Eugene wandered through Willow Park, his thoughts drowning out the birds’ captivating symphony as they flitted across the clear blue sky. So engrossed in his thoughts, he didn’t even notice the soft whispers of leaves rustling and swaying in the breeze. He absentmindedly kicked a rock along the dirt path, shoving his hands into his pockets.

The park’s splendor escaped him entirely, his mind consumed with thoughts of Petunia—or more precisely, the little brown-eyed girl who clung to her at Aggie’s door.

She looked around seven, Eugene thought, then shook his head.

Nia told him the girl wasn’t his, and though he hadn’t seen or heard from her in years, he was still sure she’d never lie to him.

“Get a grip, Faulkner,” he muttered, looking skyward. Uncertainty was a rare feeling for Eugene, but he remembered Petunia’s influence during its last occurrence. The buzz of his phone snapped him out of his muddled thoughts. “Thank God,” he breathed, answering. “Faulkner.”

“The commander’s on my ass, asking where you are. I covered for you, but—”

“Sorry, Wilder. Just needed to clear my head to get inside the killer’s,” Eugene lied, reluctant to divulge his personal turmoil to his abrasive partner. “I’ll be back at the station soon.”

“You’d better,” Denise replied. “Did you at least talk to the girl?”

“No, I—”

“Faulkner!”

“But they’re coming in later today,” Eugene assured her. “And I’m going to follow up on the occult lead by talking to some shop owners downtown.”

Denise hung up without another word.

“Yep. Bye, partner,” Eugene muttered, pocketing his phone.

He hadn’t lied to Denise about that part, and clearing his mind of Petunia was essential to discerning the common link between the three pairs of victims. Aside from the necklaces—indicative of some kind of occult worship—worn by two victim pairs and the mysterious, apparently biological acid component, none of the couples’ lives intersected, as far as they knew.

Eugene's only fresh lead connecting the cases was the fact that all the survivors ended up in the same household, and even social services couldn’t explain how it happened. But how would the killer have known that would happen, and why would they care?

Eugene shook his head again, rubbing his temples as a headache threatened to emerge. His gaze fell on the sun-dappled lake, its surface shimmering like a diamond tapestry. He was close enough to see the swaying limbs of the underwater willow, rooted deep in the lakebed, dancing with the currents.

He marveled at how the magnificent tree thrived underwater, its ethereal beauty was enchanting and almost…magical. The tree, along with the network of creeks flowing throughout the area, gave the city its name centuries ago—or so the legends claimed. Whether or not the story was true didn’t matter to Eugene; all that mattered was the deep sense of tranquility he felt whenever he saw the tree.

“Except this time,” he muttered, his eyes landing on his favorite lakeside bench—now taken by a raven-haired woman. His chest tightened, his breaths coming in shallow bursts as he forced himself toward the bench.

Petunia seemed as perturbed as he felt, her gaze flickering between her phone and the lake. As he drew closer, Eugene noticed a stream of unanswered messages on her screen, which she dismissed as quickly as they appeared.

“Great minds,” Eugene said, stopping just behind the bench.

Petunia spun around, startled at first but quickly relaxing when she saw Eugene. She scooted over, making room for him as he rounded the bench.

“Gene,” she greeted him with a strained smile. “Here to arrest some broken limbs?”

“Littering is a heinous crime, but I’m just here to think,” Eugene replied, settling down beside her. “You?”

“Just needed a break from family drama.”

“I hope my visit didn't spark any of said drama.”

“No. It’s just more of the same,” Petunia sighed, sinking into the bench and crossing her arms. “I just had to get out of there.”

Eugene quirked an eyebrow at her. “Who are you, and what have you done with Nia?”

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“What?” Petunia asked, meeting Eugene’s gaze for the first time since he’d joined her.

“Weren’t you the cheerleader who staged a schoolwide sit-in to protest the art program cuts?”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Yeah, but the Nia I knew never ran from a problem.”

“That’s all I’ve been doing since I turned eighteen Petunia admitted, bowing her head as her cheeks burned with shame. She couldn’t meet Eugene’s gaze, painfully aware of how far she’d drifted from the resilient girl he remembered and the woman she’d become.

“Well, maybe it’s time to try channeling sit-in Nia again.”

“I don’t think she exists anymore,” Petunia murmured, her brows furrowing as she forced herself to meet Eugene’s eyes.

“You never know,” Eugene replied, placing a reassuring hand on her knee before standing up with a lopsided grin. “You might just surprise yourself.”

Silence settled around Petunia as Eugene adjusted his jacket and walked away.

“Eugene,” she called after him, turning with a grateful smile. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Eugene replied, smiling back before continuing on his way out of the park.

***

“When are we gonna face the fact that you’ve definitely lost it and this was a colossal waste of time?” Jace called, trailing after Acacia as she emerged from a dusty, long-forgotten bedroom on the fourth floor of the ancient house. At first, her descent into madness was entertaining. But after scouring two floors, where half the doors were locked and the other half held nothing but a bunch of old crap, Jace had had enough. “What are you even looking for, anyway?”

“Something…odd,” Acacia replied, pushing against a locked door.

“You mean something odder than the fruit loop in front of us?”

“We really shouldn’t be up here,” Harper cut in, clutching her hands close to her chest as she eyed all the cobwebs and dust-laden antiques in the hallway. “Aggie made it clear when I first came here—the third and fourth floors are off-limits.”

“Because she’s hiding something up here,” Acacia insisted, continuing her crusade down the corridor.

“Or, because she doesn’t want us contracting tetanus,” Harper countered, narrowly avoiding a sharp, rusty metal edge.

“If you’re fine not knowing whether you’re bunking with Satanists, good for you. But I’m not gonna be their next sacrifice.”

“So, we’ve jumped off the magic freak train?” Jace asked, emerging from an open room. As he left, he shoved a full-length mirror to the ground.

“I don’t know,” Acacia admitted. “All I know is none of this makes sense.”

“What” Us purposely going onto a restricted floor of the house?” Harper asked.

“No, any of this,” Acacia said, stopping to face the others. “How did your parents die?”

“A-a serial killer,” Harper whispered.

“Yeah, but how did he do it?” Acacia pressed, tilting her head with a raised brow.

Harper looked away, focusing on the dusty floorboards, while Jace jiggled the handle of a locked door.

“Acid vomit.”

“Oh, gosh!”

“Same. Then, we all just happen to wind up here? Where the adults are all too nonchalantly chatting about covens, demons, and magic over tea.” Acacia said, visibly rattled. “Not to mention, the last thing I heard my mom say were the exact words Aggie taught us this morning.”

“I’ve had weirder foster homes,” Jace said, shrugging her off.

“They’re hiding something,” Acacia insisted.

“Well, duh,” Jace retorted, pulling out his pocketknife and tossing it in the air. “If you really wanna know what the old lady’s hiding, you might wanna try the room she’s never let me near since I got here.”

“What? You’re just mentioning this now? You really are an idiot,” Acacia said, baffled. He’d watched her search the entire house and said nothing. “Where is it?”

Jace flicked open his pocketknife and hurled it toward Acacia. It whizzed inches away from her face, embedding itself in the iron-clad oak door at the end of the hall.

“There,” he said, a sinister grin spreading across his face.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“Relax. If I was aiming for you, you’d have a nice new pointy gothic accessory in your skull,” Jace said, brushing past her to retrieve his knife.

Acacia growled, stomping toward the door and shooting Jace a piercing glare, but he just leaned casually against the wall, sliding his knife back into his pocket.

“Next time, just point,” Acacia grumbled, wrestling with the knob before accepting that—like many of the doors in the house—it was locked. She didn't know why she expected it to open; after all, Jace said Aggie didn't want him near it. She banged her head against the frame, defeated. If there was a secret behind the door, she wasn’t going to uncover it today.

Jace watched Acacia repeatedly thump her head against the door, groaning. She looked pathetic, like a forlorn little gothic puppy. Normally, such a sight wouldn’t faze him, but for some reason, seeing Acacia like this made him uneasy. Maybe it was because the three of them had endured similar ordeals, or maybe it was because Acacia thought they—he—was special, and unlike his social worker, she meant it in a good way. Whatever the reason, he found himself shoving Acacia to the floor.

“Move over,” Jace said, hunching over the keyhole with his lock-picking set in hand. After a few minutes, he straightened up and swung the door open. “There.”

“Finally,” Acacia said, pushing past him into the room.

“Guys, this is trespassing,” Harper warned, edging up to the doorway but making sure not to cross the threshold, even though the room’s cleanliness beckoned her to step inside.

“God, Mary. Chill,” Jace said, scanning the virtually vacant room. He brushed dust off one of many nearly barren bookcases. “I’m sure Aggie won’t mind that we snooped around her lame-ass library.”

Harper clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms, her face flushing as crimson as her curls. In a fit of anger, she lunged at Jace, knocking him to the floor.

“My name’s Harper, you jerk!” she burst out, then clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes widening in terror as she realized she’d crossed the threshold. Harper shot Jace a scowl as he laughed, clearly amused by her outburst. She then drew a cross over her body as she thumped her fist against her leg.

Acacia paid no mind to the others, determined to find something in the empty room. She didn’t understand why Aggie would be so uptight about keeping them away from this room. There was nothing remarkable at all—just a rug, a sofa, an armchair, a few dressers, bookcases, and a table with a few candles on it. Nothing exceptional.

Acacia hung her head and slumped onto the sofa. “Dammit,” she murmured, burying her face in her hands.