Chapter 35
Sylvia leaned back in her chair, her voice taking on a calm, nostalgic tone as she wrapped up her latest podcast episode. “And that, dear listeners, is the rest of the story,” she said, her lips curling into a satisfied smile as she channeled her best impression of Paul Harvey. She always had fun with these light Monday episodes, and today had been no different. There was something about Harvey's iconic sign-off that brought a lightness to her stories, even when the content wasn’t exactly heartwarming.
She paused the recording, letting out a soft chuckle as she thought about today’s story—a wild tale of an elderly woman she’d playfully named Karen, who had accused her Haitian neighbors of stealing and eating her missing cat. “Only to find Mr. Whiskers in her own basement after causing a neighborhood uproar,” Sylvia muttered to herself, shaking her head. It was absurd, but that’s what made it perfect for Mondays. The playful, ridiculous tone was a nice break from the weightier investigative stories she usually dug into during the week.
Jason Meowmoa, her cat, lounged lazily on the couch, his amber eyes half-open as he observed her from across the room. He let out a soft, impatient meow, more of a demand than a greeting, as if urging her to wrap up and join him. "I know, I know," Sylvia muttered, stretching her arms over her head before standing up. "Podcast’s over, time for dinner." She smiled at him, amused by his combination of aloofness and undeniable need for attention.
The familiar hum of her apartment surrounded her—the distant traffic outside, the low buzz of her refrigerator, and the faint click of her cat’s paws on the floor as Jason Meowmoa followed her to the couch. He hopped up beside her, eyeing the small tray of wet food she set down next to him. He sniffed it, then flicked his tail in clear disapproval, turning his head away. “Picky tonight, huh?” Sylvia said, raising an eyebrow. She nudged the tray toward him, but Meowmoa simply gave her a look of pure feline disdain before settling back into the cushions.
Sylvia sighed and stood up, leaving Meowmoa to sulk over his rejected meal. She made her way to the kitchen, opening the fridge and scanning the shelves for something to eat. Her eyes landed on the leftover miso-marinated short ribs and pão de queijo from Sunday’s lunch with Andreas and Izumi. “Ah, perfect,” she muttered to herself, grabbing the container. It wasn’t often she had leftovers this good, and the thought of not cooking made it all the better.
She popped the leftovers into the microwave, the familiar hum filling the quiet kitchen as the smell of grilled short ribs and miso glaze began to drift into the air. Sylvia leaned against the counter, waiting, her mind still on the podcast. Monday episodes were always a nice break, a way to unwind before the chaos of the week kicked in. The microwave beeped, snapping her back to the present. She grabbed the container, savoring the warmth in her hands, and headed back to the couch.
Sylvia settled back onto the couch, placing her plate on the coffee table and reaching for the remote. Jason Meowmoa, who had been uninterested in his wet food, suddenly perked up, his nose twitching at the smell of the short ribs. “Oh, now you’re interested,” she said, amused, as he edged closer, his eyes locked on her plate. Sylvia shook her head, cutting off a small piece of the rib and offering it to him. He sniffed it eagerly before taking it, his earlier disdain forgotten. “Figures,” she muttered, turning on Only Murders in the Building as Meowmoa happily devoured his prize.
With Jason Meowmoa satisfied, Sylvia leaned back and relaxed, finally taking a bite of the short ribs herself. The rich, savory miso glaze was just as good as it had been on Sunday. She let the flavors settle, the warmth of the meal easing her into the evening. The opening scenes of Only Murders in the Building played out on the screen, the lighthearted mystery pulling her in. For a moment, everything felt simple—no pressing investigations, no dark cases to unravel. Just the comfort of a quiet night in.
Sylvia had just started to lose herself in the show when her phone buzzed on the coffee table, the screen lighting up with a new message. She paused the episode, glancing down at the notification from her podcast inbox. Expecting it to be something trivial, she picked up her phone, but the subject line made her pause: “Weird smell near the cove.” Frowning, she opened the message and read the brief, vague tip. Some guy camping by the coast mentioned a bad smell whenever the wind shifted, like something rotting. “Probably nothing,” she muttered, though the uneasy feeling started to creep in.
Sylvia debated for a moment, glancing back at the TV, then down at Jason Meowmoa, who had curled up on the couch beside her. It could just be some dead fish washed ashore—not exactly worth getting up for. But the guy mentioned it wasn’t the season for bad smells like that, and the cove he described was close to some Quechua territory. That nagging feeling in her gut wouldn’t go away. She sighed, standing up. “What do you think, Meowmoa? Want to take a little drive?” The cat looked up at her, unbothered, but Sylvia knew she wouldn’t be able to ignore the tip now.
Sylvia grabbed her jacket and flashlight, then reached for her purse on the kitchen counter. Unzipping the side pocket, she pulled out the .38 Special, a gift from her father when she told him she was going to be a journalist. She checked the cylinder—six rounds, as always. It was more of a comfort than anything, but she wasn’t about to head toward Quechua territory without it. Satisfied, she tucked it back into her purse. Jason Meowmoa wandered over, watching her with lazy curiosity. “You’re coming too,” she said, grabbing his harness. He flicked his tail, clearly reluctant, but didn’t resist. “Let’s hope it’s just a dead fish.” Purse over her shoulder, she stepped out into the cool night, keys in hand.
Sylvia slid into the driver’s seat of her little red Volvo, the smooth leather still holding a chill from the night air. She’d bought the car three years ago—not flashy, but reliable, which was all she needed. The engine purred to life, and she pulled away from the curb, headlights cutting through the empty streets. Jason Meowmoa curled up in the passenger seat, his eyes half-closed as he watched the road pass by. The city lights faded behind them as she headed toward the coast, the road growing quieter with each mile.
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As Sylvia drove farther from the city, the streets became darker and more deserted. The occasional glow of an RV’s lights flickered in the distance as she passed the state campground, its rigs parked in neat rows just off the coast. The wind picked up as she neared the secluded cove, making the night feel colder. Beside her, Jason Meowmoa shifted, his ears twitching with every gust of wind that shook the car. Sylvia glanced at him, feeling a growing sense of unease creep in, though she pushed it aside. It was probably just the wind, the smell of something washed up on shore. Still, the empty roads felt heavier the farther she went.
Sylvia pulled off the main road, following a narrow dirt path that led toward the cove. The headlights bounced over the uneven terrain, illuminating the scrubby bushes and rocky outcroppings along the coastline. As she got closer, the salty scent of the ocean began to mix with something sour in the air—faint, but unmistakable. Jason Meowmoa lifted his head, his ears perked and alert, sensing the change. “You smell that too, huh?” Sylvia muttered, her unease deepening as she parked the car and cut the engine. The night was eerily quiet except for the wind and the faint, rotten smell hanging on it.
Sylvia stepped out of the car, pulling her jacket tighter against the chill as the faint smell of rot hit her again, stronger now. She grabbed her flashlight from the passenger seat and clipped Jason Meowmoa’s leash to his harness. The path ahead was too rough for the car, the last stretch of the walk leading to the secluded cove about a football field’s length away. Her boots crunched over the uneven dirt and rocks as she started forward, the beam of her flashlight cutting through the darkness. Jason trotted beside her, his movements more alert now, ears twitching as the wind carried the sour smell of decay.
The farther Sylvia walked, the stronger the smell became. It was no longer just a faint scent—it was thick and sour, unmistakably the stench of rotting flesh. She tried to steady her breathing as the path narrowed, leading her toward the rocky shoreline of the cove. Jason Meowmoa stopped suddenly, his ears pinned back, letting out a low hiss. Sylvia’s grip tightened on the flashlight as she scanned the area, the beam revealing nothing but shadows and jagged rocks ahead. “It’s alright,” she whispered, more to herself than to Jason. But even as she said it, the dread in her stomach twisted tighter.
As Sylvia approached the edge of the cove, the beam of her flashlight swept across the rocky shore, and her stomach dropped. There, lying among the rocks, were bodies, bloated and twisted from the water. Their white loincloths, stained with blood and grime, clung to their swollen forms. The smell hit her full force now—overwhelming, suffocating. Jason Meowmoa let out another low hiss, backing up slightly, his tail flicking nervously. Sylvia stood frozen for a moment, the horror of the scene sinking in. She forced herself to step closer, her heart pounding in her ears as she realized this was far worse than she had imagined.
Sylvia crouched down, her flashlight trembling in her hand as she took in the gruesome details. Some of the bodies had pierced lips, adorned with tin or gold rings, glinting faintly under the light. The rings felt deliberate, as if they were some kind of mark or symbol, though she couldn’t make sense of them. Her breath hitched as she recognized the birthmark on one of the bodies—Daniel, one of the missing children she’d been investigating. A wave of nausea hit her, but she fought it back, her mind racing. Daniel, Lila, Tomas... they were all here, lifeless, abandoned. The grim reality slammed into her, and she struggled to keep her hands steady as she reached for her phone.
Her fingers hovered over her phone, but she hesitated. This wasn’t just another case—it was personal now. The bodies, the pierced lips, the rings—this wasn’t typical gang violence. It was too systematic, too precise. The Quechua gang might be involved, but this felt bigger, more organized. Sylvia’s heart pounded in her chest, her mind trying to piece it together. She pocketed her phone, deciding she needed more evidence before calling it in. With a deep breath, she forced herself to keep moving, flashlight in hand, knowing she couldn’t leave without documenting everything.
Sylvia’s breath caught in her throat as she continued along the shoreline, her flashlight revealing more bodies, all in various stages of decay. Some were barely recognizable, their skin bloated and discolored from days, maybe weeks, in the water. Others were missing organs, their bodies crudely opened and emptied. These children weren’t meant to be found—they had been discarded, left to rot and wash ashore, like they were nothing. Sylvia’s stomach twisted as she took shaky photos, each click of the camera feeling heavier than the last. Jason Meowmoa stayed close but tense, his fur standing on end as they moved deeper into the horror.
As Sylvia knelt to take another photo, the low, rumbling sound of Jason Meowmoa’s growl filled the air—a deep, vibrating noise that seemed unnatural coming from such a small cat. It was a warning, a sound she rarely heard but one that sent a shiver up her spine whenever he made it. The air around them seemed to hum with the intensity of it. “Easy, Jason,” she whispered, glancing at him, but the cat’s eyes were locked on the bodies, his ears flattened against his head. He sensed it too—there was something wrong here, something far worse than she could have anticipated.
The eerie growl from Jason Meowmoa didn’t stop, his tense body alerting Sylvia that the situation was about to get worse. She instinctively reached into her purse, fingers brushing the grip of her .38 Special, her mind racing. The smell, the bodies, the missing organs—it all pointed to something far more sinister than she’d imagined. Her breath hitched as she scanned the area one last time, flashlight flickering over the rocks and dark water. No one else was supposed to be here, but Jason never growled without reason. Something was out there—something still lurking in the shadows.
Sylvia’s stomach churned, the bile rising in her throat as the reality of what she’d uncovered hit her like a freight train. The stench of decay, the sight of missing organs, and the eerie growl from Jason Meowmoa were too much. She snapped her phone shut, pocketing it with shaking hands. “Enough,” she whispered, her voice cracking. She couldn’t take another second of this. Her body trembled as she stood, her head swimming, and she knew she was seconds from vomiting if she didn’t leave. Without a second thought, she turned and hurried back toward the car, her heart racing. She needed to call Grayson—he had to know about this, and she needed to be far away from that cove.
Sylvia practically stumbled back to the car, her legs unsteady beneath her as she fumbled for the keys. She threw the door open, and Jason Meowmoa leapt in first, still on edge, his eyes scanning the darkness. Sylvia slid into the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind her, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands, trying to calm the rising panic in her chest. For a moment, she sat there, the silence pressing in on her. Then she grabbed her phone, quickly scrolling through her contacts until she found Grayson’s number. Her thumb hovered over the call button. “He’s not gonna believe this,” she whispered, hitting dial as the car's engine roared to life and she sped away from the nightmare she’d just uncovered.