man. The figure we saw didn't appear to be calling anyone. And Dylan's hands were a capote, you know?

I don't like this, Amy. None of this adds up.

Exactly, which means we're onto something.

Whoa, sorry. I haven't eaten since I can't even remember.

You haven't had the full return to Avalon Falls experience until you've had breakfast at Lula's.

Amy, I don't know about all this. We're not the fucking police, right? We don't have their resources. We don't have like any authority. And this is already a super high profile murder investigation.

Dude, have we not already established that the cops in this burg suit?

This is different from when we were kids, Amy.

Which is exactly why we can't back away. Someone murdered the heir to the most powerful of the powerful families in town right after he was seen at your aunt's shop. You think that's a coincidence?

I think I need food before I can think about anything else.

Lulz, it is then. My treat.

Your treat?

Figure of speech. You're buying.

Of course I am.

To the murder mobile.

Lula's Diner hasn't changed. The perfect morning sunlight dancing along the same worn vinyl booths, the same slightly sticky menus, the same smell of the most delicious and perfectly greasy food. Even though I'm starving, there's a knot in my stomach that has nothing to do with hunger. Less than an hour ago, we were watching grainy footage of Dylan Holt's final moments. And now, we're about to eat pancakes. The mundanity of it feels almost disrespectful. But I guess that's how life works. Murder one minute, maple syrup the next.

Mags Park, I heard you were back in town, but I had to see it with my own eyes. How you doing, girl?

Hi, Mrs. Reyes. I'm well. It's good to see you.

Come on now, call me Lula, please. You know calling me Mrs. Reyes just makes me feel old. I'm so sorry about Didi. She was one of the good ones. So full of life and the best gossip, right?

Huh, yes. Yeah, I guess that's true. Thank you. I miss her so much already.

And you, Amy O'Connell, two days in a row? Usually I have Val drag you in here to make sure you're eating something besides those fall smart hot dogs.

What can I say? I'm growing as a person, expanding my culinary horizons beyond gas station street meat.

Well, you girls sit tight. Coffee is coming and I'm bringing you my special huevos rancheros. No arguments. And yes, Amy, I'm bringing a double stack of the pancakes.

Obviously, she is exactly the same, right?

I try not to abuse it.

But yeah, this place is kind of like my home away from, you know, I watch Amy dump an obscene amount of sugar into her coffee. Some things never change. She's vibrating with barely contained energy. Her fingers tapping against the mug, eyes darting to every person who enters the diner. Meanwhile, I feel like I'm moving through molasses. My brain still trying to process everything we've learned. So what do we know so far?

Dylan Holt shows up at Lucens yesterday around 4 p.m. Most likely to give you a big ol check and make all your Eat Prey barf aspirations come true. No offense, babes.

Some offense.

Hours later, he shows up at the docks, maybe probably to meet someone.

But they stand him up and he leaves.

Right. Then hours after that, at about 11.15, he's back at the docks again. And again, it looks like he's meeting someone.

Is he meeting the same person or someone else? That's still to be determined, I guess. Pretty important though. Yeah, yes.

He leaves the parking area a little after that to meet our mystery person probably. Instead, he gets shot. Oh, pardon me, good lady. He gets shot or stabbed and drags himself back across the pier before dying.

Someone, maybe the mystery person, maybe the killer, maybe they're the same person, watches the whole thing. Police arrive suspiciously quickly. Oh, and he had some kind of satchel that's now missing.

Okay, so a pre-arranged meeting or meetings? And that part of the docks isn't exactly a casual hangout spot. So who would Dylan be meeting secretly and why?

You still holding on to that buying balloons from a clown for a surprise party theory?

Ha, ha, laugh all you want. His mom's birthday is coming up. And again, don't ask me how I know that. And let's not pretend that clowns aren't obviously as murderous as they are terrifying.

Okay, okay, agreed. So maybe it was a drug deal gone wrong? No, he likes to party a bit, right? Liked to party a bit, I mean.

I feel like Dilly never bought his own drugs, but who knows? I suppose it's possible. Oh, oh, maybe it was a blackmail exchange. Dylan had dirt on someone or someone had dirt on him.

That could explain the satchel, right? You know, it could have contained evidence or money. As Amy spins increasingly elaborate theories and our food arrives, I noticed something. People are staring at us, not overtly, but in that small town way where they think they're being subtle, but absolutely are not. Quick glances over coffee mugs, whispered conversations behind menus. I had almost forgotten what it felt like, being the town spectacle. Amy, people are watching us.

Yeah, and? The mouth-breathers in this town probably have nothing better to do. Probably been gosping about your return since you crossed the city limits. Next, they're probably going to ask you to sign Minerva's fucking book or throw it at you.

No, it's different. It's like they know something.

Oh, right. News travels fast. They definitely know about Dylan by now. My aunt Kathy even texted me about it earlier.

And they're seeing two former child detectives huddled in a booth the morning after the air to the town's most powerful family was murdered.

Let them stare. Maybe they'll think twice about crossing us.

That's exactly the opposite of what we want, Amy. We need to be careful not draw attention to ourselves. And I'm beginning to wonder if that's, you know, even fucking possible, to be honest.

Speaking of Holtz.

The atmosphere in the diner shifts instantly as Thomas Holt walks in. Dylan's uncle, brother of Richard, the acting head of the Holt family. He's in his mid 40s with the kind of cold, good looks that belong in a luxury watch advertisement, all sharp angles and expensive clothing. Even in my limited interactions with the Holtz growing up, I remember Thomas as the intimidating one, the dangerous one.

Thomas, I am so sorry about Dylan. Please give our condolences to your family, especially Richard. Your order will be ready in a few minutes.

Thank you, Lula. I appreciate that.

There's something off about Thomas, even for someone whose nephew was just murdered. His movements are too controlled, his expression too neutral, like he's fighting to keep something contained beneath the surface.

Well, look who it is. Tommy Holtz slumming with the commoners.

Oh, Amy.

Amy O'Connell. Still the town's favorite train wreck, I see.

Rough night, Tommy. You look like someone died.

And Marguerite Park, back from the big city. Well, now, that certainly is interesting timing, isn't it?

I'm sorry for your loss, Thomas.

I'm sure you are. You know, O'Connell, the sheriff has some questions about your whereabouts last night.

Is that a threat, Tommy?

Just a friendly observation. I'd be careful if I were you. Both of you. My family's mourning now, but we don't forget. Never have.

And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?

It means history has a way of repeating itself in Avalon Falls. Some lessons apparently need to be taught more than once.

Amy's whole body becomes as taut and sharp as a knocked arrow, like she's about to launch herself across the diner at Thomas. I can see it building in her. That same recklessness that always got us into trouble as kids. Her knuckles are white around her coffee mug, and there's a vein pulsing at her temple. I put my hand on her arm trying to steady her, but it's like trying to hold back a tsunami with a paper towel.

Thomas, your order's ready to go.

We'll be in touch, ladies. Please save the date for Dylan's funeral on Friday. The whole town will be there. It would be conspicuous to miss it.

That smug, entitled prick.

Don't let him get to you, chica. The holds are hurting right now, even if they show it in the worst ways.

They're not hurting. They're planning, calculating who to blame, how to use this to their advantage.

Eat your food before it gets cold. Problems can wait until after breakfast.

Uh, are you okay?

Fine.

She's not fine. I can see it in the tight line of her shoulders. The way she's stabbing at her eggs like they personally offended her. Amy's always been a terrible liar. 10 years hasn't changed that.

I need to go through all the footage from yesterday. Trace Dylan's movements from the moment he left Loose Ends until he ended up at the docks. There has to be something we're missing.

And then what? What exactly are we trying to accomplish here, Amy?

We're trying to solve a murder. Was that not obvious, dude?

But why? Even if we do somehow figure it out, what then?

Because it's connected, all of it. Dylan, the Osprey Island case, my dad's accident, Omnia. It's all part of the same picture, and I'm going to prove it.

That's a pretty big leap, Amy.

Is it? You really think it's a coincidence that Dylan Holt shows up at your aunt's shop looking for you and hours later he's dead?

Look, I think we need to be careful about seeing patterns where there might not be any. And I think I think we need to consider what happens if we do find something, you know? The Holt's aren't just some random family. They own this town.

Exactly why someone needs to stand up to them.

Yes. Yeah. But I just don't want us to get in over our heads or or for you to get hurt.

I don't need you to protect me, Mags. I've been taking care of myself for 10 years.

There it is. The barb I've been waiting for. 10 years of absence thrown back at me like a splash of cold water. I deserve it, but it still stings. I know you have, Amy. I just I care what happens to you.

Look, I know you're worried, but I've got this figured out. You just got to trust me, Chica. Come on, let's pay and go. There's someone we should speak with before we do anything else. And when I say let's pay, I of course mean you pay. And by you, I mean Mags Park. So yeah, settle up, hot stuff.

As we head toward the door, I can still feel eyes on us. The town pariahs. The Murder Girls, back at it again. Part of me wants to shrink away from those stairs to tell Amy we should just let this go. But another part, the part that still remembers the thrill of piecing together clues of uncovering secrets, that part is growing stronger by the minute. Out on the street, the autumn air is brisk, carrying the scent of saltwater from the beach and the harbor. Amy is already several steps ahead, talking animatedly about surveillance blind spots and timelines. I'm about to follow when something catches my eye across the street. Amy, look.

Whoa, what's this?

Outside the sloppy otter, Avalon Falls' favorite dive bar, two people are engaged in what appears to be a heated argument. Even from this distance, there's no mistaking Amber Holt, Dylan's stepmother. She's dressed casually, but her designer sunglasses and perfectly highlighted hair scream money. The man she's arguing with is leaning against the wall, a study in calculated nonchalance despite Amber's obvious fury.

Quick, over here!

Who is that guy?

Jake Mitchell, bartender at the sloppy otter, local fuckboy, minor league drug dealer.

I mean, they seem like a thing, no? So what, Amber Holt is having an affair with a bartender?

Not just any bartender. A bartender with a criminal record and a talent for being wherever the trouble is. Can you see what he's doing now?

Um, yeah, he's just standing there, smoking.

So what are they saying? Can you hear?

I can't. Um, you're just really close right now.

What? Am I making you nervous, Mags?

No, I just, it's been a while since I've done the whole hiding in doorways thing. Yes. Yeah.

You smell the same, you know, different shampoo maybe, but still, you.

You smell like coffee and cigarettes. And is that... did you steal perfume samples from the drugstore again?

Old habit.

Oh, wait. I think I can hear them now. Amber throws up her hands in frustration, then turns to leave. Jake grabs her arm, not violently, but firmly. Something passes between them. A look I can't quite interpret from this distance. Then Amber wrenches free, storms toward a sleek silver SUV parked nearby and drives off with a squeal of tires. Drama. Gotta be connected to Dylan, right?

Trophy wife arguing with her sketchy side piece less than 12 hours after her stepson is murdered. That's not just suspicious, that's gift wrapped with a fucking bow.

Jake doesn't seem too bothered that she left.

I mean, he's kind of on the dumb side of the brain spectrum, but who knows? We can add them to the list. Come on, let's go.

As I follow Amy down the street, I can't help but think that we're walking a dangerous line. People are watching us. The Holtz are watching us. And somewhere in Avalon Falls, a killer is watching too. I just hope we see them before they see us.

My car is like a time capsule of the last decade, or a dumpster, depending on who you ask. But hey, she runs. The 2005 Yaris might be the least impressive vehicle ever manufactured, but after the accident, after dad died, Aunt Cathy helped me sell the house, and I ended up with a place to live, a car that runs, and enough money to stretch things when odd jobs don't cover the bills or my meds. Not exactly the American dream or whatever, but it's something.

Where exactly are we going?

Osprey Point.

Wait, really? Why?

Gonna meet with, well, like maybe the only real ally we have left in this town. Mags is fidgeting with the broken glove compartment that never quite latches properly. Some habits never die. Even as kids, she always needed something to occupy her hands when she was nervous. I wanna tell her it's gonna be okay, but the truth is, I don't know that. I haven't known that anything was gonna be okay for a very long time.

Honestly, I can't believe Osprey Point is still there. I thought for sure the Holtz would have developed it into condos by now.

I mean, it's not for a lack of fucking trying. It's protected land now, thanks to the Nisika Nation, one of the few battles the Holtz actually lost. I'm sure they haven't forgotten and are just waiting for the right time to get their revenge.

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

Claire Nichols. Officer Nichols, technically, though she's retired now.

Whoa, wait, from the Osprey Island case? She was the only cop who actually believed us.

Exactly. She was the only one who took two 12-year-olds seriously when we showed up with evidence of a drug smuggling operation. And now she's probably the only ex-cop in town who won't immediately report back to the Holtz if we ask questions about Dylan's murder.

You've stayed in touch with her all these years?

She's kind of been the only person who didn't think I was crazy when I started talking about Dad's accident being murder.

Amy, do you think Claire will actually tell us anything about the investigation?

She might. She's got connections still. And she knows I'm not going to stop looking into this either way. Better to give me some guardrails than let me run wild.

And she knows that's why we're coming to see her?

Well, she knows we're coming. The rest, like, we'll figure out.

Oh, is that? It's still there? Wow.

We drive past the old campground where everything started. Where two curious 12-year-olds on a weekend camping trip saw strange lights over Osprey Island and thought they'd found aliens or ghosts or something supernatural. Instead, we found something much worse. Something human.

It's so, like, I don't know, weird, you know, that the whole thing happened. I mean, right? Sometimes I just feel like if it actually was you know, aliens or ghosts, somehow. Somehow it would just be less.

Fucked up.

Yes, yeah, yeah. Somehow a crazy biker gang meth operation using the town's downtrodden fishermen as smugglers and its mysterious island as a staging ground was more fucked up.

And they would have gotten away with it too if it wasn't for us pesky kids. I can almost see us there. Two kids with flashlights and boundless curiosity huddled on this bluff watching mysterious lights moving across the water and in the sky above the island. Before we knew about drug smugglers using the cannery as a distribution hub for the entire Pacific Northwest. Before we knew what exposing them would do to the town, before we became the Murder Girls. As we pull up to Claire's cabin, I can see her sitting on the porch, looking out over the water toward Osprey Island, the source of so much trouble, the catalyst that set everything in motion. She looks older now, but still has that same alert posture like she's ready to jump into action at any moment.

I was wondering when you two would turn up.

Yeah, you know, it took a scooch longer than expected. Town's all a-buzzing.

Right. And Marguerite Park. Look at you all grown up.

Oh, it's good to see you, Officer Nichols.

Just Claire now, been retired eight years. I'm sorry about your aunt. Didi was, she was a good woman.

Oh, thank you.

Okay, okay, come on in. Something tells me this isn't a social call.

Claire's cabin is exactly what you'd expect from a retired cop who's seen too much. Practical, orderly, but with surprising touches of warmth. Handmade quilts folded neatly over the backs of chairs. Framed photographs alongside what I know are concealed gun safes. A perfect mix of comfort and caution.

Coffee?

Always.

Yes, please.

So Dylan Holt, I'm guessing that's why you're here.

That obvious, huh?

Yeah, you got that look.

Fine, fine. We want to know what's going on with the investigation.

You two need to stay away from this. Far away.

Well, why? What's going on?

For starters, you, Amy, you're already on their radar. Sheriff Carter's been asking about your whereabouts last night.

That's ridiculous. We were together the whole time.

That may be, but it might not be enough to get Carter off your back.

Okay, so what do they actually know?

Not much I can share, but I'll tell you this. Dylan was shot twice in the chest. No shell casings found yet. Looks like he was attacked in one part of the docks, then managed to drag himself quite a distance before he died. Medical examiner thinks he was trying to reach his car.

Shot, huh?

Oh my God.

Anything missing from the scene?

His phone's gone. Otherwise doesn't look like a robbery.

If his phone is missing, how did the police find out so quickly?

Good question, girl. I'm wondering, how did you know it was called in so soon?

Oh, um, yeah, yes, the ha.

I mean, we heard sirens and commotion around midnight or whatever, didn't everyone?

Right. Turns out it was an anonymous tip. Came in around 1145. AI voice app, basically untraceable.

So either the killer called it in, or...

Or a witness who didn't want to get involved.

Do they have any suspects?

Yeah, I mean, outside of little ol me, of course.

Listen, Sheriff Carter's way out of his depth, the man's never led a major investigation, let alone a homicide, and definitely not one involving the town's royal family. So there aren't a lot of names they're throwing around yet. That's why you need to watch yourselves.

So, really? No one? No suspects?

You know, outside of Amy? No offense, babes.

Some offense.

Look, first off, you need to be careful, okay? This isn't some Scooby-Doo shit right now.

Sure, sure. You know, that's a little disappointing, but okay, got it.

I'm serious, Amy. First, they're looking closely at Nora Chen.

Who's that?

Apparently, she's Dylan's girlfriend, used to be his professor.

Well, that's inappropriate.

Be that as it may, she lives up in Cedarbrook, and the sheriff wants her to come in for an interview today.

Okay, anyone else?

I don't want to speak ill of the dead, but people who are not a suspect is probably a shorter list.

Yeah, that tracks.

Sadly.

Claire, we need to see the crime scene.

Absolutely not. Are you high right now? Do not answer that.

Not answering.

It's still an act of crime scene. Sis, literally the whole damn police department and half of Cedarbrook PD are there poking around. Evidence is still being processed. Then there's the fact that, and I can't believe I have to mention this for what's the third time in this conversation, you are a suspect.

Claire, come on. Even with the Cedarbrook cops here, they're still understaffed and, let's be real, super incompetent. Half of them are probably Holt puppets anyway.

Amy.

You know I'm right. How many cases have they actually solved? Without someone else doing the work for them?

Yes. Yeah. You said it yourself. Sheriff Carter is inexperienced and out of his element.

And you just know we're going to notice something they haven't. We got the witchy site and all that.

I am... Wait.

Wait. Are you about to say, I am too old for this shit?

I am not in any way at any time of day helping you both onto an act of crime scene. I'm sorry. And you do well to back off of this, even though I know you will not.

I mean, we'll definitely take it under advisement.

Yeah. Yeah. Oh, hey. Is this your boat?

Yeah. The seahorse finally finished restoring her last month.

So you'll be leaving soon?

Maybe. Been thinking about taking her down the coast, maybe to Mexico.

Is she docked, you know, like near the crime scene or whatever?

Amy.

Come on, Claire Bear. It would be a great vantage point. Where is she docked?

Nowhere near the crime scene. Look on the map. The seahorse is here. The crime scene is here. That's on the other side of the docks. Sorry to take that delusion away from you.

Ah, well, just a squirrel trying to get a nut, right?

Ha! Worth a shot.

Listen to me, both of you. Whatever you think you're doing, whatever bong-smoking Nancy Drew punk-ass bullshit fantasy you're reliving, stop. It's not worth it. And it will get you in jail or worse.

We're just trying to understand what happened.

I know, Marguerite, but people get killed for understanding too much in this place. You know that better than most, Amy.

I know. Hey, look, thanks, Clare, for telling us what you could. I do appreciate it.

Be careful. I mean it. Watch out for each other. Better yet, maybe just drive that piece of shit off into the sunset. Both of you.

Uh, yeah, we can't do that.

Not yet, anyway.

I know, I know. You never could walk away from a mystery. Keep her in check, okay? She listens to you.

I'll try.

And Amy, I know what you're thinking. Do not go near that crime scene. Don't even go to the harbor.

Who, me? Never.

Bye!

We are totally going to the harbor, right? Right? Right.

Oh my God. Were you not listening to anything Claire just said?

Claire's just being cautious. Cop habits die hard. And anyway, fuck the police, right?

No, Amy, this is where I draw the line, okay? We've been warned off by Thomas Holt, right? We've been told the sheriff is already looking at you as a person of interest in a murder investigation. And now, now, a retired cop we trust is explicitly telling us to stay away from the act of crime scene.

So what, we just give up? Let whoever killed Dylan get away with it?

It's not giving up. It's being smart. Let's go back to the shop, review the footage we have, look for other angles, reconstruct the larger timeline.

We need to see the crime scene, Mags. There's got to be something there that we can't see on cameras.

This isn't like when we were kids. This is a real murder investigation. And a super complicated one that we both know is just tangled up in that toxic web that tangles up this town.

You think I don't know that? You think I don't understand the stakes?

I think you're so focused on connecting this to everything else, to your dad, to the Holtz, that you're not thinking clearly.

Not thinking clearly? That's rich coming from you. You've spent the last decade running away from this town, from everything that happened here. I've been living it every single day.

Amy.

Excuse me if I'm not willing to just sit back and let them get away with another cover up.

Look, okay, I understand you're angry. You have every right to be. But this recklessness, how you behaved with Thomas, you completely lost control.

I did not lose control.

Yes, you did, and it scares me, Amy. And it's not because I think you're wrong, okay? It's because I care about what happens to you.

You care? Where was that care for the last 10 years?

That's not fair.

Maybe not, but this isn't about fairness. It's about justice. For Dylan, yes, but also for my dad. For everyone, the Holtz have hurt.

Justice and vengeance aren't the same thing, Amy.

The words hit me like a punch to the gut, echoing what my hallucination of dad said earlier. It's like Mags can still read my mind after all these years apart, still know exactly which nerve to hit. I know the difference, all right?

Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're willing to put yourself in danger, to risk everything, just to make the Holtz pay. That's not justice. That's revenge.

Maybe I deserve a little revenge.

But at what cost? You had a seizure yesterday, Amy. You're not sleeping. I'm worried about you.

I don't need a fucking doctor, Mags.

Maybe not, but you need a friend. Someone who will tell you when you're going too far. You're going to get hurt if you keep pushing yourself like this, or you're going to get someone else hurt.

Look, what if I promise to be more careful? You know, no unnecessary risks, no confrontations. We just investigate, like gather information.

Amy.

I mean it. I'll rein it in, but you have to promise not to give up on the investigation. We need to see this through.

Yes. Yeah. But at the first sign of real danger, we back off. Deal?

Dealio.

Uh, wait, so why are we still heading toward the harbor?

Because I'm a woman of my word. I promised not to take unnecessary risks, but I never promised not to take necessary ones.

Amy, come on.

Relax. I just want to check out the harbor master's office. It overlooks the crime scene. No need to actually go near the police tape.

And how exactly are we getting into the harbor master's office?

The old one's been abandoned for years. No one's going to notice a couple of sleuths slipping in a broken window. Am I right?

That's why you asked Claire all those questions about her boat and the harbor map.

See? I can be strategic when I want to be.

Oh, yes, yes. This is still a terrible idea.

Probably, but it's better than your idea of just going home and staring at Didi's footage all day.

How are you still exactly the same as when we were 12?

Some things never change, babes. Some things never should. As we head toward the harbor, I can feel the weight of everything pressing down on me. Dad's death, Dylan's murder, the secrets Didi kept, the town's history. But for the first time in years, I don't feel like I'm carrying it alone. And that might be worth more than vengeance after all.

The harbor hasn't changed much in 10 years, just gotten more dilapidated. Abandoned warehouses, their paint peeling, windows broken, everything slouching more and more toward the sadly gray and polluted waves of the ocean. Police tape flutters in the breeze around Pier 3, marking where Dylan Holt spent his final moments. Two patrol officers stand guard at the entrance to the docks, looking bored but alert. CSI technicians in white sterile suits move across the scene, cataloging, photographing, collecting. All very professional, all very thorough, all completely undermining Amy's theory about incompetent small town cops.

This way, stay low.

Remind me again how this isn't an unnecessary risk.

Uh, because we're nowhere near the actual crime scene. We're just observing from a strategic vantage point.

Amy moves with surprising stealth, ducking behind stacks of old pallets. I follow, feeling simultaneously ridiculous, terrified and exhilarated.

Sweet, Harbormaster's office. Come on, it should be unlocked. This place has been a party spot for years.

The office is a wreck. Decades of neglect compounded by years of teenage parties. Graffiti covers the walls, empty beer cans and cigarette butts litter the floor. But the windows, grimy as they are, offer a perfect view of Pier 3 and the crime scene.

Ugh, it smells like dead rat in here.

Probably because there is indeed at least one dead rat in here. Yeah, yeah, over there.

I've seen and smelled worse. Check it out. We can see everything from here.

That's where they found him. Oh, brutal. You can see the blood stains.

And look, there's the trail leading back to where he was actually shot. Can't really see where that was exactly though.

That's a long way to drag yourself them, with like two bullet wounds in the chest.

Adrenaline, plus Dylan was always stubborn. Remember when he broke his arm at the county fair and still finished the three-legged race?

You remember that?

Hard to forget. The whole fucking town wouldn't shut up about it for months.

From our elevated position, we can see the whole layout of the crime scene. The Tesla's parking spot, now empty. The long blood stain trailing across the weathered planks. The spot where Dylan finally collapsed. But something about it doesn't make sense. Amy, look at the blood trail. It's slight, but from up here, you can see that it actually isn't heading toward the parking lot. See? It starts to arc a bit away from it, but he died before.

Oh, hey, yeah, you're right. So what, he wasn't trying to get back to his car?

Unclear, but maybe he was heading toward that dock over there, I guess. The small one that branches off.

Why would he go that way when his car was in the opposite direction, though?

I mean, it's impossible to say without knowing, or at least seeing what's over there, which we can't from, like, here.

You're totally right, Mags. We need to get a closer look.

Amy, no, we promised. No unnecessary risks.

Dude, this is totally necessary. What if there's something the cops missed?

Dude, what are we going to notice that they didn't?

Dude, we noticed the trail was going the wrong way. Look, we don't have to get close to the actual crime scene. Just check out that other dock, see where it leads. Hmm. Just got to figure out a way to do that without being seen by the cops.

Uh, we could steal a boat.

Whoa, wait, what? You want to steal a boat?

I mean, not steal steal, you know, like borrow steal. Look, there are rescue dinghies all over the place. We'll just, you know, take one for a quick spin to get a better view. Then, and of course, we'll return it. Yes, yeah.

Marguerite Park suggesting Grand Theft Nautical? I think I'm in love.

Well, Desperate Times and all that.

I love this plan. If anyone asks, we'll just say we're stoned and got lost looking for Claire's boat.

That's your cover story?

Who's going to suspect two faded young women in a rowboat?

That feels like a fundamentally flawed perspective. We make our way down to where several small boats are tied up, mostly maintenance skiffs and rescue dinghies used for emergency response. Amy selects one with oars rather than a motor because it's less conspicuous. I'm not convinced that two women rowing around an active crime scene is inconspicuous in any way, but at this point, I'm committed to the plan.

Get in, quick.

Ah, right, right. Huh, I have no idea how to row.

Just follow my lead. Opposite sides, opposite directions.

Yes, yes, that just totally explains it. Amy is surprisingly competent, directing us away from the main docks and toward the smaller pier that Dylan's blood trail seemed to be heading toward. We stay far enough from the crime scene to avoid immediate detection, but close enough to see some details missed from our vantage point in the Harbor Master's office. How are you actually good at this?

Uh, not the first time I've borrowed one of these, or, you know, like other various row boats or water vehicles in the region.

Yeah, yeah, that tracks.

Look there, under the dock.

What is that, something white?

Paper, something blue under there.

Right, so like just trash?

Maybe, maybe not, we need to check.

There are cops like right over there, Amy.

Nah, nah, nah, they're not paying attention. Just hold us steady. I'm gonna reach for it.

Whoa, careful.

Got it.

Hey, what's that? Amy.

Oh boy, row, row.

We row with sudden coordination, born of pure adrenaline, making our way back to the abandoned section of the harbor. The police are shouting something about restricted areas and harbor patrol, but I don't think they can see us as we make our way through the blind spots of the docks. My heart is pounding so hard, I can feel it in my throat.

Out, quick.

What now?

This way.

We run through the maze of abandoned docks and warehouses, Amy leading the way with the certainty of someone who's used these paths as escape routes before. I hear police radios crackling behind us, but the sounds grow more distant as we weave through stacks of old shipping containers and duck behind derelict fishing equipment.

Yes, made it.

I can't believe we just did that.

I know, awesome, right?

No, it was terrifying and illegal and ha ha ha. Okay, maybe a little awesome.

There she is, the real Mags Park. I knew you were still in there somewhere.

Okay, so what did we find? What was that paper?

Let's see. It's, wait, huh? This is weird. Shit, it's a page from Minerva's book from the Osprey Island mystery.

What, for real? Let me see. Huh, page 47. And that's when the girls realized that the lighthouse keeper had been right all along. Sometimes the most important clues are hidden in plain sight.

Barf. Wait, wait, wait, what's that? Turn it over. They're in the margin.

Some handwritten notes. The original sin lies buried with the fifth. Weird. What does that mean?

No clue, but it's written in red ink, and recently by the looks of it, and you pair it with that quote about clues in plain sight. I mean, come on, Mags.

The fifth? The fifth what?

Victim? Horseman of the Apocalypse?

Element?

Ninja Turtle?

There are only four Ninja Turtles.

That's why the fifth one is buried. Keep up, Mags.

Whatever it means, it can't be a coincidence that a page from our book was at the crime scene. Well, I mean, it 100% could totally be a coincidence. We have absolutely no idea if this is connected at all, and not just some random but supersynchronous garbage, but I don't know I'm still riding the high from our escape at this point, so everything is on the table.

This has to be important. Why else would someone tear out a page from Minerva's book and leave it there?

We don't know that it's connected to the murder. It could have blown there from anywhere.

Come on, Mags. A page from our book with a cryptic note just happens to be at the spot where Dylan Holt was killed. That's not coincidence.

Is that for us?

Maybe. Let's not find out.

As we drive away from the harbor, I can't shake the feeling that we've crossed a threshold. What started as curiosity has morphed into something deeper and certainly much darker. Someone killed Dylan Holt and left a message that seems meant specifically for us. The past isn't done with Avalon Falls. And it certainly isn't done with Amy and me.

So what does the original sin lies buried with the fifth even mean? It sounds like, I don't know, some biblical reference or something.

Something buried in the past?

A reference to the original families?

We need to dig deeper. We're just spouting out inferences.

This is exactly the kind of clue we would have gone crazy for as kids.

But what does any of this have to do with Dylan's murder?

Maybe Dilly found out something about the town's past. Maybe that's what was in the satchel. Whatever this original sin is, someone killed him to keep it quiet.

I don't know, Ames.

Old money never forgets Mags. Old grievances never die in places like Avalon Falls. They just get buried until someone digs them up.

Hmm.

Although, what else is going on in the book at that point?

Uh, it's, uh, oh, it's from when we hid out at that crazy old crazy terrifying ruined cabin near the abandoned railway tunnel.

Shit. After that swarm of mystery dudes in the football mascot masks chased us through the forest for, like, what was it, like, half an hour?

Oh, oh, I had kind of blanked that out of my memory. Yeah.

Yes.

They had those big, like, big sort of cartoonish, but still, like, still very scary wolves masks. Yeah. Oh, boy. Yes. Just really experiencing a rush of PTSD right now.

That was the first time we started to piece things together. That perv of a lighthouse keeper had nothing to do with it. Fucking Minerva.

True. It's where we came up with some of our theories. While also being absolutely terrified and suffering minor environmental exposure, of course.

Yeah. Yeah. Oh, and also, I think I ate, like, six Three Musketeers bars, which is still a personal record for me. So, yeah. Damn, Amy. You hungry girl.

So if we can get back to this clue?

Sure. Whatever.

It could be referencing answers hiding in plain sight, but it could also be pointing to that cabin specifically. No?

Oh, shit. True. What even was that place? I totally forgot about it until now.

Probably still there?

Probably. It's over in the woods on the opposite side of town. We can head over there now. Let's go.

You know, completely forgetting about an experience is a pretty solid sign of PTSD, Amy.

I'm choosing to look at it as remembering an experience at exactly the right time. Go for Amy. Kathy, what's wrong?

What? When?

I'll be right there.

What is it?

Someone broke into my trailer, fucking trashed the place.

Are you serious?

And they left a message, painted on the wall.

What message?

Leave it alone.

Three words. The same three words my attacker had repeated while breaking my ribs in that dark room in Seattle. Not a coincidence. Not possible. The chill that runs through me isn't just fear, it's confirmation. A thread pulling taut between my past and this moment, between my attack and Dylan's murder, between Seattle and Avalon Falls. Whatever Didi had been investigating, whatever Amy's been searching for all these years, whatever killed Dylan Holt, it's all connected. And now, whoever's behind it knows we're looking. They know where Amy lives, and they remember me. We need to get to your place, now.

Yeah.

You okay?

You know what this means, right? It means we're definitely onto something.

As we drive toward Amy's trailer, the late afternoon sun casts shadows across the road, transforming familiar landscapes into something ominous and strange. I glance at Amy, her profile illuminated in the light, and I realize something that should terrify me, but somehow doesn't. I'm all in now. Whatever danger lies ahead, whatever secrets we uncover, I won't be running away this time. The Murder Girls are back, and this time we're finishing what we started.