Discovery
Kane Baker sped back toward the heart of Greenly Bay, the road winding through skeletal oaks and patches of fog that clung to the asphalt like ghosts. Vera Kingsley sat in the passenger seat, her sheriff’s hat clutched tightly in her lap, the felt worn soft from years of service, her fingers tracing its brim as if it could anchor her against the storm raging in her mind. The tiny script—Eleanor Hawthorne’s hidden note, no bigger than a matchbook—burned a hole in her pocket, its microscopic letters a taunt, a riddle, a lifeline to a truth that felt further away with every mile.
The air through the cracked window was sharp with the briny tang of the river and the resin of pine, but the chill in Vera’s bones had nothing to do with the night. The library’s oppressive silence, Eleanor’s scream, the shattered magnifying glass, the open window with no trace of struggle—they replayed in her mind like a film stuck on a single, bloody frame, each image sharper, more accusing than the last.
Kane’s hands gripped the wheel, his knuckles pale, the muscles in his forearms taut under the rolled sleeves of his coat, still flecked with the fine dirt of Mathias Baker’s graveyard. His axe rested across the back seat, its blade catching slivers of moonlight through the rear window, a silent reminder of the fight that had spared him but cost so much else. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the road, the headlights catching the twisted branches that seemed to reach for the truck like claws. His voice cut through the engine’s hum, low and deliberate, carrying the weight of a man who’d stared death in the face twice and still didn’t understand why he was breathing.
“Moriah took her,” Vera said before he could speak, her voice low but sharp, slicing through the tension like a blade. “Eleanor knew too much—about her grandfather Elias, the mob, the Careys, the curse. Maybe even you, and why you’re still alive. That scream, the glass crashing… she was yanked out of existence. No blood, no scuff marks, no footprints in the gravel. Like Moriah just erased her.”
Kane’s eyes flicked to her, then back to the road, his grip tightening until the wheel creaked.
“Moriah’s cleaning house,” he said, his voice rough, laced with the same dread that coiled in Vera’s gut. “Anyone who gets close to the truth—poof. Gone. Eleanor was the last keeper of Elias’s secrets, the library his fortress. She talked about the mob’s names, Martin’s hook, Elena’s last words. That’s why Moriah came for her. That note in your pocket? It’s why she’s scared—or why she’s laughing. Could be a trap, Vera, not a key.”
Vera’s fingers brushed the script in her pocket, the paper brittle against her skin, its microscopic letters a secret she couldn’t yet read but felt in her bones. She shook her head, her voice steel despite the ache in her skull from the vision that had struck her in the bar, the pulsing shelf that had led them to this dead end.
“We’re going back tomorrow,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument, the sheriff in her rising above the fear, the grief, the exhaustion. “Daylight, full backup—deputies, state police if I have to drag them in. We’ll tear that library apart, find Eleanor or what’s left of her. If Moriah’s got her, I’m summoning that demoness myself. Eleanor’s innocent in this—didn’t ask for the curse, didn’t deserve to be dragged into the void. I’ll demand her back, curse or no curse. I’m done losing people to this thing.”
Kane glanced at her again, his eyes narrowing, a mix of respect and worry etching lines deeper into his face. “You think Moriah’ll negotiate?” he asked, his voice low, skeptical but not dismissive. “She’s a predator, Vera. Plays for keeps. That library was a sanctuary, and she walked right in, took Eleanor like picking a flower. You summon her, you better have more than a badge and a prayer. That note might be bait, leading us straight into her jaws.”
“Maybe,” Vera conceded, her gaze hard, fixed on the road ahead, the headlights cutting through the fog like a blade through gauze. “But that's all we’ve got right now. Elias built that place to expose the truth, not bury it. That shelf, that book, that note—it’s a thread, Kane. We pull it, or we let Moriah keep tightening the noose around this town. Matilda’s dead. The kids from years ago, drowned. Now Eleanor. I’m not letting her take another soul without a fight.”
The conversation hung heavy, the truck’s cab a small island of defiance in a sea of darkness. The road straightened as they entered Greenly Bay’s outskirts, the shuttered shops and flickering streetlights a grim reminder of a town under siege. The precinct loomed ahead, its squat brick facade glowing faintly under the streetlights, but something was wrong—terribly wrong. The air felt heavy, charged, like the moment before a storm breaks, the kind that rips roofs off houses. No patrol cars in the lot, no deputies smoking on the steps, no hum of activity—just an unnatural stillness, the EXIT sign’s red pulse bleeding through the glass like a wound. Vera’s gut twisted, a cold knot of dread tightening as Kane slowed the truck, parking with a crunch of gravel that sounded too loud in the silence.
“Something’s off,” Vera muttered, her hand already on her pistol, the weight a comfort against her hip as she pushed open the door.
Her boots hit the ground hard, the gravel biting into her soles, and she sprinted toward the precinct’s front door, her heart pounding a warning she couldn’t ignore. Kane was behind her, his long strides keeping pace, his axe in hand, the blade catching the streetlight’s glow like a promise of violence.
The door hung ajar, a sliver of fluorescent light spilling onto the pavement, tinged with a wet, glistening red that made Vera’s blood run cold. She pushed through, pistol raised, the air inside thick with the reek of blood and death, a metallic tang that coated her tongue and choked her lungs.