The Gables Police Station was a fortress of beige brick and tinted glass, designed to look less like a law enforcement hub and more like an insurance agency. It sat on the edge of the development, a silent sentinel guarding the property values of the elite.
Maya Lin-Baker smoothed the front of her linen blazer for the third time as she stood in the lobby. The air conditioning was set to arctic, a sharp contrast to the humid afternoon she had left outside. The room smelled of floor wax and the distinct, metallic tang of authority.
“The Chief will see you now,” the desk sergeant said without looking up from his monitor. He buzzed the heavy security door.
Maya stepped through, the lock engaging behind her with a magnetic thud that vibrated in her teeth. She clutched her notepad—a prop, really—and walked down the hallway lined with photos of smiling officers handing ice cream cones to children. It was propaganda in a frame.
She wasn’t here to ask about ice cream. She was here to look into the eyes of a man who, thirty years ago, might have watched a woman bleed out in her sunroom.
Chief Thomas Garrett’s office was at the end of the hall. The door was open.
“Ms. Lin-Baker,” a voice boomed. “Come in. Have a seat.”
Garrett sat behind a desk that looked large enough to land a plane on. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and thick-necked, with hair the color of steel wool cut with military precision. He didn’t stand up to greet her. He gestured to a low leather chair that forced Maya to look up at him.
Power dynamics, 101.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Chief,” Maya said, sitting down and crossing her legs. She flipped open her notepad, adopting the persona of the earnest community volunteer. “The residents are… spirited about the new safety initiatives.”
“Spirited,” Garrett repeated. His voice was a deep baritone, smooth but heavy, like a stone skipping over water. “That’s one word for it. I usually call it ‘paranoid.’”
He smiled, but his eyes—pale, watery blue—didn’t participate. They were assessing her, cataloging her threats and weaknesses.
“Paranoia is understandable given the recent… excitement,” Maya said, testing the waters.
“You mean the podcast,” Garrett said flatly. He leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking like a tightening rope. “I’m surprised a woman of your background listens to that garbage. I looked you up, Maya. Investigative reporter for the Chicago Tribune. Nominated for a Pulitzer in 2018. Then… well, we all know what happened then.”
Maya’s grip on her pen tightened. He was trying to rattle her. He wanted her off-balance.
“I’m retired, Chief,” she said, keeping her voice light. “Now I just write the newsletter and worry about traffic calming measures.”
“Good,” Garrett said. “Because traffic is real. Ghosts aren’t.”
“Is that the official stance on the Juniper Black case?” Maya asked. “That it’s a ghost story?”
Garrett’s smile vanished. The air in the room seemed to thicken.
“The official stance,” he said, enunciating every syllable, “is that the case is open but inactive. We pursued every lead in 1994. We interviewed every neighbor. It was a tragedy, but it was a random act of violence. A drifter. A crime of opportunity.”
“The podcast suggests otherwise,” Maya said. She watched his hands. They were resting on the desk, large and manicured. “It suggests the killer had a key. That he knew the victim.”
“The podcast is entertainment,” Garrett snapped. A flash of anger, hot and sudden, broke through his composure. “It’s fiction written by someone who wants to sell mattress ads. It stirs up the crazies. We’ve had three calls this week about ‘suspicious figures’ in the wetlands. It’s a waste of resources.”
“So you’re not investigating the new evidence mentioned in the episodes?” Maya asked. “The red dress?”
Garrett flinched. It was micro-expression—a tightening of the corner of his eye—but Maya caught it.
“The red dress,” he said softly. “That was a prank. Vandalism. My officers took it down.”
“It smelled like mothballs,” Maya lied, throwing out bait. “And sulfur.”
Garrett leaned forward. His massive hands clasped together on the blotter.
And there it was.
On the ring finger of his right hand, catching the harsh fluorescent light, was a gold signet ring. It was heavy, old-fashioned. Set into the gold was a flat, oval stone.
Black onyx.
Maya’s heart hammered against her ribs. Sarah was right. This was the man. This was the man who argued with Juniper in the rain. This was the man who shoved his way into the house.
She forced herself to meet his gaze, not letting her eyes linger on the ring.
“Sulfur?” Garrett asked. “Is that what you smelled?”
“I didn’t get close enough,” Maya backpedaled smoothly. “Just neighborhood gossip. You know how the Tuesday Toss is.”
“I do,” Garrett said. He stood up. He moved around the desk with surprising speed for a man of his size. He walked to the window, looking out at the parking lot. His back was to her, but his reflection hovered in the glass.
“You should be careful, Maya,” he said. “Gossip is dangerous. It ruins reputations. It destroys families. You of all people should know that. That source you burned in Chicago? What was his name? David? I heard he lost everything. His job. His wife. Suicide is a terrible thing.”
Maya felt the blood drain from her face. It was a low blow, a brutal, targeted strike at her deepest trauma.
“Is that a threat, Chief?” she asked, her voice trembling with suppressed rage.
Garrett turned around. He wasn’t smiling anymore. He looked tired. He looked old.
“It’s advice,” he said. “You think you’re playing detective. You think this is a game. But the person making that podcast… they aren’t playing. They are hunting.”
Maya frowned. The shift in his tone confused her. He sounded… afraid.
“You think the Podcaster is dangerous?”
“I think whoever is recording private conversations inside people’s homes has no moral floor,” Garrett said. “I think they want blood.”
“How do you know they’re recording inside homes?” Maya asked sharply. The podcast hadn’t released the baby monitor audio yet. That was in Episode 3, which had only dropped for the public… wait. Had he heard it? Or did he know about the bugs because he planted them?
Garrett’s eyes narrowed. He realized he had slipped.
“I’m the Chief of Police,” he said, recovering his armor. “I know everything that happens in this town. Including the fact that you and your little friends were poking around the HOA shed last night.”
Maya went still.
“Elias Thorne is a stickler for rules,” Garrett said, walking toward her. He stopped inches from her chair, looming over her. “He filed a report. Trespassing. Attempted burglary. I buried it. Because I’m a nice guy. And because I don’t want to arrest a mother of two.”
He leaned down, bracing his hands on the arms of her chair, trapping her. The smell of Old Spice and stale coffee was suffocating.
“Stop digging, Maya,” he whispered. “The ground in The Gables is soft. You dig too deep, the whole thing collapses. And you’re standing right on top of it.”
He pulled back and straightened his tie. The mask of the jovial public servant clicked back into place.
“Write your article about speed bumps,” Garrett said, walking to the door and holding it open. “Tell the residents to lock their doors. And tell Sarah Vance…”
He paused. A shadow crossed his face—regret? Or warning?
“Tell Sarah that the past stays dead only if we let it,” he finished.
Maya stood up. Her legs felt weak, but she forced them to move. She walked to the door, pausing as she passed him. She looked pointedly at his right hand.
“Nice ring,” she said. “Class of ‘90?”
Garrett looked at his hand. He twisted the ring, hiding the onyx stone against his palm.
“Family heirloom,” he said. “Now get out.”
Maya walked down the hallway, her heels clicking on the linoleum. She didn’t look back. She pushed through the security door and into the lobby, then out into the blinding sunshine of the parking lot.
She made it to her car before her knees gave out. She sat in the driver’s seat, locking the doors instantly.
She looked at her hands. They were shaking.
Garrett was the man in the rain. He was the lover. He was the cover-up.
But he was terrified.
When he spoke about the Podcaster, he didn’t sound like an accomplice. He sounded like a victim waiting for the axe to fall.
They are hunting, he had said.
Maya started the car. The AC blasted her face.
Garrett wasn’t the Podcaster. The Podcaster was someone else. Someone who hated Garrett as much as they hated the women. Someone who was using the podcast to herd them all toward a slaughter.
And by walking into that office, Maya had just confirmed to both the Chief and the Watcher that she was in the game.
She pulled her phone out and texted the group chat.
Maya: It’s him. He’s wearing the ring. But he’s not the Voice. Chloe: Then who is? Maya: Someone who wants to destroy him too.
She put the car in drive. As she pulled out of the lot, she checked her rearview mirror. A black sedan pulled out of the police lot two cars behind her. Unmarked. Tinted windows.
The escort had begun. She was on the radar now.