The Rusty Anchor smelled of stale beer and desperation. Evelyn Voss had gotten used to this scent over the past hour. The power outage had plunged the bar into dimness, while the neon "Open" sign outside flickered like a fading heartbeat. Flick's shout of "Who's there?" still rang in her ears, but the shadow in the storage room doorway had disappeared just as quickly as it had come. The metallic glint she had seen—whether it was a knife, gun, or something worse—stayed with her, a puzzle piece she couldn't yet place. She stood rigid, her bourbon glass cold in her hand, her senses sharp despite the chaos.
"Everyone stay calm," Flick said, forcing steadiness into his voice as he fumbled with his phone's flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, revealing Riley's tense smirk and Marina's wide, haunted eyes. Old Man Crabb continued to snore, unaware of the tension around him. "Probably just a rat. A big one, maybe. Saltgrave's full of them."
"Rats don't whisper names," Evelyn replied, her tone cool even as her pulse raced. The rasping voice—"You shouldn't have come back, Flick"—had felt too deliberate and too personal. She looked at Flick and noticed how his grip tightened on the bottle he had turned into a makeshift weapon. His grin had vanished, replaced by a flicker of something raw—fear, guilt, or both.
Riley snorted, leaning against the bar in a manner that seemed rehearsed. "If it's a rat, I'll name it Gerald. But if it's a psycho, I'm charging extra for the cleanup." Their eyes darted to the storage room, assessing the situation. Evelyn recognized that look—Riley was already plotting an exit or a way to gain an advantage. Typical.
Marina stepped forward, her coat dripping onto the floor. Her voice trembled but remained resolute. "It wasn't a rat. Someone's watching us. Someone who knows Flick." She turned to him, her gaze piercing. "What aren't you telling us?"
Flick opened his mouth but then closed it, the flashlight trembled in his hand. "Nothing you need to worry about, Marina. Just old baggage." His attempt at humor fell flat. Evelyn caught the lie in his eyes. The letter, she thought. Whatever it said, it was eating him alive.
Before the argument could escalate, the lights flickered back on, flooding the bar with bright yellow light. The jukebox sprang to life, playing a tinny version of "Sweet Georgia Brown." Crabb woke up with a start and spilled his beer. "Wha—tide's coming!" he slurred before slumping down again. The sudden return to normal seemed wrong, like a stage set for a play no one had rehearsed.
Evelyn set her glass down, her mind already shifting gears. The anonymous client who had lured her to Saltgrave mentioned the masquerade, promising answers to a question she hadn't dared ask herself. She needed information, and this ragtag group—Flick with his haunted grin, Riley with their slippery charm, Marina with her righteous fury—was her best chance. But first, she needed to test them.
"Enough melodrama," she said, her voice cutting through the noise. "Flick, pour me another. Riley, check the back. Marina, sit before you collapse. We're not solving anything in the dark." She infused her tone with the authority she once wielded in her office, watching their reactions. Flick hesitated but then obeyed, moving mechanically. Riley rolled their eyes but slipped toward the storage room with a knife now visible in their hand. Marina glared but sank onto a stool, her hands clenching.
As Flick poured, Evelyn leaned closer and lowered her voice. "You're hiding something about that letter. I can smell it. Tell me, or I walk—and take my expertise with me." She let the threat linger, knowing he would feel cornered.
Flick's jaw tightened, but his eyes darted to the letter pinned on the corkboard. "Fine," he muttered, grabbing it and thrusting it at her. "Read it yourself. But keep it quiet." The paper was creased, and its jagged handwriting read: Your sister's killer will be there. No signature, no context—just a hook to reel him in.
Evelyn's mind raced. Lila Marrow's murder had been a cold case for a decade, a local legend tied to the cliffs. If the killer was at the masquerade, it meant Saltgrave's secrets ran deeper than she thought. She tucked the letter into her blazer and kept her expression neutral. "Interesting. I'll consider it. Now, let's focus on surviving tomorrow night."
Riley returned, their face unreadable. "No one back there. Door's locked, window's intact. Either they're gone or still hiding." They twirled the knife, a grin reappearing. "My money's on hiding. Adds to the fun."
"Fun?" Marina snapped, her voice rising. "Someone died last year, Riley. My husband. And now this?" Her hands shook, and Evelyn noted the telltale signs of suppressed rage—clenched fists and shallow breaths. Useful, she thought. Rage could be directed.
"Easy, Marina," Evelyn said, softening her tone enough to seem sincere. "We're all in this now. If there's a killer, we'll find them. But we need to be smart." She paused, then added, "I have a client who might know more. They contacted me about the masquerade. If we play this right, we could get answers for all of us."
Flick raised an eyebrow and the grin returned to his face like a reflex. "A client? What, you moonlighting as a detective now? Or is this another one of your head games?"
Evelyn met his gaze steadily. "Call it a professional courtesy. I help you, you help me. Deal?" She extended her hand, knowing he would take it. He did, his grip firm but reluctant.
Before they could seal the deal, the bar door creaked open, and a figure stepped inside—a wiry man in a trench coat, his face half-covered by a scarf. His sharp gray eyes scanned the room and landed on Evelyn. "Dr. Voss," he said in a low voice. "We need to talk. Now."
Riley tensed, their hand on the knife. "Friend of yours, Doc?"
"Never seen him," Evelyn lied smoothly, standing. The man's presence felt wrong, like a shadow with intent. "Who are you?"
"Call me Wren," he said, stepping closer. "I work for your client. They sent me to ensure you're prepared. The masquerade is more dangerous than you think." He glanced at the others before turning back to her. "Alone, please."
Flick started to protest, but Evelyn raised a hand. "Stay here. I'll handle this." She followed Wren outside, the fog swallowing them as the door closed. The air felt thick, with the sea making a distant growling sound. Wren led her to a shadowy alley, where a lantern cast a dim circle of light.
"Your client's offer stands," Wren said, handing her a sealed envelope. "Attend the masquerade. Uncover the truth about the Order of the Shroud. In return, they'll clear your name." His eyes narrowed. "But fail, and they'll bury you deeper."
Evelyn took the envelope, her fingers brushing the wax seal—a symbol she recognized from her old files, a spiral with an eye. The Order. Her stomach twisted. "What truth?" she asked, keeping her voice steady.
Wren smirked, a cold, knowing curve on his lips. "The one you've been running from. The one that killed Lila Marrow." He turned to leave but paused. "Oh, and watch Flick. He's closer to it than he knows."
Before she could respond, Wren vanished into the fog, leaving her with the envelope and growing dread. She tore it open and found a single photograph inside—Lila, alive, standing on the cliffs, her face painted with that same spiral symbol. On the back, in the jagged handwriting from Flick's letter: The first mask falls tomorrow.
Evelyn's breath caught. The masquerade wasn't just a party or ritual—it was a trap, and she was already inside it. She hurried back to the bar, her mind racing with possibilities. The Order knew about Lila, about her past experiments, about Flick's guilt. And now, they needed her to play their game.
Inside, the atmosphere had shifted. Flick was pacing, muttering about rats again. Riley was flirting with a now-awake Crabb, who offered slurred advice about tides. Marina sat with Lila's journal, her fingers tracing the pages. They all looked up as Evelyn entered, sensing the change.
"Well?" Flick asked, his grin tight. "You get a secret handshake or a death threat?"
"Both," Evelyn said, holding up the photo. "This was Lila. Taken before she died. The Order of the Shroud is behind it—and they want us at the masquerade." She let the silence settle, watching their reactions. Flick's face drained of color, Riley's smile faded, and Marina's eyes flared with anger.
Before anyone could speak, the jukebox cut out again, and a low hum filled the room—a sound not from the speakers but from the walls themselves. The lights dimmed, and a shadow moved in the corner of Evelyn's vision, too fast to follow. Then, from the storage room, a voice whispered, "The mask is yours, Doctor."
Evelyn spun, but the room was empty. The others froze, the hum growing louder, a pulse that seemed to come from within. She clutched the photo, her mind racing. The Order wasn't just watching—they were already here. And whatever game they were playing had just begun.