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“Margot, we have to go to the police,” she says, voice careful but firm. “There’s a body at Hawthorn House, and now a robbery here. Please, this is beyond us right now. We have to let them handle this. We need help.”

I look up, eyes swollen, throat raw. She continues, voice soft yet resolute. “I’ll be there every step. Then we’ll go home. We’ll figure things out and rebuild—together. You and me.”

Her words land, but something in me snaps. The terror that held me hostage twists into something darker, hotter, filling the void. My grief morphs into fury so potent it makes my hands shake. I clench my teeth, push myself upright, and stare at Shannon.

“Shannon. Someone’s been kidnapping and murdering people in this town for years. They took Michael Lark, destroyed Penny’s sanity. They took Nate—my husband, my anchor, my hope for a future. And the police in Mount Dora have done nothing. Chief Miller’s lived here his entire life, and it’s only gotten worse.”

My anger flares, each new thought like a lit match in a pool of gasoline. “They’ve had every chance to act, but they failed. Maybe they’re corrupt, or maybe they’re just incompetent. Either way, I refuse to rely on them.”

I’m pacing now, arms stiff at my sides. My voice climbs, fueled by raw anguish. “I let Lila down. I let you down. Nate, Penny—so many people, hurt. But Shannon, this isn’t some twisted scavenger hunt. It’s not a game, to me. This is my legacy, my opportunity to be who I’ve never been able to be. Those skulls belonged to victims who have no voice, no chance at justice. But I can speak for them, act for them. I’ll end this, no matter what it takes, so nobody else ends up in that chest.”

Shannon stands, meeting my frantic energy with a wary calm. “You’re not alone, Margot. I’m with you. We’ll find whoever did this together. But please”—she rests a hand on my arm—“you have to let other people help you. I’m scared.”

I shudder, the anger still pulsing in my veins. But her concern slices through my rage. She’s right. I glance at her and realize I’m still crying; tears blur my sight. I brush them away, inhaling a shaky breath.

“You’re right, you’re right. I love you,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry I brought you into this mess. Thank you for always being here.”

She holds out her arms, and I crash into her hug. Whatever comes next, I won’t face it alone.

Shannon pulls back, assessing me and then herself. “Let’s get cleaned up, organize our documentation, and then figure out the best way to share this with the police.”

I look down and then at her. She’s right; there’s still blood on my arms and chest. We’re both filthy. A hot shower, some clean clothes, my best friend, and the truth; together will find whoever murdered Nate. And when we do, I’ll make sure they never get another chance to hurt anyone else.

28

The rhythmic drumming of the shower lulls me as I sit on the edge of the bed, listening to Shannon rinse off the grime of everything that has happened. It feels like an eternity has passed in just one day—like I’ve stepped into a different life altogether. Every time my thoughts drift, they circle back to the image of Nate in that bathtub. His blood, that dirty floor, and the glint of his wedding ring still on his finger. My throat tightens just thinking about it, a fresh wave of tears threatening to overwhelm me.

I breathe unsteadily, trying to keep myself from collapsing into another spiral. I grab my phone, unlock it, and stare at my voicemail inbox. I hover my thumb over the play button of the last message Nate sent me. Even the thought of hearing his voice shakes me, but I can’t help myself. My body craves the comfort of that familiar sound.

I press play. Again and again, I listen to his words.

“Good morning! I don’t know about you, but I slept like a baby last night. Being with you always helps me rest easy... I love you, Margot.”

The words feel like a knife in my chest. I press my knees to my body, curling in on myself, tears slipping quietly down my cheeks. Even if it’s just a recording, it carries echoes of the man I love—reminders that tear at my soul.

Click.

I freeze, my eyes snapping open. There’s a tiny sound right at the end of his message, so subtle I’ve always missed it. I replay the voicemail, leaning in closer, my heartbeat picking up speed.

On the next replay, I hold my breath, focusing on those final moments. It’s soft—like a tiny tap. My mind skitters through possibilities, but it’s too subtle for me to pin down. I loop it once more, but my chest aches from hearing Nate’s words over and over, so I pause to gather myself. I close my eyes, massaging my temples. Maybe it’s just background static—or the phone glitching.

I frown at the screen. Maybe it’s the beep of a voicemail ending? Or the sound of Nate setting his phone on a table? My mind runs through half-formed theories, but none of them feel quite right. My gut is telling me it’s something else. For a few minutes, I just sit here, toying with the phone, replaying the last few seconds until I’m sure I’ll never un-hear that click.

Finally, I force myself to stop. I take a deep breath, letting my focus fall around the room aimlessly until my gaze lands on the laptop lying nearby. Curiosity piques my interest. I stand and cross to it, pressing random keys several times, listening to the muted click. My heart picks up, but I’m not yet convinced. I pause the voicemail, start it from the beginning, and focus. The warmth in Nate’s tone twists my insides, but I power through, determined to compare the sounds side by side.

In my weary haze, I try matching the timing. When Nate says, “I love you, Margot,” I hit my space bar just before the voicemail ends. That’s when I hear it, a perfect echo: that subtle, soft click from my own MacBook. I repeat the test a few more times, each successful match driving a spike of dread into my stomach.

It’s identical. I look at the external hard drive on the desk, a coil of nausea building as I realize what this might mean. My hands are shaking as I connect the drive. I find the file name, “Honeymoon_Morning_Diaries_4.mov,” and click on it. My heart thunders in my chest so hard I think I might faint.

A video fills the screen: Nate’s familiar smile reflected in the hotel mirror, camera in hand. He creeps toward the bed, throwing open the curtains and crowing like a rooster. I’m half-asleep in the footage, begging for a few more minutes of rest, until Nate laughs and climbs in beside me, holding the camera out in selfie mode. Then comes his line: “Good morning! I don’t know about you, but I slept like a baby last night. Being with you always helps me rest easy... I love you, Margot.”

It’s the exact recording. I can’t breathe. My knees give out, and I crumple onto the floor. A cold stone of truth settles in my gut, heavy and absolute. Nate never left me that voicemail. The killer has been inside my room—rooting through my computer, my personal files, and then used them to exploit me.

My tears threaten to choke me. Nate probably never even made it to DC. He might have been imprisoned for days. He was likely alive, somewhere dark and terrifying, while I sat here, berating him for ignoring me. And by the time I found him in that basement, his body was still warm. He died alone, scared, and I wasn’t there. A violent wave of sickness rises, and I stagger to my feet, sprinting to the bathroom.

I barely make it to the sink before retching, stomach acid burning my throat. The vomit splashes onto the fragments of broken mirror, the shards reflecting my face in jagged, distorted pieces. That’s how I feel—shattered into irreparable fragments. The killer stood right where I stood, rummaging through my life. They took Nate, then the skulls, the chest, and now this final invasion.

I slump down, my back sliding along the vanity. I feel hollow, emptied of everything that made me who I am. A maniac lurks somewhere within reach, but I have no fight left. Let the police pin Penny Lark’s mysterious death on me for all I care. Let them cart me away. Everything good in my life is gone, and I can’t even summon the strength to scream anymore.