Chapter 37 The Empty Room (Jonas Hale POV)

Chapter 37 The Empty Room (Jonas Hale POV)

The door to Evelyn's room is unlocked.
That's the first thing that tells me something's wrong. I specifically watched her turn the deadbolt after I walked her back from the waterfront two hours ago. Watched her slide the chain lock into place. Heard it click.
Now the door swings open at my touch, revealing darkness inside.
"Evelyn?" I step across the threshold, hand instinctively moving to my service weapon. "You awake?"
Silence.
I flip the light switch. The overhead fixture flickers twice before illuminating the room, and my stomach drops.
The place is destroyed.
Not ransacked in the usual sense—drawers pulled out, mattress overturned. This is different. More deliberate. The bedspread has been torn off and thrown against the far wall. Pillows slashed open, stuffing scattered across the carpet like snow. The chair by the window is overturned, one leg broken clean off.
And the mirror above the dresser is covered in blood.
"Jesus Christ." I'm moving before conscious thought kicks in, crossing the room in three strides. "Evelyn!"
The bathroom door hangs open. Empty. Shower dry. No blood trail leading inside.
I turn back to the mirror, forcing myself to look closer at the message smeared across the glass in thick, dark red:
SHE CHOSE THIS
My radio is already in my hand. "This is Sheriff Hale. I need Deputy Mills at the Rosewood Inn, room eleven, immediately. Possible 10-57—missing person, signs of violence."
The radio crackles. "Copy that, Sheriff. Mills is en route, ETA three minutes."
I lower the radio, my other hand reaching toward the blood on the mirror but stopping inches away. Can't contaminate the scene. Can't touch anything until...
Wait.
I lean closer, studying the message. The blood is dark but not dried, still slightly tacky to the air. Fresh within the last hour. But the handwriting is too perfect. 
My eyes scan the rest of the space, cataloging details with the systematic precision of fifteen years in law enforcement. Window closed and latched from inside. No sign of forced entry. Door was unlocked but the chain was off—meaning either Evelyn opened it voluntarily or someone had a key.
On the nightstand, her phone sits face-up, screen dark.
I pick it up with my sleeve covering my fingers, pressing the power button. The screen illuminates, showing the unlock screen—but also a notification: one unsent text message.
My chest tightens as I swipe up without unlocking, just enough to read the preview:
To: Daniel Ward
I'm ending this
"No." The word comes out strangled. "Evelyn, no. Don't..."
The bed catches my attention. Papers spread across the bare mattress in a deliberate pattern, like someone arranged them specifically for discovery. I recognize Margaret's diary pages immediately—photocopies from the set I gave Evelyn days ago.
But these pages have been selected. Curated. Arranged in chronological order with one passage in the center, circled multiple times in red pen:
"The Hollow can only be fed or starved. There is no middle ground. Every Cross woman before me chose to feed it—offered their daughters, their sisters, themselves to buy temporary peace. I choose to starve it. If I give myself willingly, without betrayal, without stolen love to sustain it, perhaps the hunger will consume itself. Perhaps my death will be the last."
Margaret's final entry. Written three days before she hanged herself in the barn.
My hands are shaking as I set the phone down. "She's going to do it. She's going to sacrifice herself."
A knock at the door makes me spin around, weapon halfway drawn before I recognize Mills standing in the doorway, her face pale.
"Sheriff, what...—" She sees the room and stops. "Oh God."
"How long have I been gone?" I demand. "How long since I left her here?"
"You radioed me ninety minutes ago saying she was secured for the night. I was supposed to do a check at twenty-three hundred hours but..." Mills stops. Won't meet my eyes.
"But what?" I step toward her. "Mills, if you know something—"
"I got a call." Her voice is barely audible. "Anonymous. Said I didn't need to check on Miss Cross tonight. That she was being taken care of."
"Taken care of?" The words come out dangerous. "By who?"
"I don't know! The caller didn't identify themselves. Just said..." She swallows hard. "Just said my daughter's medical bills were paid in full. That I'd done enough. That I should go home and rest."
My hand finds the back of the overturned chair, gripping it hard enough to make the broken wood creak. "How long have you been taking money, Mills?"
"Six months." The confession comes out in a rush. "Started with small amounts. Two hundred here, three hundred there. Always cash in an envelope. Always with a note saying it was for my daughter's medication. I didn't—I didn't think it was connected to the murders. I thought it was just someone helping a single mother who couldn't afford asthma treatments."
"And when did you figure out it was connected?"
"When Robert Henshaw got arrested." She's crying now, tears tracking down her face. "When Daniel ran financials and found the shell corporation making payments to county employees. I saw my bank account on that list, Jonas. Deposits from 'Hollow Community Trust' going back six months."
I should arrest her. Should cuff her right now and put her in a cell for obstruction of justice. But there's no time.
"Who runs the trust?" I ask instead. "Who's been paying you?"
"I don't know. Daniel's trying to trace it, but it goes through multiple LLCs registered in Delaware and the Caymans. The signature on the incorporation documents is illegible. Could be anyone with access to..."
"To town records," I finish. "To historical archives. To the families who've been here for generations."
Mills nods miserably. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have..."
"Later." I'm already moving, scanning the room for anything else Evelyn might have left behind. "Right now I need to know if you have any idea where she'd go. Where the Hollow would take her."
"Larkin Lake," Mills says immediately. "Where Emma, where we found..."
"No." I shake my head, certainty settling in my gut. "That was just the preparation site. The place they processed Emma before the final ritual. The actual sacrifice happens somewhere else. Somewhere older."
On the dresser, partially hidden under a torn pillowcase, I spot a folded paper. I pull it free, spreading it across the dresser top.
It's a hand-drawn map of Hollow's End and the surrounding woods. Old map, judging by the faded pencil lines and yellowed paper. Probably from the town historical society or the church archives.
Multiple locations are marked in red ink: the Cross property, Larkin Lake, the cemetery, St. Catherine's Church. But one location is circled multiple times, with an arrow pointing to handwritten text:
The Old Well - 1847 - Where it started
"The Old Well," Mills breathes. "I've heard my grandmother mention it. Said it was sealed off in the fifties after a child fell in and drowned."
"Where is it?" I'm already pulling out my phone, pulling up the GPS mapping application.
"North of the lake, maybe two miles into the deep woods. There's no road access anymore. You'd have to hike in, and at night—"
"I don't care if I have to crawl." I'm taking photos of the map, the diary pages, the bloody mirror. Evidence Daniel will need later. "That's where she's going. That's where the Hollow wants her."
Mills grabs my arm as I move toward the door. "Jonas, wait. You can't go alone. If the town families are involved, if they're protecting the site—"
"Then I'll go through them." I pull free, but her grip tightens.
"You'll die." Her voice is flat. Certain. "Whatever's at that well, it's been waiting two hundred years for another Cross woman to complete the sacrifice. It'll have protections. Guards. Traps. You can't—"
"I can't let her die." The words come out louder than intended, echoing in the destroyed room. "Mills, I've loved that woman since we were sixteen years old. I've spent ten years trying to forget her and failing every single day. If she goes into that well thinking she's ending the curse by sacrificing herself, she's not dying alone in the dark. I won't let that happen again."
Mills's expression shifts. Understanding. Grief. "Like your grandfather."
"Yeah." I swallow hard. "Like my grandfather."
My grandfather. Sheriff Thomas Hale. Who investigated similar murders in 1974 and disappeared into these same woods, his body never recovered. Who left behind journals describing dreams—commands—telling him to protect the Cross family, to keep them safe, to ensure the ritual was completed properly.
The same dreams I've been having for months.
The same compulsions that made me check out Margaret's blood samples years ago. That made me keep photocopies of the diary. That made me research the Hollow obsessively, building that map wall in my cabin like a man possessed.
I thought I was investigating. Thought I was trying to help Evelyn.
But what if I've been preparing? What if something's been using me, grooming me, ensuring I'd be ready for this exact moment when Evelyn decides to sacrifice herself?
"Jonas?" Mills's voice pulls me back. "You okay?"
"No." The truth comes out simple and honest. "I'm not okay. I don't know if I'm helping Evelyn or helping the thing that wants to kill her. I don't know if these feelings I have—this need to protect her, to keep her safe—are mine or if they've been planted by something that's been manipulating this town for two centuries."
"Does it matter?" Mills asks quietly. "If you love her, does it matter where the feeling came from?"
I stare at her. At this deputy who took money to look the other way, who's compromised and guilty and still asking the only question that actually matters.
"I don't know," I admit. "But I'm choosing to believe it matters. I'm choosing to believe that loving Evelyn Cross is mine, not some curse's puppet strings. And I'm choosing to save her, even if it dooms this entire town."
Mills nods slowly. Steps back. "Then you need to call Agent Ward. You need backup."
"Daniel's at the medical examiner's office. He's—" I stop. Realize. "He's processing Emma. He's learning about the ceremonial wine and the historical protocol. He's finally accepting that the supernatural is real."
"Then he needs to know Evelyn's planning to sacrifice herself," Mills says. "Because if you two don't work together, she dies before either of you reaches that well."
She's right. I hate that she's right, but she is.
My hand finds my phone again, scrolling to Daniel's contact. My thumb hovers over the call button.
An uneasy alliance with a federal agent who's suspected me of murder since day one. Who thinks I'm obsessed and dangerous and possibly compromised. Who's in love with the same woman I am.
But he's also the only person left in this town who might actually help me save her.
I press call.
The phone rings once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth ring, Daniel's voice cuts through, rough and broken: "What."
"Daniel." I force my voice steady. "Evelyn's gone."
Silence. Then: "Gone where?"
"I don't know. I was with her at the inn. She said she needed to lie down. I stepped out to coordinate with Mills about overnight security. When I came back—" I look around the destroyed room. "Her window was open. Bedding torn. She climbed out, Daniel. She fucking climbed out and ran."
More silence. I can hear his breathing, harsh and rapid.
"When?" he finally asks.
"Within the last ninety minutes. Maybe less. I've got deputies searching downtown but—"
"But nothing." His voice shifts, becoming sharp. Focused. "She's going to Larkin Lake."
"No," I correct. "She's going to the Old Well. North of the lake, two miles into deep woods. It's marked on a map she left behind. That's where the original sacrifice site is. Where the Hollow was first fed in 1847."
I hear an engine roar to life on his end. "How sure are you?"
"Completely. She left Margaret's diary pages arranged on her bed. The circled passage talks about starving the Hollow by self-sacrifice. About ending the cycle by offering herself willingly without betrayal. Daniel, she's going to complete what her mother tried to do twenty years ago."
"Fuck." The word is vicious. "I'm ten minutes from the lake road. Can you meet me there?"
"Already heading to my truck." I'm moving as I speak, Mills following me into the hallway. "Daniel, there's something else. The room's been destroyed. Blood on the mirror, but it's not Evelyn's. Someone was here. Someone wrote a message: 'She chose this.'"
"The town families," Daniel says flatly. "They're helping her. Making sure she reaches the well."
"Or making sure we don't stop her." I hit the stairwell, taking the steps three at a time. "Mills confessed everything. She's been paid by a shell corporation for six months. They told her to stay away from Evelyn tonight. To let things proceed."
"How many others?" Daniel asks. "How many more are compromised?"
"I don't know. But we can't trust anyone except each other." The words taste bitter. "Daniel, I know you don't trust me. I know you think I'm obsessed and dangerous. But right now, we're all Evelyn has. So I need you to believe me when I say I will die before I let her walk into that well alone."
Silence stretches between us. Then: "I believe you. Meet me at the junction of Lake Road and Mill Street. We go in together."
"Agreed."
"Jonas?" His voice drops. Becomes almost human. "If we're too late. If she's already—"
"We're not too late," I interrupt. Because the alternative is unthinkable. "We can't be too late."
I hang up before he can respond. Push through the hotel's front entrance into cold night air that smells like rain and earth and something else. Something old and hungry.
Mills is beside me as I reach my truck. "What do you need from me?"
"Radio silence," I tell her. "Don't report Evelyn missing. Don't coordinate search parties. Buy us as much time as you can before anyone else realizes she's gone."
"And if I'm asked directly?"
"Lie." I meet her eyes. "You've been doing it for six months. Do it one more time. For Evelyn."
Mills nods once. "Be careful, Jonas. Whatever's at that well—it's been waiting a long time. It won't give her up easily."
"I know." I climb into my truck, turning the ignition. The engine catches, headlights cutting through darkness. "That's why I'm not asking."
I pull out of the parking lot fast enough to leave rubber on pavement, heading north toward the lake road where Daniel's waiting.
Toward the Old Well, where Evelyn is walking willingly into darkness.
Toward the moment I've been prepared for my entire life, even if I didn't know it until now.
I just hope to God I'm prepared to make the right choice when it comes.