Charlotte Du Pont stepped out of her luxury Mercedes-Benz with the help of her chauffeur. The young man held her hand, smiling in a way that would have been inappropriate were her husband around, but since Mr. Du Pont was in meetings three states down, Charlotte allowed it.

Chestnut brown hair, preened into a sleek bun at the crown of her head, framed her pale skin, which seemed to glow against the berry stain of her lips. When she stepped up the front steps of her cousin's small, suburban home in northern Michigan, Charlotte waved away her driver and rang the doorbell. After a few minutes, Jamie Foster opened the front door wearing nothing but a robe that clearly hadn't been washed in months. Charlotte forced herself not to waft the air away from her nose. "Jamie, darling," she began, trying to muster a lick of compassion, "you look like you haven't slept in weeks."

Jamie scoffed, and it only deepened the dark crevices of her sleep-deprived sockets. "Let's make this quick," she muttered.

Charlotte crossed the threshold and closed the door behind her. Jamie made no move of hospitality, not a single offer of food or water, so Charlotte simply cleared a section of dirty paper plates off the kitchen table and set her folders down.

Jamie sat down cross-wise, staring at the stack of paperwork. "She's seventeen," she uttered disdainfully. "She could just be emancipated."

"If Rayne is emancipated, then she cannot stay at Maria J. Westwood."

"So?"

"So?" Charlotte's patience fled. "So, she will go to juvie, Jamie. Then prison—"

"Good."

Charlotte exhaled, the sound melodious even to her own ears. It was not difficult to discern the dissimilar tonalites of their voices. Jamie's had more of a nasal inflection, while Charlotte possessed a richer timbre, speaking from her diaphragm and enunciating in a rather sophisticated fashion. "Jamie," she began smoothly, "I have no qualms with signing the adoption papers. I will meet with Rayne later this week to discuss options if that is not what she wants."

Jamie stared callously at the papers, until raising her brows, exhaling, and scribbling her signature at the bottom.

Charlotte couldn't believe it. "You've taken down all of her pictures," she whispered. "And now you're signing your rights away like you didn't spend the last fifteen years raising the poor child."

"Poor child? Poor child?" Jamie stood, raising her voice. "That thing is the devil!"

"Jesus, Jamie. Listen to yourself. You're the one who raised her. You brought this upon yourself. Need I remind you that you are the one who left us," Charlotte said. Though cousins, Charlotte and Jamie had been raised like sisters. "Your children could have lived great lives, but you ran away from home. You chose to fornicate with—"

"Don't," Jamie snapped. "Don't you dare bring my husband into this. He was a good man."

"He is a dead man, Jamie!"

Jamie stumbled backward. "I had no choice! I left home, because you're all a bunch of racist, self-centered—!"

"This had nothing to do with—"

"—greedy mother—!"

"Jamie!"

They both stood still, breathing heavily and allowing the storm to settle before them.

"Get out," Jamie hissed. "I never want to see either of you ever again."

"You need help. This isn't good for you."

"Get out!"

"They told you it was a psychotic break, Jamie! She doesn't remember! Do you know what that means—what happens if she remembers?"

"It means she'll finally feel what I feel," Jamie uttered, breathlessly. "Or maybe, she'll feel nothing at all."

"Jamie."

"I hope she burns."

"Jamie?"

"I hope she burns in Hell."

◢✥◣

Emma and Dorian stood at the border of Maria J. Westwood, the blood moon casting a haunting glow over the campus. Like the splintered memories of a dream, the flashing lights of blue and red lent an otherworldly brightness to the midnight sky—almost as if the sun had been replaced with a twisted, red-tinged version of itself. The night air chilled them both to the bone, and Emma shivered in her thin coat. Dorian hugged his arms close and glanced up at the building, his gaze finally settling on the window to Dr. McGowan's office. Emma followed suit; she could barely make out Rayne's stoic features, illuminated by the light from within.

Emma had seen that look before though, on that night, so long ago.

Rayne's eyes had been frozen then too, distant and unfocused, as if she'd retreated deep within the confines of her mind, leaving nothing but a shadow of her former self.

Dorian stared at the interrogation. "Do you think he used her hands?"

"Huh?"

"Leviathan," he said softly. "Do you think he killed that girl with Rayne's hands?"

His inquiry struck her like a thunderbolt, a chilling reminder of their newfound reality. One full of demons, possessions, and . . . sacrifices? Psychic teenagers and murderous plots. Emma looked toward the grass at her feet, flickering red and blue.

This was a nightmare. Hell on earth.

If Leviathan did kill that girl using Rayne's hands, then she was in danger of being falsely accused of a crime she had not actually committed.

Again.

◢✥◣

The hallways were deserted, and Lucas Abbott stood, surveying his best friend with studious eyes. Breath ragged, Cole leaned against the wall. He was a figure cloaked in shadows, the fiery glow of the moon bleeding into the hallway and obscuring his features. His jacket was hooked over one finger and thrown over his shoulder. The gentle sway of his body betrayed the turmoil within. Lucas had always admired Cole's strength and fortitude, but now he saw something else, something vulnerable.

Lucas looked down at his own hands. Not a single tremor to be found. What was wrong with him? Perhaps finding Olivia's body last year had ruined him. Or, perhaps it was that all of his nights with Rayne, swallowed whole by monstrous shadows and tormenting whispers, had finally calloused him to fear.

No, he thought, breathing deeply. As blue flickered the hall, he knew that he was terrified.

Next to them stood Jackie, Pierce, David, and Spencer, all fixed in the same trancelike state. They looked tired and worn, their clothes rumpled and unkempt. The black fabric of Jackie's gown clung to her exhausted form, and her makeup was smudged over her cheeks. Pierce seemed to ache with a longing to reach out to her, but unable to move. David and Spencer's matching white and red tuxedos had lost their pristine shine, both appearing crimson under the heavy moon.

Lucas lingered in the corridor. He loosened his bowtie, his jacket hanging open and his collar slightly askew. Tousled blonde curls framed his face. He was the first to break the silence. "Jackie," Lucas began softly. He couldn't bear the thought of startling her further. "Jackie, did you see what happened?"

"I was following Bianca," Jackie breathed. "I was worried about her. But then I . . . I found Rayne . . . like that . . . with—" She inhaled sharply, a new tear slipping over her face.

"I'm so sorry," Lucas whispered, looking down.

Cole cleared his throat. "That knife?" He shook his head. "It was a gift I gave to Bianca."

Jackie nodded, her eyes fixed on the ground. "She was, uh"—Jackie wiped her cheek— "twirling it around in the bathroom right before the dance."

"My initials are on that thing," he said quietly.

Lucas scoffed. Really? He couldn't believe Cole was thinking of himself at a time like this. He exhaled. "Rayne's the one with blood on her hands," he said with a cool detachment, "I think you're in the clear."

But Cole shook his head, eyes flickering with determination. "I can tell them I did it."

David furrowed his brow. "Why the hell would you do that?"

"I can't let them take her away," Cole whispered, looking at the flashing lights out the window. "She didn't do it."

The vein in David's temple pulsed. "You didn't do it, Cole! Don't be stupid!"

"Well, I might as well have! It was my goddamn knife, Shep!"

"Stop it!" Jackie yelled, and gently, Pierce placed a hand on her shoulder. She eyed it for only a moment before shrugging it away. "Just what exactly are you saying? You think Bianca did this? Is that it?"

Cole tossed his jacket to the marble below, drawing near her. "Would it really surprise you, Jackie? Remember what she wanted to do to Rayne on that basketball court?"

Jackie shook her head, voice breaking. "Bianca would never hurt Hillary—"

"Well, neither would Rayne. She didn't do this."

Lucas sighed, echoing Cole's sentiments in the deepest cavern of his chest. Thoughts about Rayne churned like a turbulent sea, waves crashing in patterns he couldn't decipher. All he knew was that he couldn't bear the thought of losing her either. He wanted to say something, but David's gaze turned sharp, as if sensing this too. Lucas swallowed. David knew too much, and if he shared his suspicions about Luke's relationship with Rayne to Cole, it could have dangerous repercussions—especially now, when Cole's own suspicions were beginning to brew.

Lucas's mind drifted back to the dance, the warmth of Rayne's body against him, the way her eyes locked with his. That memory felt like a cruel joke compared to the horrifying sight of finding Rayne covered in blood. He recalled the night she had shared her past with him, the same night that David had found them in the shack together. Now, her voice echoed in his mind, "I don't remember doing it. I . . . I killed someone."

Could that be what happened here tonight, too?

David grumbled, "I'm telling you, Cole, you don't know that girl. And I'm not letting you throw your life away for her. You got it?"

Caught in the tension of the moment, Spencer whispered, "But I don't think Rayne did it either," and David whipped his head toward his lover. Spencer raised his shoulders. "I don't."

"How can you be so sure?" Jackie asked, voice strained. "How well do any of us really know each other anyway?"

Lucas felt a chill slip down his spine. The mere recollection of Rayne's history, her violent past and erratic behavior, kept playing with his lungs. God, no. He held a steady hand over his heart, trying to breathe deeply. Could she have really done this? The notion was absurd, and yet, doubt still lingered. His hands ached with longing, a longing for answers, for the truth to reveal itself, and for Rayne to be back in his arms on that dance floor, just before the night crumbled all around them. The more these thoughts swirled his mind, the more David's shoulders seemed to twitch with the urge to punch him in the face.

Lucas couldn't bring himself to voice his subsequent thoughts to anyone, though Spencer eyed him with a peculiar sense of understanding, as if he knew exactly what Lucas was thinking.

The shadow people. Were they to blame? They lurked around every corner, whispering in the darkest recesses of their minds. Lucas and Rayne were afraid to be alone, for fear of what might happen in the dark. For her sake, and for his own, he knew they would have to face the shadows head-on and emerge victorious, or die trying.

Spencer nodded, as if knowing this too.

◢✥◣

The county sheriff in the psychiatrist's office was tall and lanky, with a thin, aging face and glasses perched atop the end of his nose. Sheriff Terrence Williams. His black skin had cool undertones that gave him an air of sophistication. He looked more like an intellectual academic than some "tough guy" policeman, especially in his neatly pressed khaki uniform and polished shoes. His movements were deliberate and precise like a chess player calculating his next move. Even his questioning style was more analytical than aggressive, as if he were trying to solve a puzzle rather than intimidate a suspect.

His face had a hardened expression as he sat across from Rayne. He'd been questioning her for a while now and had already grilled her on every detail of the evening, but Rayne said the same thing every time: she had been following Davenport and Hillary, and when she rounded the corner, Hillary was already dead.

What about that was so hard to understand?

Sheriff Williams adjusted his black tie. "You're sure you didn't see anything else?"

"I already told you, I saw what everyone else saw. Hillary was already . . ."

"Dead," he supplied. "You can say the word."

Rayne met his cold stare with an emboldened one of her own. "Hillary was already dead."

The old sheriff nodded, seeming unconvinced. He leaned back in his chair. "I know you want to help," he said, shifting his tone. "But if you're not telling me the truth, then you're not helping. You need to tell me what you know, Rayne."

She was silent for a few breaths. "Look, I know what you're all thinking," she said softly, looking down at her crimson-crusted fingers, "but I . . . I didn't do this. I swear."

◢✥◣

"Well, we have evidence that suggests otherwise," said the young deputy.

Vincent Davenport rolled his eyes. "I don't care what evidence you think you have. I'm telling you, I was in my room, grading papers." His voice echoed throughout the headteacher's office. The room was steeped in the scent of aged mahogany and leather. Vincent shook his head. "I never went anywhere near that dance, let alone that girl."

The young deputy, Malik Thompson, paced the room, his footsteps echoing on the polished wood floors. His athletic build was a stark contrast to the refined setting. Unlike Sheriff Williams, this man sported a rugged unshaven look. Tattoos peeked out from beneath his rolled-up khaki sleeves, marking his brown skin with black ink. "Mr. Davenport, I'm not here to play games, so I need a straight answer, and I need it now. Did you," he began slowly, "have a relationship with Miss Berkshire?"

Vincent's face paled, the harsh light of the desk lamp carving into his flesh. "Absolutely not. I had a professional relationship with her as a teacher. Nothing more."

"Well, that's not what I've heard."

"You're really going to believe rumors? Here? In a school full of delinquents?"

◢✥◣

"I'm telling you the truth," Bianca said, her voice barely a whisper.

"So, you're sayin' this here knife don't belong to ya?" asked Chief Deputy Roy Parker.

His weathered figure had decades of experience etched into his alabaster face, a relic of the Lockwood County Sheriff's Department. With a grizzled beard that matched the silver streaks in his hair, he possessed a no-nonsense quality that should have set Bianca's mind at ease. Instead, she remained silent, her eyes downcast.

Sitting in Doctor Shaw's old office, the room was suffused with a sense of abandonment, her absence felt in the dusty shelves and faded upholstery of the worn armchair. Her desk, once a place of solace and understanding, now seemed imposing under the harsh fluorescent lights. There was a palpable disconnect between the stark white lights above and the darkness of the forest beyond the barred windows.

"See these initials here? 'B' for Bianca," he mused, scratching his silver mustache. "But what does the 'C' stand for, I wonder." He held up the evidence bag under the light. "This contraband, it's grounds for immediate dismissal here at Maria J. Westwood. You understand that, right?"

Bianca swallowed hard, her eyes welling up with tears as her gaze shifted to the hanging diplomas, reminders of the expertise that once resided within these walls.

"Did ya kill that girl?"

"No."

"Then what happened?"

"I don't remember," she said, her voice breaking. "It's all a blur."

◢✥◣

"How did the knife come into your possession, Miss Foster?" asked the sheriff.

"I don't know," Rayne murmured.

"Interesting." He sighed, adjusting his glasses. "This isn't the first time you've found yourself at a grisly crime scene with hazy recollections."

"I told you—"

"Yes. You were following Davenport and Hillary when you stumbled upon the body. You've reiterated that point. What I'm saying is"—he leveled black eyes to meet her—"I don't buy it."

"Good thing I'm not selling anything." Rayne crossed her arms. "It's the truth. Take it or leave it."

"So, are you suggesting that Davenport is responsible?" he inquired thoughtfully.

"What? No. That's not what I—"

"That's not, what? Not what you mean? Well, isn't it? You say you were following Berkshire and Davenport, when suddenly, Berkshire wound up dead. You must be trying to tell me he's our guy."

"No, I—"

"So, you're trying to frame him then? Because you were the last person with the body and the murder weapon."

◢✥◣

"Of course, that's what she's doing!" Vincent snapped.

Deputy Malik Thompson snorted. "You really expect me to believe this girl is trying to frame you?"

"What part of 'school full of delinquents' do you not understand?" He shook his head. "I'd like to call my lawyer now."

The deputy eyed the man from head to toe with disdain. "Of course you would."

"Look, find Dorian Matthews. He can confirm my alibi."

◢✥◣

"Emma, wait!" Dorian called out, his voice echoing the grand hallway as he ran after her, ornate wallpapers blurring past them. "Where are you going?"

"You know exactly where I'm going," Emma answered, her heart swelling with an indomitable ire. I'm gonna get Rayne out of this hellhole. She wiped a single tear from determined eyes. Emma would be damned if she let the girl take the fall for yet another crime. Not this time. Ignoring Dorian's protests, she quickened her pace down the South Hall. As she reached for the door leading to the headmaster's office, the heavy door swung open, revealing a tatted deputy with a stern expression blocking her path.

The man faltered, surveying them both. "We're in the middle of an investigation," he stated firmly. "I'm gonna need you to exit this hallway immediately."

"Officer Emma Scott," she declared, flashing her badge. "I'm looking for Rayne Foster. She is a minor, and you are interrogating her without—"

"This is a unique situation, as I'm sure you're already aware." The deputy tilted his head, studying her badge. "You're a long way from Michigan, officer."

"Yes, well. I was Foster's police escort from Michigan to Pennsylvania. I'm responsible for her well-being and her safety."

"You were responsible," said the man, "but to my knowledge, she's been on campus for a few months now, Miss . . ."

"Scott," she answered, feeling no need to correct him with Mrs.

"Miss Scott." He flashed a charismatic smile, looking her up and down. "Quite the dedication." He shook his head. "Look, I understand your concern, but I'm afraid I can't allow unauthorized individuals to interfere with our investigation, and this is a long way outside of your jurisdiction."

"Right then. Look, I didn't catch your name," she said, stepping closer.

"Thompson," he supplied, grinning. "Malik Thompson." He extended his hand.

Before Emma could shake his hand, Dorian stepped forward. "Deputy Thompson, we appreciate your diligence in this matter, but we both think it would be best for Rayne if her psychiatrist was present, as well as Mrs. Scott, here."

Thompson's gaze flickered between the two of them, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes as he withdrew his hand. Emma turned away. She couldn't blame the deputy for finding their request ludicrous. Rayne was an unaccompanied minor with the scene of a crime fresh on her mind. Now was the perfect opportunity to steal a confession from her. Emma's eyes darted around, scanning the scene for a possible escape route. There was no way to know if the demon had used Rayne's hands, but she knew that she needed to get Rayne as far away from this campus as possible.

"Can I see her?" Emma asked desperately, hoping to appeal to his sense of compassion.

The deputy exhaled. "Sorry. Not gonna happen. You can take it up with the sheriff though, if you'd like."

Her heart sank. "Dorian," she whispered, turning to place her hand on his sleeve. "We have to find her."

"Dorian?" Recognition flashed the deputy's features. "Dorian Matthews?"

"Yes, sir," he replied calmly, but Emma noticed the underlying worry in his eyes.

Deputy Thompson hesitated for a moment before nodding curtly. "Follow me."

◢✥◣

The deputy led Dorian Matthews into the administration office, followed closely by Emma. The atmosphere was charged with tension, each person carrying their own weight of suspicion. As they entered, Vincent Davenport's eyes sparked with relief, though a trace of frustration lingered in his voice. "Finally, someone with some sense!" he exclaimed. "Dorian, can you please talk to the man?"

Dorian and Emma exchanged glances. "I thought you were taking us to see Rayne," said Dorian, his disappointment overrun only by his distrust of his colleague.

"Take a seat," commanded the deputy. He leaned against the wall, muscled arms crossed. "Alright, Matthews. Where were you at approximately ten-thirty this evening?"

"I'm sorry?" Dorian asked, shaking his head.

Vincent shot Dorian with a warning glance, prompting him to turn towards the deputy with a grave expression. Before he could answer, Emma said, "He was with me."

At this, Vincent's agitation flared, a reaction that did not escape Emma's notice.

The deputy smiled. "If you were with Miss Scott this evening, then why did Mr. Davenport suggest that you could vouch for him grading papers in his room all night?"

Dorian let out a resigned sigh, feeling the weight of Vincent's manipulation bearing down on him. Vincent had made it clear that exposing his relationship with Miss Berkshire would result in retaliation. It was a dangerous game of coercion, and Dorian felt he had no choice but to play along. Still, a young girl was dead, and now Rayne's life may very well have hung in the balance. He couldn't afford to gamble on Vincent's innocence, but he also couldn't risk being kept away from Rayne if she needed him.

"I've known Vincent for years," Dorian said, through gritted teeth. "That's his routine, and if that's what he said he was doing, then . . . I . . . believe him."

"And the girl?" inquired the deputy, his gaze probing the room like a lighthouse.

"I can assure you, he's a man of integrity," said Dorian, though the words tasted like bile in his mouth. "I find it hard to believe he would be involved in something like this."

Emma, standing by the door, observed the exchange closely, her skepticism evident in her furrowed brow. "I'm sorry, Dorian," she interjected, her voice gentle yet firm, "but just because this man would normally be grading papers at this hour doesn't mean that's what he was doing tonight."

Damn. Now she was starting to sound like a cop again. Dorian turned his gaze toward her, a plea for trust playing in his eyes. "Emma, I understand your concerns, but Vincent is not involved. We need to focus on finding the real culprit if we want to help Rayne." As the words left his lips, a seed of doubt began to sprout in his mind.

What if Vincent was responsible?

"You know," Deputy Thompson began, pushing himself away from the wall to step closer, "there's something about growing up in a small town like this. Everyone knows everyone . . . Ties run deep. My uncle?" He placed his hands on the table, leaning forward. "He's the sheriff. A pillar of this community for as long as I can remember. Practically raised me when my folks passed away."

Dorian nodded, but he was exhausted. "Must've been tough," he whispered.

Thompson pursed his lips and popped them. "The point is, I get it. Feeling responsible for someone who's not your own, not like that anyway. So I get it. But you see," he paused, trying to find the words, "back when I was a kid, growing up in this town, me and my buddies got into all sorts of trouble."

Vincent rolled his eyes. "Do we really need a life story?"

The deputy ignored him. He seemed to be addressing Dorian anyway. "My best friend always did the worst. 'Hey, tell your old man I was with you,' he'd say, and you know, what? I would. But one day, he crossed a line. He saw an opportunity to save himself, even if it meant throwing me under the bus. Sold me out just to save his own skin."

"I see," whispered Dorian, and he did. He knew exactly what he was getting at.

"My uncle gave me one of those stern talks about honesty and trust and family. Told me to be careful who you vouch for, because sometimes, the ones you think you can rely on are the ones who let you down the hardest."

"Choose your allegiances wisely," Emma uttered softly, but Dorian closed his eyes.

Lecture noted. 

He understood. But they didn't.

"Sometimes," Thompson whispered, "the people closest to you can turn out to be the ones who will hurt you the worst."

◢✥◣

Sheriff Williams leaned back in the creaking leather chair, the soft glow of the psychiatrist's desk lamp casting a warm, eerie glow over his features. A faint smirk played the corner of his lips. The dimly lit office cast long shadows along the wall, the faint scent of old coffee and musty files lingering in the air. "Miss Foster, you're playing a dangerous game here." He tapped the manilla folder on the table before him, the sound echoing in the room. "I'm well aware of your past, the shadows that lurk beneath the surface. Perhaps it's time you stopped resisting and embraced them. After all, do you know what you did?"

Rayne eyed the folder.

The man smiled, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "The darkness always finds its way back to the surface." He tilted his head. "Would you like to know? What you did that night? Who you hurt?"

A shiver ran down her spine, the implications stirring a sense of unease within her. She wasn't ready to confront her past, not yet anyway, and it sent an icy chill through her veins. She tried pushing aside the unnerving sensation. Before Rayne could respond, the door creaked open, and a silver-haired deputy stepped into the room. "Sir," he said gruffly, "got something here you're gonna wanna see."

"Not now, Roy." Sheriff Williams dismissed him curtly, his attention focused entirely on Rayne. However, the man stepped closer, shaking his head before whispering into the sheriff's ear. Williams took a deep breath as the deputy pulled away, his demeanor shifting. "Well, then. Miss Foster, it looks like you're free to go."

"What?" Rayne's voice trembled with disbelief, her heart pounding her chest.

He nodded, appearing almost bored with the situation now. "Looks like the security footage shows a scuffle with Bianca. The knife falls, and then Hillary . . . slits her own throat."

What?

Rayne's heartbeat ascended to her eardrums.

Pounding. Pounding. Pounding!

The sheriff's voice was distant: "Just before you come running around the corner."

A rush of conflicting emotions washed over her. Relief mingled with confusion, and beneath it all, a deeply profound sense of sorrow. The revelation of yet another tragedy, one that Rayne couldn't prevent, weighed heavily over her, threatening to overwhelm her. In that moment, her strength crumbled all around her, just as the crusted blood on her hands crumbled to the floor. Tears welled in her eyes, beneath the weight of her past and the burden of her failures.

She saw her! Alive! Just minutes before! And she could do NOTHING!

Was it real? Did Hillary's conversation with Davenport drive her to this? Or was it the shadow people? Did they make her do this?

Rayne sank into her chair, body shaking with sobs.

The sheriff stood. "Guess some secrets are better left buried," he said, tucking her awful past in that little manilla folder beneath his elbow. "For now."