- AHMED -

"October 26, 1985—

"I'm not sure I trust Marcus, but he says he just wants to let bygones be bygones. To hear him tell the story, he never did anything to Shelby. He'd only tickled her, made her laugh...but that's not quite what she told me. I suppose it's possible she was imagining things. But at the very least, I know Marcus was eyeing her when I walked in on the two of them—and that in and of itself is far too much to ignore. Perhaps that's why he's asked to take me out to dinner for a chat...but whatever 'bygones' he wants to let go of, I'm not sure he's—" Steven paused. "That—that's it. Another cutoff."

"Maybe she...had to go somewhere," I offered.

"Yeah," Irina said icily. "Or maybe she just couldn't think of a word horrible enough to describe Marcus."

Steven shot her a pained look.

I reached over his shoulder and flipped to the next page marked with blond hair. "October 31," I read aloud, hesitating. "Halloween."

Steven sighed, shaking his head before beginning. "I have no words. For Marcus or for Ernest. I've never been so humiliated in my entire life."

I heard Steven gulp hard.

"All those flowers he sent me, all those Sunday brunches and talks about finding joy in the everyday beauties of life—all this time invested...and he goes and kisses some cocktail waitress? Slobbers all over her? And at the bar, of all places! In front of half the restaurant, while I just sit there looking like an idiot, trying to hold back tears! I know he was drunk, and I know Marcus and his friends probably put him up to it. But I can't believe Ernest would do something like this to me. It finally felt like we were making headway, like we were moving toward something.

"I truly was foolish to ever think so highly of him...and so highly of myself. I know Ernest will never look at me the way he gazed after that waitress. Kristie was her name—she was so, so beautiful. And I know I don't compare to her; I could never, and I know that. But up until tonight, I guess I never knew how much that could matter to Ernest...and I how little I could."

"Is that...is that it?" I asked.

"For that entry, yeah," Steven mumbled.

Irina shut her eyes, and Sam just stared impassively into space.

"I can't...I can't believe this," Steven whispered. "My dad was...I can't..."

I hesitated. "...What's the next entry say?"

Steven was silent.

"Maybe...maybe things got better?" I tried.

"No," came a soft yet dauntless voice, carried on the sudden chirp of a low creak as it sounded from the foyer. "They didn't. In fact, they got much, much worse."

I jolted upright, as did Steven, Sam, and Irina, the four of us turning immediately to face the echo of high heels clattering across the tiled entrance to the Gravestepper home.

"Wh—who's there?" Irina asked.

The snapping patter of footsteps softened as they passed onto smooth carpet, their owner stepping at last into full view of the living room's ajar door.

"Prudence?" Steven gasped aloud. "How the—what are you doing here?"

"Making sure the four of you are still alive," she replied matter-of-factly, then turned to Irina. "Where's your mother? I need to speak with her."

Irina blinked. "She's...she's out. She went to the hardware store."

"Which hardware store? Chadwick's?"

"Prudence, what's this about?" Steven cut in.

"Irina," Prudence pressed nevertheless, "which store?"

"Yeah, it's Chadwick's," Irina offered up haphazardly. "I'm sorry, but what's going on here?"

"In about thirty minutes, this entire house will be crawling with police officers."

"What?" I blurted, eyes growing wide. "But why? What'd we d—"

"You didn't do anything, Ahmed," Prudence answered back. "Of that, I'm convinced. The four of you are innocent—even you, Sam, though I know you blame yourself."

Sam glared back at her defensively. "Excuse me, but who are you exactly? I don't recall anyone inviting you inside."

"I'm Prudence Darrow, the Deputy Commissioner's wife. And I do recall Madam Caroline's last words to you before her death. Something about redemption, wasn't it?" She crossed her arms. "Carla the receptionist told me everything about your little spat, Sam. Right before she was questioned a lot more intensely by the police. And that's exactly what will happen to the four of you if you don't get out of here right now."

"O—okay," Sam relented. "I just—how did you know we were all here?"

"I didn't. But when some girl named Grace waltzed into the police station with evidence that Lane Martin might still be alive, it cracked open a can of undead worms the likes of which I've never seen before. My husband ordered all hands on deck; and when Grace said she called you and thought she heard Irina in the background, they immediately decided to search all of your houses."

"But why?" Sam queried. "I mean, what do they think we're guilty of—?"

"That's just it—they have no idea what you might be guilty of. And they still don't know if Lane's somehow gotten to you."

"And what about you?" he fired back. "You obviously don't think we're guilty, or you wouldn't be here..."

"How astute." She unfolded her arms and placed one on her hip. "I know you're not guilty, but that doesn't mean Lane's not still after you—all of you." She sighed. "And right now, that might just make you four the best bet any of us have of stopping more murders from happening."

I gulped. "But...how? We're not investigators; we can't just—"

"You can do more than you think, Ahmed." She turned to me. "From what I hear, you and Steven managed to escape a burning apartment that took firemen hours to fully douse. To say nothing of the break-in that almost cost Dylan Chapley his life." She shot a glance at Steven after adding that last part. "But none of that will matter in less than half an hour if we don't get out of here. If the cops lock this place down, we may never find Lane or whoever's doing this. Or worse, another body may drop."

Sam shifted uncomfortably next to me on the couch. "It just seems...weird," he said after a few moments of silence. "How are you so sure Lane's after the four of us?"

"Well, Marcus Hall's hands certainly weren't clean in this entire ordeal," Prudence replied in matter of fact. "And neither were Myra Gravestepper's."

Irina looked away, tousling her hair uneasily.

"And as for you, Sam," Prudence continued, "I think we're all aware of just how important you are."

Sam bowed his head. "Whatever," he said lowly.

Shivering, I spoke next. "So what's the plan then?"

"The plan," Prudence began, drawing a long breath, "is for the four of you to follow me. You can't all afford to leave your vehicles here, but not leaving them here is exactly what will tip the police off. Still, it's a necessary evil; and luckily, I know someone who has a garage big enough to fit all your cars." She turned on her heel and headed for the front door. "Now, come along. We haven't got much time, and—"

"Wait." Steven shook his head. "You really expect us to follow you to who-knows-where after you just showed up out of the blue with some crazy conspiracy theory about cops and a girl that's been missing for twelve years who's somehow back from the grave?"

"It's not a theory, Steven. It's the truth."

"And why the heck should we believe you?"

She paused, tilted her head to the side. "Because I know you have questions—all of you. Questions about your father, Steven. And your mother, Irina. Questions about what happened to me and Charity back in seminary. And I have answers." She turned to Sam briefly, then refocused her attention on Steven. "And I know all of us want to find out what really happened to Lane."

Steven glared back at her evenly, stood his ground.

"That diary—" Prudence continued, "the one you stole from Charity—I know everything about it. Because I lived it. I know all that happened, even the things so terrible she wouldn't write them down."

Steven folded both arms across his chest. "Then you'd better start talking."

Prudence sighed. "I will. Trust me; I will. But if we wait here any longer, any chance to save your father, to catch whoever's doing this—it's gone. If you want to survive the night, the four of you will come with me—now."

****

When we pulled up in front of Prudence's makeshift safe house, tires screeching at the paved driveway entrance, Steven's mouth dropped agape. "There's no way," he breathed. His car's front headlights illuminated the blue flowers fringing a decorative wreath that hung amid the encircled glass at the center of the home's front door.

I turned to him. "Steven, what's wrong?"

"This—this is Charity's house."

I paused. "Huh?"

Steven sat perfectly still, silent and staring forward as Prudence stepped out of her vehicle and motioned for the rest of us to follow her inside. After I got out of Steven's car, reluctantly enveloped by the evening's dark waves, I felt my chest pounding heavier and heavier with each step I took closer to the Vaughn-Daley residence. Even as Sam and Irina stepped out of their own cars and rushed to catch up with me and Steven as we tailed Prudence, the eerie chill of the nighttime breeze seemed to grow stronger with each passing moment.

The blackness of the sky and air surrounding felt almost to be a weight of its own, bearing down on my shoulders and creeping over my arms and legs, dragging as I walked forward. The night's only light radiated unceremoniously from a light post across the street, one whose bravadic sheen glinted unabashedly against a white For Sale sign whose print had been slashed and overwritten with the exclamation New House Sold!

The moment I walked inside Miss Charity's home, Prudence clicked on a few of the lights decorating the hallway walls. In the distance, I could faintly make out the curvature of smoothed wooden tables and a seemingly endless collection of bright blue flowers on top of them.

Prudence led us to the living room, where we all took seats before a coffee table of deep brown. Glancing up, I noticed silver calligraphy streaked with even black detailing at the edges—Love is Patient, Love is Kind, the lettering read.

"Alright," Steven ordered. "We're here. Now tell us what happened with Charity and my dad." He gripped the diary tightly in his hand as he glared forward at her.

Prudence sniffed a fresh breath of air, then crossed her legs as she began to speak: