Mara didn't scream.
She couldn't.
A hood was pulled over her head the moment she was grabbed in the tunnel, the world reduced to sweat, breath, and the slam of her own heartbeat. Her hands were tied, but not tightly—deliberately. As if they wanted her to fight. Or try.
They led her down a corridor of uneven stone, air thick with mold and incense. She heard whispers—half-words, breaths too close to her ears. They weren't speaking to her.
They were speaking about her.
"Is she ready?"
"She's seen too much."
"Or maybe she's just like the rest of us…"
She was pushed gently, almost respectfully, into a chair.
Then the hood was lifted.
The room was dim, candlelit. Walls of crumbling brick, draped in dark cloth. At the far end stood Claire Holloway, cloaked in velvet black, her face unmasked. Her eyes were not cold—but kind in a way that made Mara's skin crawl.
"Hello, Mara," she said softly, like a mother greeting a lost child.
Mara didn't speak. Didn't blink.
Claire stepped closer.
"You've come far. You've done well. I imagine you're afraid."
Mara's voice was hoarse. "What do you want from me?"
Claire smiled faintly. "I want to give you what you've been looking for."
"I want you in handcuffs," Mara growled. "I want the police to dig up this entire pit of rot and burn it down."
Claire's expression didn't change. "You still think this is about power. About murder. You don't see it yet."
Mara's wrists strained against the rope. "I see just fine."
Claire's voice dropped. "Then let me show you."
She stepped aside. Two masked figures carried something forward—covered in a shroud. They set it gently on a stone table.
Claire pulled the cloth back.
Mara gasped.
It was a body—but not dead. Preserved. A girl. Young. Blonde. Pale as marble.
And unmistakably… Lila Holloway.
Mara's voice cracked. "She's—she's not buried—?"
Claire gently stroked Lila's hair. "She's resting. She was never meant to rot in the ground. Her gift was too great."
Mara trembled. "You killed your own daughter."
Claire turned, eyes glowing with quiet fire.
"I freed her."
She walked slowly toward Mara, kneeling to her level.
"Do you want to know what it feels like to lose someone and still hear them crying at night? To wake up and remember their hands… the sound of their laugh? Do you want to know what it's like to stare at the mirror and know there's nothingleft unless you make something holy out of your pain?"
Mara stared, jaw clenched.
Claire's voice softened. "We are the ones who took that pain and built a way out. We are the Cleaners. We remove the rot. We take what's heavy and turn it into light. And now… you can be part of it."
She held out a mask. Porcelain. Smooth. No mouth.
"Put it on, Mara."
Mara stared at the mask, then at Claire.
Then—
She spat at her.
Claire's face didn't change. Not even a blink.
She rose slowly, mask still in hand.
"You're not ready yet," she said quietly. "But you will be."
She motioned to the guards.
"Take her to the silence room."
Meanwhile, Rowan's car skidded across gravel as he pulled up to the edge of the Holloway property. His gun was drawn before he even opened the door.
He'd traced the signal Mara's phone had pinged—beneath the church, through an old municipal tunnel that connected to a forgotten water channel system. The entrance was sealed… but not to him.
He moved quickly, flashlight cutting through the dark like a blade.
At the end of a tunnel, he found the hatch.
Inside: silence.
Then chanting—faint and rising.
He followed the sound.
In the silence room, Mara sat alone in the dark. A speaker embedded in the wall played a slow, whispering chant. Over and over. Words she couldn't translate. Sounds meant to lull and confuse.
But she wouldn't be broken.
She thought of her sister.
Of the detective.
Of Danica Wyatt, strung up like a warning bell.
Of Lila, frozen like a relic.
And Mara made a decision:
If she was going to survive…
She'd wear the mask.
But not for them.
For the truth.