What Follows You Close

Murder Girls is created, written, and produced by Eternal Teenager. Content Warning. This episode contains mental health themes, including panic attacks and anxiety disorders, alcohol and marijuana use, supernatural and horror elements, discussion of past physical assault and medical trauma, references to seizure disorders and medication, surveillance and stalking behaviors, brief mentions of drug dealing, profanity throughout, themes of trauma and abandonment. Listener discretion is advised.

Previously on Murder Girls.

I'm back in my hometown after over a decade because my recently departed Aunt Dee Dee left me her curiosity shop. That's what I was, I guess. I was a sleuth, part of a team. And we solved our first case, and Amy was my sleuthing partner, my best friend. I haven't spoken to her since I left here.

Should probably introduce myself. Amy, Amy O'Connell, professional town disappointment. I'm just the weird one who stayed. The angry, weird one who talks to dead people. Okay, just one dead person. That's my dad in the passenger seat. Not really. 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. 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.

I know it wasn't something you did to hurt me, okay? But it did hurt me. Look at us. We survived our big reunion. If the main floor is this weird, imagine what Dee Dee kept in the basement.

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

All units. We have a 1054 at the harbor.

That's a body.

Dylan.

We investigate, like we used to.

It was my second year in Seattle. Some person got into the school somehow, found me alone in the dark room after hours. Broken ribs, fractured wrist, concussion. And they kept saying something about leaving it alone over and over, which made no sense. The school cameras malfunctioned that day. The person knew exactly when I'd be there alone. It all felt targeted.

You know what's really not fair? That video. The one of Mags getting attacked. The one you've been sitting on.

The thing I've been pretending doesn't matter, because facing it means facing what I did, what I chose, what it cost her.

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

Murder Girls, episode six. What follows you close? There's something different about Lula's After Midnight. The tourists and teenagers clear out, and what's left behind is Avalon Falls with its makeup washed off. Night shift zombies nursing coffee, truckers chasing the next city, insomniacs who've made peace with being awake. The lights are softer, the conversation's quieter. The town exhales and shows you who it really is. Rosa's behind the counter tonight, Lula's cousin. She's got that graveyard shift stare like she's seen it all and wasn't impressed the first time. And Tommy McClintock's in the kitchen. Former biker, definitely did time. Now makes the best hash browns in the county and sponsors Little League. Redemption's weird like that.

God, it's like a whole other ecosystem in here.

Rosa's solid, won't listen to a word we say, but she'll make sure nobody else does either. We're running on fumes and diner coffee. 24 hours since Dylan Holt bled out on the docks, and it already feels like we've lived a week. I probably look like I haven't slept in a decade. I mean, that's technically kind of true. All right, all right, all right. Everything we know, every creepy, slimy, too good to be true detail. Lay it out.

Monday. Dylan leaves the Holt building around four, and for reasons as yet unknown and like, I don't know, just fucking confounding to me, heads straight to loose ends.

I follow him there, and then I get in his face like an unstable cryptid, have a seizure, and you save my life while he actually seemed concerned.

He wanted to help Amy. That's not the behavior of someone who's pure evil.

Oh, fine. So Dylan's not a complete monster. Gold star for basic minimum grade human decency.

Using Dee Dee's surveillance system, the machine. Right. Using the machine, we saw Dylan go to the docks at 7 p.m., waiting for someone who never showed.

Just wanted to point out, he didn't have that jaunty little business boy satchel then. The satchel only appears when he goes back at 11.

That could indicate different meetings, different people.

And that second meeting ends with two bullets to the chest.

Phone missing, satchel missing, someone called it in using an AI voice app from an unknown phone, untraceable.

And as if this wasn't fucking wild enough already, somebody just watched him die, like just stood there from the fucking shadows and did nothing while he bled out on those planks. Could be the killer, or could be something messier. It hits different laying it out like this. Dylan Holt's no longer a person. He's a case file spread across a sticky diner table, a ghost wrapped in timelines and half-baked theories. Okay, Tuesday morning, we see Amber and Jake having their little domestic drama right after her stepson's murder.

Which is either the behavior of an irredeemable sociopath or someone juggling bigger problems than grief.

It's Avalon Falls, why not both?

Officer Nichols confirms Dylan dragged himself a significant distance before dying. Also confirms the cops are laser focused on Nora Chen, Dylan's professor-turned-girlfriend.

Who they were supposed to interview Tuesday, but she lawyered up then later, never showed up at her apartment in Cedarbrook.

After reporting her.38 caliber pistol stolen just days before the murder.

Because that's not suspicious at all, whether she murdered him or not.

Though Eleanor Holt, Amy's ex-girlfriend, doesn't think Nora did it, says she really loved Dylan.

Laugh all you want, but Eleanor's not wrong about people. Annoyingly perceptive, actually.

Speaking from experience.

Moving on and more on Nora later. On our recon of the crime scene, we saw that Dylan dragged himself along the docks, maybe toward his car or maybe not.

Looked like he was headed down a path leading to a second dock, one we haven't scoped yet.

This one's my favorite. Under the docks, we also found that page from Minerva's book with handwriting in red ink that said, the original sin lies buried with the fifth.

From the chapter about that creepy cabin in the Holtwood, near the abandoned railway tunnel.

Shit, place felt cursed in broad daylight.

Didn't fucking stop you from eating like 12, three musketeers or whatever.

And I will never not be proud of that.

Then we checked in with Eleanor. She and Lily Siaya told us Dylan was trying to thread the needle, make Omnia work while protecting Nisika land rights.

Which, to no one at this table's surprise, was pissing off Daddy Richard, Grandpa Victor, and Uncle Thomas.

Enough to kill him over?

I mean, it's the Holts. But still, family's supposed to mean something, right?

Huh, that's very optimistic coming from you.

Even I have limits to my cynicism. Apparently, Dylan was the legacy of the great Holt family. Legacy definitely means something to the Holts, to all the originals, especially old Victor.

True, so keeping things going, we saw Richard's car at the Holt building earlier tonight, less than a day after his son died.

And then we saw Nora Chen coming out looking wrecked, or like she made a deal with the devil.

Then we followed her to that storage facility. Big duffel bag in, small backpack out. Not a huge leap to assume she grabbed some kind of go bag from storage before disappearing.

With one of Dee Dee's cameras watching the whole thing, the machine extends beyond Avalon Falls.

My aunt was thorough.

Yeah, although this feels like a place beyond just thorough. She archived the town, like a tiny, weird, hot, paranoid librarian.

The weirdos found that Dylan requested medical files through the Wellness Initiative. Files that got redirected to the super obvious Wellness Initiative low-key secret office in the Business Park.

We found Amber had totally cleaned out her office, and Thomas Holt was skulking around, punching security guards, and talking to someone about searching for something. Mentioning her.

Think her is Amber?

Maybe. Place was pretty scrubbed. The files weren't though, which seems weird. Still, only file we got was Danielle Chase. Totally normal. Boring even.

Which might be the point. We're missing pattern, context, the rest of the puzzle.

Okay, okay, okay. So, theories. Who killed Dylan Holt?

Given what we have, Nora is the obvious one. The girlfriend who's vanished reported a matching gun stolen. Classic crime show suspect.

Yeah, but Eleanor's read on her feels right. Nora looked scared when we saw her, not guilty.

The Nisika?

No, no, no. Dilly was on their side.

Okay, so his family?

Richard, Victor, Thomas. I don't know. My head says maybe, but my gut is not sure.

I don't know about Richard or Thomas, but I feel like Victor Holt would order a hit on his own mother if it protected the family fortune. I mean, the rumors are there, you know, about his wife, right? Like, Grandma Holt. Wasn't there a whole thing about it? Like he kinda maybe could have had her murdered?

For real, dude is a fucking ghoul. Still, there's the legacy thing. I don't know.

What about Eleanor?

What about her?

She's still a Holt, Amy. You said yourself you never fully trusted her when you two were involved.

That's different. That was about family loyalty, not murdering her baby brother.

You're suddenly very interested in reorganizing the napkins.

Okay, fine. Eleanor could be secretive about family stuff, and I may have followed her a few times.

Followed her?

It started as intel gathering, but then I got, possessive isn't the right word, protective. I wanted to know where she was going, who she was talking to.

Because you were developing actual feelings, which was a problem.

Hard to use someone as an asset when you start caring about them.

Uh, look, I don't think it's her either, but we need to put everything on the table. What about Amber? And I guess throw Jake in there too.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, that one sings a bit. The wellness initiative connection, the suspicious meeting, Jake's ties to the local criminal element, both of them being grifters of one kind or another. Tommy Boy sniffing around the offices also feels clue adjacent, right?

Add Dylan requesting old, weird, specially coded medical files. That screams found something he shouldn't.

Not sure how old medical files connects to either of them directly, but it's definitely worth shaking the tree some more.

Okay, so what's our next move?

Timeline reconstruction using the machine. Deep dive on the dock surveillance. Figure out what's in that storage unit and what's up with it in a broader context.

Find Nora Chen before something happens to her, if it hasn't already. Also, research Danielle Chase.

And maybe figure out what the original sin lies buried with the fifth actually means. Maybe go back to that freaky, rotting terror shack out by the abandoned railway tunnel. Oh, oh, oh, and that reminds me. Yeah. I need to get some three musketeers, like a bag or a box of those little hussies. Yes.

Okay, so that's a lot.

Which is why we start tonight, the machine's waiting. There's something both thrilling and terrifying about the prospect of diving into DD Surveillance Network. All those cameras, all those secrets, all those lives documented in digital amber. It feels like power and violation all at once.

Maybe we should start small. Just a couple hours, see what we find?

Absolutely. Then we step away, dissociate with some failed videos, and get some sleep. The night air hits harder when you're running on no sleep and cold diner coffee. Streetlights buzz louder. Shadows stretch longer. Everything's turned up. It's almost 1 a.m. We should probably, hey, look, the sloppy otter glows like a trashy trap, warm yellow light spilling onto the sidewalk like it's not gonna bite. You know, Jake and Amber might be in there. Could be useful intel.

Amy.

Come on, Mags. One drink for morale.

We really should get to the machine.

The machine's eternal. Morale is a fleeting resource, babes. One drink.

Ugh, fine. Two if you're charming.

Sweet. As we walk toward the sloppy otter, I can't shake the feeling that we're at a turning point. Not just in the investigation, but in whatever this is between us. The machine represents the next level, committing fully to following this wherever it leads. But first one drink, maybe two. And then we dive into the digital rabbit hole and see how deep it goes.

Poem sleaze home!

The sloppy otter hums like a bad idea wrapped in Christmas lights. The beaded curtain at the entrance rustles arcanely, and the smell hits you right away. Friar oil, cheap whiskey, and wet wood that somehow clings to your skin. Everything here hides a knife, fairy lights strung above angry misogynistic graffiti, clean pint glasses set next to cracked mirrors streaked with something unnameable. You don't walk into the otter, you descend. Like stepping down into a lair, the den of something older and hungrier than you could ever imagine. You don't notice right away because the beer's cold and the music's loud and there's laughter. But it's there, watching, waiting for you to let your guard down just enough. It's built from the bones of the town's original diner, the Pine View, that went out of business in the late 80s. Various shady owners have taken it over since then, running it into the ground in spectacular and often cataclysmic fashion. But the otter itself remains like a parasite that outlives its hosts. I hover in the doorway. This is my first time here. Mom and dad used to talk about this place like it was a disease. Dee Dee, of course, was different. Every town needs somewhere for people to be terrible out loud, she'd say. Better to know where it is.

You good, Park? You figure out where all the exits are yet?

I'm just adjusting to the atmosphere.

Atmosphere is half the fun. Come on, city girl, let's corrupt you proper.

The bartender tonight is striking. A tiny elfin woman with a country western vibe, maybe early thirties, her presence big enough to fill the room twice over. One second bubbly, next second looking through you like she's reading the fine print of your soul.

Well, well, well. Amy O'Connell, and hey, now, here's a pretty face, I don't know. What are y'all having?

Hey, Kenzie, whiskey ginger, double, don't judge.

You got it, sugar, and you, I solved it, honey. You must be Dee Dee's niece, the one who came crawling home. Drink?

Uh, yes, yeah, the same. Thank you.

Atta girl.

Come on, let's grab that booth by the jukebox. Best seat in the apocalypse.

The jukebox sounds off. In the back of your hearing, it feels too slow. But when you stop to really listen, nothing's wrong. It's perfectly normal. Does it sound like wrong to you? Like too slow?

That's how you know it's working, man. Okay, there. Sit down, sit down. Raise a glass, please.

Ooh, so, so fancy. Wait, Dee Dee taught you that?

Yeah. She said if you're gonna drink somewhere sketchy, you might as well sound elegant doing it. We used to come here sometimes.

I don't want to know. Yeah. I want to un-know.

Relax. Nothing scandalous. Mostly nachos and conspiracy theories.

Ah, yes. The Dee Dee Park signature combo.

To Dee Dee.

To Dee Dee. The whiskey hits. Amy's grin gets looser. The jukebox keeps playing a little too slow. Like the air here is thicker somehow. With regret and ghosts.

You know what? I'm just gonna say it. This feels good.

You mean us?

This. Sitting. Together. Not talking about murder. Here's to being back.

Here's to everything but the Murder Park.

That's the title of your biography.

Catchy. Really captures my brand.

So, mystery girl, anybody ever cracked the case of Marguerite Park? Or is your heart still sitting unsolved in the cold case files? Cringe.

Like crimes against metaphor level cringe. Yes.

Yeah.

Oh, come on.

Okay. Fine. Solved and closed. My great love was a med school cubicle and a TA named Greg, whom I ended things with after three weeks.

Greg? Brutal. Please tell me he was at least in some sad indie band.

No. Although he did get really into podcasts. Not producing or recording them or anything. Just like, you know, just like listening, listening to a lot of them. There are so many.

Ugh, fucking Greg.

You know, like, I never really had one big person in my life. Just casual, casual but boring things. I never really had anyone real. Just kept it surface, easier to float than sink.

Maybe you just didn't know who to swim toward yet.

So what about you O'Connell? Still leaving a trail of broken hearts and regrettable selfies?

Ha, please. The Tinder pool for this region of the country is beyond shallow. Or maybe everyone swiped left on me already. But I mean, look at this face, right?

Huh, huh?

Come on, who's going to swipe left on this hottie? Are you going to Mags? Are you?

I don't know. Hot stuff. Maybe you're not for everyone.

Oh yeah?

Who am I for then, Park?

Oh, well, you know, it's like someone who sees all the wild and wonderful in you and doesn't get scared off. Yeah, yeah. Or like a cryptid hunter. You know, someone with very niche tastes.

Nice one.

Well, if it helps any, I think you're charming enough to move to drink number two.

Ah, yes. Hey, look who's swooping in just in time. Get us another round of barkeep.

Jake Mitchell drapes himself into the booth, trashy, charming, already buzzed, eyes just sharp enough to sting.

Hey, nice to see the magical and witchy Amy O'Connell gracing us with her presence.

Hey, Jake, the Empire Thriving?

Always. Hello, what do we have here? I'm Jake, by the way. And welcome home, prodigal daughter.

Thanks.

Word travels fast. Small town and all that. Need anything investigative?

Nothing says professional sleuth like a bump off a bathroom key.

Oh, no, no thanks.

Your loss. Offer stands though.

There's something about their dynamic that makes me feel like an outsider. This is Amy's world and I'm just visiting. 10 hugely formative years where she built relationships, made connections, carved out a life I know nothing about. Jake's phone lights up over and over. The name at the top of each message is just a number, 157. No emojis, no preview, just the digits. He doesn't answer, doesn't even flinch. I don't ask, but I clock it. Business, probably. Still, that number is gonna stick in my head. Popular tonight? Nah, it's nothing.

Just someone who fucking can't take a fucking hint. Fuck!

Hey, sorry, I got a jet. You two let me know if you need anything. I mean that.

Bye bye. Speaking of interesting company, check out the Omnia delegation.

Across the bar, a man, early 30s, sits nursing what looks like a whiskey, sporting designer sneakers, and a jacket that probably costs more than most people's rent. He's trying to look casual, but his eyes keep drifting our way. Their Omnia?

Just the one who looks like his mom dressed him. Evan Parker, Princeton grad, Omnia liaison, tip of the spear for the development deal. Dylan's death definitely complicates his life.

Or makes it simpler. He's watching us.

Let him watch. We should add him to our machine research list.

He notices me watching him across the bar. Evan smiles that too white, too polished smile of someone pretending they don't know you're a threat.

And that's Edie Bergman with him.

Whoa, really, Edie? Like, the twins scare your older sister Edie? That Edie?

Yuppers, another original family princess, but this one is Dylan's competition.

Competition?

Dilly was always being compared to her. Edie's the shark businesswoman Victor wishes Eleanor could be. But of course, Eleanor was never really in the running for anything. The old man just likes making everyone feel like failures. Peak patriarchy and misogyny from Grandpa Victor.

Could Edie be a suspect?

Oh, absolutely. She's been sidelined while Dylan fumbles around. She's probably been sharpening her knives for months.

Who's the third person? The one in the beanie?

Huh.

I can't tell. They're really committed to the whole mysterious stranger vibe.

The figure is slouched low, back to us, beanie pulled down, androgynous in a way that feels deliberate, like they're hiding in plain sight.

Holy shit. Is that like a fucking wig, dude?

Wow. Maybe.

Respect.

I'm going to use the restroom, maybe get a better look on the way.

Recon mission or bladder emergency?

It's Avalon Falls. Why not both?

That's not how you use that, but I'll allow it.

I try to get a better view of the mysterious third person as I pass, but they're positioned perfectly to avoid detection.

Welp.

I tried. I give up and head down the hallway. The hallway to the restroom is exactly what you'd expect from a dive bar. Dimly lit, vaguely threatening, with that particular smell that suggests years of questionable decisions. There are several doors along the way, including one on the opposite side from where I entered, which seems, um, architecturally questionable. The restroom is colder than the rest of the bar. Actually, it soon becomes off-putting, how cold it is. A cold that chills beyond the body. I try to ignore it, wash my hands in a sink that looks dry in a way that suggests it hasn't been used in years, even though that's impossible. The hot water fogs the mirror above. I wipe the mirror and beneath the streaks, not written but revealed, a word emerges like breath-finding shape, stay, not scratched or smeared, just there, waiting, watching, wanting.

Uh, okay.

My eyes are drawn to the peeling wallpaper near the hand dryer, and that's when I see it, the edge of something beneath the paper, a color that shouldn't be there, red. What the hell is this place? And then, as though this room still isn't done, something else, images maybe, in paint, in ink, it's all been hiding under the skin, a corner has come loose, revealing something underneath, a mural painted directly on to the plaster. Abstract but intense. Jagged black and red shapes that could be faces, bodies, hard to make out but somehow watching. I can't look away for several beats. There's handwriting under the folds of the torn wallpaper. In red ink, an arrow pointing toward the mural, etched like a dare. DS. Look closer. I take a photo, half thinking it's a clue, half needing proof this is even real. Okay, that's enough weirdness for one bathroom. Distracted and still slightly drunk, I grab the wrong door handle, winding up in a dim service hallway instead of back in the bar. At the far end, a door stands ope n to the outside, the only light coming from an impossibly old and flickering street light beyond. Kenzie, the bartender, stands silhouetted in the doorway, smoking. At her feet, a pit bull lies on its stomach, lifting its head to watch me. Kenzie doesn't seem to react to my presence at first. The air feels thicker here. Wrong, somehow.

I told him to come here Monday night. He never listened. And I never told you anything. Yet here you are.

Um, I think I'm lost.

Ha ha ha ha! Oh! Oh! Oh! Everybody's lost, honey. Question is, do you listen?

Uh, yes, yeah. She turns slightly, pulls something from a pocket with her free hand, a card. She tilts her head to look at it.

Everything falls eventually, darling. Even you two. But... It's really all about how you pick yourself up. Ain't it?

She flips the card toward me. It lands almost unbelievably face up at my feet. The tower. Lightning striking a stone structure. Two figures falling into darkness. Suddenly, intense vertigo hits me like a wave. The hallway spins and I stumble backward, away from Kenzie and her knowing smile and that damn dog that's still watching me. When I finally make it back to the bar, everything feels different. Like a shift change happened while I was gone. Evan, Edie, and their mysterious companion have vanished. Even half the other patrons seem to be different people.

Whoa. Hey, everything okay? You look...

Oh, yes. Yeah. You know, bathroom mirrors. Nothing good in them.

We got what we came for. Let's bounce before the sketchiness level goes from quaint to true crime podcasts that Greg would listen to. Ugh, fucking Greg.

On our way out, I glance back over my shoulder at Kenzie behind the bar. She raises her glass at me with that same knowing smirk like we shared a secret I'm not sure I want to keep.

Here's to choices, Dumplin. The ones you make, and the ones that make you.

We push through the curtain and slip back out into the chill of night, buoyed by two drinks and the quiet, fragile thing we're starting to wake between us. But nights like this aren't about what you're walking away from, or toward. They're about what's following you close.

The fog wasn't here when we went into the otter an hour ago. Now it's everywhere, thick, alive, swallowing the street in white. Light is dim and uncertain, and sound travels strange, close when it shouldn't be, distant when it should, like the whole town's holding its breath.

Where did this come from?

Welcome to Avalon Falls. We have the same climate as Silent Hill. At first, it feels easy, warm with whiskey and mags next to me, like some noir dream we can just wander through. But I can feel her shutting down again, getting quiet, and it scares me, because I know what comes next.

We should probably head back. The machine's waiting.

Let it wait. It's not going anywhere.

Amy, we've got a day's worth of leads. We need to dive in.

Or, you know, we could keep wandering through this Stephen King fog until something eats us. I mean, dated reference, but you get my point.

I'm serious. Hey, what are you afraid of?

It's Pandora's Box, Mags. Once we open it, everything comes out. Not just the murder part, everything. Obviously, I want to find out all of that. But at the same time, I don't know.

You're scared of what we'll find.

Secrets are catastrophic, even at the best of times.

Sure, but it's probably best that-

Hey, look, the standpipe. The water tower looms out of the mist. Avalon Falls painted in faded letters across its bulk. You know, I used to think standpipe was this regal honorable thing, like it was named after some British lord. Lord Standpipe of Avalon Falls or whatever. Turns out it's just a fancy way of saying water tower. Fuck a duck, huh?

Standpipe. Yes, yeah, very dignified.

Remember climbing this during the Osprey Island case, using it as a watchtower?

You were convinced you could see all the way to Seattle from up there.

I had my first kiss up there. Some rando from Cedarbrook I met at a beach party. Can't even remember their name. Oh, man.

Want to climb it now for old time's sake?

God, no. I will 100% barf if we climb that endless ladder right now.

Isn't that grocery store down that way? Like, where we used to get doughnuts?

Paulson's? Yeah, let's go. As we walk deeper into the mist, the grocery store materializes like something from a survival horror game. Windows boarded up, parking lot cracked and overgrown. It looks abandoned, forgotten, because, well, it is.

Oh, no, not Paulson's.

Surprise? Yeah, Paulson's didn't make it. Warren's ran them out after the fishing industry tank. Avalon Falls is a one-grocery store town, I guess.

Another casualty of our sleuthing.

What can I say? The originals cast long shadows, babe. The blame settles on both our shoulders, even though we both know it's not fair. We were 12. We exposed criminals, but somehow we're still carrying the weight of what came after. We sit at a weathered post-apocalyptic cafe table outside. Same one we used to plan our big kid detective cases over jelly donuts. Now, just missed in silence.

This seems like a wonderful time for some of Seattle's finest. Mind reader. I flunked out of med school.

No way, when?

I don't know, like, six months ago or whatever. You're actually the first to know.

Why didn't you say anything?

When was I supposed to bring it up? Hey, nice to see you after 10 years. Sorry about your seizure, wow. My aunt has a surveillance network that rivals the NSA, and we can just watch Dylan Holt get murdered on it, and, you know, oh, by the way, I'm a complete failure.

You're not a failure, Mags, complete or otherwise.

I never had the passion for it or the drive, and since the attack, I just feel like a cipher, like something, I don't know, like something hollowed out.

My chest tightens. She's describing exactly what I was afraid of, what I caused. Mags, come on, you're not...

You know what? The elementary school's nearby, right? We should visit the storied place where Marguerite met Amethyst.

She's deflecting now, but I let her. The moment's too fragile to push. I follow her further into the mists.

That is literally the same swing set.

Oh, God, this place looks haunted.

Oh, fuck.

Is it smaller, like weirdly squat now?

Maybe it no longer has power over us, so it seems smaller.

Remember how we met?

Oh, my God, you talked so much as a kid. Funny, since you're the reserved one now.

Sure, sure.

I used to just stare at you in class. You always had the answers.

You had that Yu-Gi-Oh! shirt.

Damn right, I did.

And you scared off the Bergman twins.

Then I made you listen to The Black Parade, like 4,000 times in three days.

We were inseparable after that.

Huh, yeah.

Remember when your dad took us to see the Avengers? You were so excited about— Don't. What?

Look, it's easy for you to come back here and see memories, but yeah, all I see are ghosts, Mags.

I'm sorry.

No, you don't have to apologize for having good memories, okay?

No, I abandoned you. You deserved so much better than my silence.

Yeah. Silence hurts, too. Different kind of hurt, though. It gives you just enough space to blame yourself. She looks at me with those eyes that see too much, and all I want is to tell her everything. Why I let her go. Why I'm still letting her go. I almost tell her. I almost do.

Can we go? This fog's... It's getting to me.

Yeah, I hear you. We slip back into the mist, half aimless. The fog thicker now. Closer. I can't help myself. Never could. Hey, city girl, we're not done yet. You know where we need to go.

Where?

Founder's Point. Gotta look the whole damn town in the face before we burn it down.

So creamily bad idea.

Bad ideas are our love language. We laugh, quiet, fragile, but it's enough to keep moving. The fog thickens around us as we cross into the outskirts, heading up to Founder's Point. The streets narrow. The night feels heavier. The air colder. Our footsteps echo an eerie rhythm, like the town itself is listening.

This fog is getting ridiculous.

Just stay close. The trail's right here somewhere. We disappear up into the woods of the incline. Into the mists. Behind us, Avalon Falls pulls the deepest hours of night tight around itself. And waits.

The climb is steep. All we can hear is gravel crunching under our shoes, our breath ragged in the cold. The fog thickens as we go, curling around our ankles like it doesn't want to let us go. But then we crest the final incline, and Founder's Point opens up, and it's breathtaking. From up here, Avalon Falls barely looks real. Just a smear of lights, half drowned in fog, like the whole town is being erased before our eyes. I can still make out the water tower, the coastline, the faint wink of the lighthouse, but the mists swallow whatever they can reach. Up here, we're above it all. The streets, the stories, the ghosts. For a second, it feels like flying. The sky is this deep, bruised midnight blue. The moon is sharp and indifferent, daring you to spill your secrets under its cold, pallid gaze. This is the probably apocryphal place where the founders of Avalon falls, the original originals, allegedly first gazed upon the land where they would build the town and decided to do it. Very on brand for them. See wha t you want and fucking take it. God, look at it.

Is it sleeping or is it dead?

It feels like we're dreaming. Or, you know, if the town is sleeping, like, is it, is it, um...

Is it dreaming us?

Yes, yeah. We stand side by side, gazing down at the town for a long moment. Amy exhales a slow breath, watching it curl and vanish in the cold air.

Dee Dee used to bring me up here after my dad died. She'd say even a place that seems ugly from every angle can look beautiful if you get far enough away. I could never get that far.

There's something raw in her voice that twists in my chest. I miss him too. Yeah? Yeah. He was good. Better than this place deserved.

I used to want to call you. Like so many times.

Me too. A silence falls between us, heavy but not unkind. I shift closer until we're touching. We stay like that. Just two kids who ran away but forgot to bring a plan. And maybe that's the point. Not the answers. Not the revenge. Just standing here together. You know, we could just run. Yeah, like forget the murder, the shop, all of it. Head for California, like we used to talk about.

That sounds really nice, actually.

For a moment, the idea almost feels real. Two girls in a beat up Yaris, chasing a sunset somewhere warm and uncomplicated. But we both know better. If what we have is real, why does running away still feel like the fantasy? Guess this is as far as running away gets us.

Yeah, wouldn't want to give this town the satisfaction of thinking we're scared of it.

Perish the thought. But my stomach still knots when I think about turning back. Back into the fog. Back into whatever's waiting. We turn from the railing. I cast one last glance over my shoulder at Avalon Falls. The fog below seems thicker now. Alive. Waiting.

You ready?

Nope. But what can you do? We step off Founder's Point and head back toward the town. Back to the machine. Back to the secrets waiting in the dark.

The walk down feels longer than the climb. The fog's worse now, alive, greedy. Warping the streetlights, swallowing the neon. Even the sound of our footsteps feels wrong. Too loud one second, too far away the next. We cut through the little park at the base of the hill. I drag my fingers along the cold metal of the playground, then shove my hands into my jacket pockets. We pick up the pace. At first, it feels like purpose, then it feels like dread. We reach the standpipe, looming over us like a monument to everything we're trying not to name. Both our phones buzz at almost the same time, like matching strikes of lightning. I pull mine out. It's Eleanor. Her message stops me cold. They've arrested Lily for Dylan. I turn toward Mags. Mags, look at this. But she's already stopped a few steps back, staring at her own phone, face lit up pale and hollow. And she looks like she's been punched in the heart. Not confused, not angry. Worse, betrayed. She lowers her phone slowly, like it weighs a hundred pounds.

How long?

What?

The video. How long?

Mags, I...

Leave it alone.

Stop ticking.

Next time, they finish the job. Sent to Amy O'Connell, January 27th, 2016. This... This is the exact moment he kicked me. Broke my ribs.

Oh no.

You knew.

Mags, don't.

Don't say my name like that.

I... I was going to tell you.

Oh yeah?

When? Before or after I started believing I fucking deserved it.

Hey, keep it down.

Fuck you, fucking die!

Oh, sorry.

That's how it felt. Like I deserved it. Like I was nothing. Oh no.

I...

You let me rot in that city. Thinking it was random.

Thinking I was just...

unlucky.

I was trying to protect you.

From what?

Right. Still saying quiet.

Got it.

I just stand there, dwarfed by the standpipe, staring into the fog where Mags vanished. A car hums along some distant road, headlights flaring once through the mist, and for a breath Jonathan is there, watching me, sad, then gone. I jam my phone back in my pocket and start walking, slower this time, heavier. Somewhere out there, the whole town is asleep, and it's never felt further away. The night folds in around me. The fog follows, swallowing everything eventually. Even the truth. Even us.

Good to be true.