The name Whitney Johnson unraveled as quickly as it had ignited hope.
It took all of twelve hours for the records to come back from the national identification database — and nothing matched. No real-world trace of a Whitney Johnson in South-West State. No birth certificate. No driver's license. No apartment rentals. No utility bills. Not even a voter registration.
As if she didn't exist.
At least, not as Whitney Johnson.
The name was definitely a construct — a well-curated digital persona to keep her online fame separate from her real life. A ghost wrapped in pixels. Even her OnlyFans registration was tied to a business entity registered out of Britain, in Nevada under a shell account. Clever. Legal. And deeply frustrating.
When Brendon shared the news with the team at the precinct, it hit like a slow suffocation.
Everyone who had dared to believe they'd cracked the case — even a little — now stood slouched in the soft glow of computer monitors, the silence louder than any siren.
"Back to square one," muttered Officer Camren, running his hands through his short cropped hair. "Again."
Sofie sat cross-legged on a desk, laptop open, a half-eaten apple next to her coffee-stained files. She stared at Whitney's socials, diving through old streams, archived forums, Discord logs, obscure threads on horror kink subreddits.
Her voice cut through the silence. "Even if Whitney's a ghost in real life, her digital trail is thick. And everyone leaves fingerprints eventually. I'll find something."
Brendon gave her a nod of quiet appreciation. "You always do."
But inside, something still gnawed at him. If the girl didn't want to be found… maybe it was because she knew someone might come looking for her — like this. Maybe this was part of a game she didn't expect to lose.
He exhaled through his nose, standing from his desk.
That's when the desk phone rang.
He snatched it up, hoping for anything remotely useful.
Instead: "Minor disturbance. Neighborhood on Red Birch Lane. Noise complaints, possible vandalism. Nothing violent. Dispatch says it's not serious."
Brendon was already mentally skipping it.
But before he could respond, he heard boots scraping behind him.
Robert, the assistant sheriff of the town, stepped into the doorway, slinging on his vest and grabbing his cap. "I'll take it."
Brendon raised an eyebrow. "That eager, huh?"
Robert shrugged. "Better than listening to all of us slowly melt into our chairs. I could use the air."
Brendon nodded. "Go. Take Camren if it turns rowdy."
"Got it."
As Robert walked off, Brendon caught a glimpse of the kid's youthful swagger. Still believing every call might be the one that changed your life.
But for Brendon?
He needed to move.
And his compass, without question, pointed to the woods.
"Ashwood Pines," he said aloud, mostly to himself.
From her corner of the room, Judith looked up, eyebrow raised. "What about it?"
"I want to go back."
"You think we missed something?"
"I don't know. I just can't sit here anymore, Judith. Not with this whole thing getting colder."
She closed her file slowly. "I'll go with you."
Brendon smirked. "You sure? Could be boring. Just us and trees. And murder ghosts."
Judith rolled her eyes. "I'd rather face those than one more mug of Sofie's 'experimental' coffee blend."
"Hey! Com'n it's not that bad." Sofie answers immediately.
---
Before heading out, they stopped at Rosemary's Diner, a newly opened small café tucked behind Main Street. The place smelled of grilled onions, toasted buns, and an old jukebox that always played something two decades out of date.
They sat at a booth in the corner, both out of uniform, blending into the tired lunch crowd. Judith had a BLT. Brendon, of course, went for the double-patty burger, no pickles, extra mustard.
Halfway through the meal, a small giggle escaped Brendon's mouth.
Judith blinked. "What?"
He shook his head, lips still curled.
She narrowed her eyes. "You just giggled. You. THE Brendon Wolf. That's not legal."
He chuckled again, then looked up at her, eyes warm but distant with memory. "It's just… this feels kinda familiar. Like a déva vu."
She tilted her head.
"You remember your first week? Two, maybe three years ago?"
Judith paused, then winced. "God, yes. I remember being terrified of you."
He laughed. "I know. You practically flinched every time I walked by."
"You were growling constantly back then! You looked like you were two seconds from mauling someone."
"I was hungry most of the time," Brendon smirked.
Judith smiled, hiding behind her coffee cup.
Brendon leaned back, letting the burger settle. "But seriously… You were timid. Quiet. And I could tell you were scared of me."
"I wasn't scared of you," she mumbled.
"Judith, you literally sh!ted your pants when I offered you a handshake."
She turned pink. "I was new! And you're a six-foot-tall wolf with a criminal record and the mood of a storm cloud!"
"And now?" he asked.
She met his gaze. There was something sharp and unyielding in her eyes — the kind of edge forged through years of messy justice and stubborn pursuit.
"Now I could probably wrestle you down if you misbehaved."
He chuckled. "Hmm... is that so? Try me."
They both smiled. It wasn't often they had moments like this — moments not soaked in blood or stress or secrets. Just two partners, sitting across from each other, remembering how far they'd come.
---
Ashwood Pines was as quiet as it had been weeks ago.
But the quiet now felt thicker.
Not peaceful — just patient. Like the woods were holding their breath.
Brendon and Judith walked the worn path side by side, boots crunching soft dirt and leaves. The sunlight barely broke through the tall pines, giving the forest a dim green glow, like walking inside a faded photograph.
The crime scene itself had long been processed. Tape was gone. Most signs had been cleaned or removed. But Brendon wasn't here to retrace chalk outlines. He was here to listen.
Judith paused near the center of the grove. "This is where she was staged."
Brendon nodded.
He closed his eyes, tried to imagine the scene again — the strange altar, the mask, the body collapsed just right.
"She wasn't just killed here," he murmured. "She was performed."
Judith stepped forward, scanning the tree trunks. "Do you think the killer chose this spot… or was it chosen for them?"
Brendon opened his eyes. Thinking, "Could be either. Could be that the killer — or Ninja Fox — knew this place would resonate with people. There's a weird energy to it."
They both fell silent for a long stretch. Somewhere, a woodpecker tapped in the distance.
Then Brendon said, "You ever feel like someone's watching, even when you know no one is?"
Judith didn't answer right away.
But then, softly: "Every time I come here."
Brendon knelt beside a moss-covered rock. His fingers brushed across a strange marking — not natural. Carved.
He squinted. "You ever notice this?"
Judith joined him, kneeling to look.
A symbol. Circular, with intersecting arrows and branching lines. Not police chalk. Not surveyor marks.
"No," she whispered. "That wasn't here before."
Brendon took a photo of it with his phone. "We need Sofie on this."
Judith stood, eyes scanning the woods again. "Do you think the killer's been back?"
"Maybe."
"Or maybe they never left."
---
By sunset, the light filtering through the trees turned orange and soft. They walked back toward the car, heavier in thought.
Judith finally spoke again, voice quiet. "I meant what I said earlier. I was scared of you. Not just because you were a wolf. Because… you looked like you didn't want anyone near you."
Brendon tilted his head. "And now?"
Judith smiled. "Now I know better."
They reached the vehicle. Brendon turned the engine, the headlights cutting through the creeping dusk.
"Judith?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for coming."
She looked out the window, but her smile lingered. "Anytime."
---
Back at the precinct, Sofie sat hunched over a monitor. She zoomed in on a still frame from one of Whitney's earliest videos — paused just long enough to catch the edge of a symbol on her robe.
It matched the one Brendon had just texted her from the grove.
Sofie's eyes widened.
"It's a match," she whispered. "Holy crap, it's a match."
She looked at the investigation board and rushed there, everyone sees in surprise 'What's gotten into her?' — names, faces, screenshots, code strings.
Then she wrote one more word, a name in red ink across the bottom:
Kelvin Richardson