The drive back to Oakhaven was a reckless blur of speed and adrenaline. I kept waiting for the sirens, for the roadblock, for the inevitable closing of the net. But the roads were empty, just ribbons of black asphalt slick with rain, winding through the endless, oppressive green of the forest.
I had the journal. I had the map of his mind.
I gripped the steering wheel of Julian’s truck with white knuckles, the leather-bound book burning a hole in my coat pocket.
The Wedding.
He was planning a finale. A grotesque ceremony to bind us together in blood and earth. And he had guests waiting.
“Hold on, Julian,” I whispered to the empty cab. “Just hold on. I’m bringing you the proof.”
If I showed Julian the journal—the entries detailing the murders, the specific knowledge of the crime scenes, the handwriting that matched the note on Becca Trent’s back—he would have to believe me. He would have to arrest his brother. It wouldn’t be about protecting the family name anymore; it would be about stopping a massacre.
I reached the outskirts of town just as the sun was trying to break through the Shroud. It was a weak, watery light that made the buildings look like they were made of gray bone.
I couldn’t drive straight up to the station. Miller would have the place locked down. I needed to get to Julian quietly.
I parked the truck three blocks away, behind the abandoned hardware store that smelled of rust and dry rot. I pulled my hood up, checked the load in the revolver—five shots, just point and pull—and slipped into the alleyway network that ran behind Main Street.
The alleys were the veins of the town, narrow and clogged with the refuse of commerce. I moved past the dumpsters of the diner, the back door of the library where Mrs. Gable was probably already stamping books, oblivious to the monster she had helped create.
I reached the alley behind the police station.
It was the same spot where Julian had given me the gun hours ago. It felt like a lifetime.
I crouched behind a stack of pallets, peering at the rear exit.
It was propped open with a brick.
Smoke drifted out.
Officer Miller—the nephew—was standing there, taking a drag from a cigarette. He looked agitated, pacing back and forth in the small concrete space.
I couldn’t get in that way.
I moved down the alley, circling to the side of the building where the glass-walled offices faced the street. There was a narrow gap between the station and the neighboring post office, a dark corridor filled with HVAC units and shadows.
I squeezed into the gap, the brick rough against my shoulder. From here, I had a view of the bullpen through the side windows.
What I saw stopped my heart.
The station was chaotic. But it wasn’t the organized chaos of an investigation. It was the tension of a coup.
Sheriff Miller was standing in the center of the room, his face a mask of red fury. He was shouting, his finger jabbing at the air.
And standing in front of him, stripped of his jacket, was Julian.
I pressed my hand against the cold glass, my breath fogging the pane.
“No,” I whispered.
Julian looked defeated. His shoulders were slumped, his head bowed. Two state troopers were standing behind him, their posture rigid and threatening.
Miller held out his hand, palm up. A demand.
Julian reached to his belt.
Slowly, agonizingly, he unclipped his badge. The gold shield caught the fluorescent light, a dying star in the gloomy room. He placed it in Miller’s hand.
Then he reached for his holster.
He unbuckled it. He pulled out his service weapon—the big Glock, not the snub-nose he had given me—and placed it on the desk with a heavy, final thud.
Miller said something. He pointed to the door.
Julian didn’t argue. He didn’t fight. He just nodded, a movement so weary it looked painful.
One of the troopers stepped forward and grabbed Julian’s arm. He wasn’t being escorted out. He was being arrested.
They spun him around. The Trooper pulled a pair of zip-ties from his belt.
“Julian!” I screamed, slapping the glass.
Soundproof.
They couldn’t hear me. Or if they could, they ignored the desperate woman in the alley.
I watched as they bound his hands behind his back. I watched as they marched him toward the holding cells—the same cells he had freed me from.
Miller watched him go, a look of supreme, ugly satisfaction on his face.
Then he turned and looked straight at the window.
I ducked back into the shadows, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
He couldn’t see me. The reflection of the streetlights on the glass would hide me. But the feeling of being watched was primal.
I slumped against the brick wall, sliding down until I hit the wet pavement.
He was gone.
Julian was gone.
I had the journal. I had the proof. But I had no one to give it to.
If I walked into that station now, Miller wouldn’t look at the book. He wouldn’t read the rantings of a dead boy. He would see a fugitive, a suspect, a woman who had corrupted his best detective. He would throw me in the cell next to Julian and throw away the key.
And Elias would win.
I pulled the journal out of my pocket. The cover was damp from the rain. I clutched it to my chest, rocking back and forth.
“I’m alone,” I whispered.
The realization was a physical weight, heavier than the gun, heavier than the guilt.
For the first time since I came back to Oakhaven, I was truly, completely on my own. No Julian. No editor. No safety net.
Just me, the monster, and the ghosts he was collecting.
A sound came from the street.
A car engine, idling low and rough.
I froze.
I peered around the edge of the building.
A cruiser was pulling out of the station lot. In the back seat, I saw the silhouette of a man with his head bowed against the window. Julian. They were transferring him. Probably to the county lockup, forty miles away.
They were taking him out of the game.
I watched the taillights fade into the fog.
“Okay,” I said, my voice trembling. “Okay.”
I stood up. My legs felt like lead, but they held me.
If the law wouldn’t help me, I would have to work outside of it. I had been doing it for fifteen years as a journalist. I uncovered truths that people wanted hidden.
But this wasn’t a story. This was a rescue mission.
The guests are waiting.
Elias had taken the bodies. He needed a venue for his wedding.
The Glass House was compromised. The cellar was burned.
Where would a boy go to get married?
I thought about the journal. The Arthurian Legends. Grimms’ Fairy Tales.
He wanted a castle.
There was only one other place in Oakhaven that fit the description. The place where the “Logging Royalty” used to hold their grand balls before the industry collapsed.
The Old Sawmill.
Not the ruins by the river. The main processing plant. The Cathedral of Industry.
It was abandoned. Boarded up. A massive, cavernous structure of steel and rot on the edge of town.
It was perfect.
I looked at the police station one last time. Miller was pacing the bullpen, barking orders into a phone. He thought he had won. He thought he had cut the head off the snake.
He didn’t know the snake had two heads.
I turned and walked back toward the truck. I kept to the shadows, moving with the rhythm of the rain.
I wasn’t Elara Vance, crime reporter, anymore. I wasn’t the victim.
I was the bride.
And I was going to be late for my own wedding.