The morgue was not built for the living. The air was a stagnant mix of antiseptic and the faint, metallic hint of blood, so cold it felt solid in the lungs. Fluorescent lights hummed a flat, white note, bleaching the bone-colored tiles and steel drawers that lined the walls. Each of Aubrey's steps echoed, a hollow sound swallowed by the overwhelming silence.
In the center of the room, on a wheeled table of brushed metal, lay her mother.
A white sheet was drawn to Marlene Wynter's collarbones. Her skin had a waxy translucence, and her lips were pale and thin. Even with her eyes closed, the trauma of her final moments was visible in the broken crimson veins that clouded the sclera, as if she had died straining to see something unimaginable.
But the true horror was carved below her sternum.
The symbol was burned into her flesh with vicious precision: an inverted spiral trapped inside a triangle, three closed eyes at its points weeping black, inky tears. Encircling it was a grotesque, six-fingered handprint. And at its center—a void. A perfect, unmarked circle of skin that felt more like a wound than any of the cuts.
It made her mother's body look like a sacred text, desecrated.
Aubrey trembled, her breath catching in ragged pulls. Tears she didn't feel starting were already streaking her face. She reached a hand out, stopping just short of touching her mother's, terrified that contact would make this final, brutal reality irrevocable.
"Mom…" The word was a shattered whisper.
The weight of her grief bent her double. And then, the memories came, not as a gentle stream, but as a flash flood.
---
She was seven, wobbling on a bicycle, the world a terrifying blur of green and sky. "Don't look down, sweetheart—look ahead!" Marlene's voice was a steady anchor behind her, a hand firm on her back, pushing her into momentum. Then, the glorious, weightless moment of balance, her own triumphant shriek answered by her mother's laughter, ringing like bells across the lawn.
The memory shifted. Thirteen, standing before her bedroom mirror. The Everthorne Academy blazer was a deep, respectable navy, the crest gleaming in gold thread. Her plaid skirt swung as she turned. Marlene was there, her hands deftly adjusting Aubrey's tie, her smile radiant. "My brilliant girl," she'd whispered, her pride a tangible warmth in the room.
---
The visions vanished, leaving her stranded once more in the chemical chill. The tears fell freely now, spotting the pristine floor.
Why her? Why my mom? What did she ever do?
The forensic pathologist, a woman with a severe bun and kind, tired eyes, moved closer. Her voice was a soft, steady counterpoint to the room's sterility.
"Miss Wynter," she began gently, "there are findings you need to be aware of."
Aubrey forced her gaze upward.
"Your mother's body shows evidence of prolonged captivity and torture," the doctor said, her words careful and precise. "Several fingernails were removed. Two toes as well. There are ligature marks on her wrists and ankles." She paused, letting the horror settle. "She suffered greatly before the end. The person who did this wanted her to feel every moment."
A rage, white-hot and blinding, erupted in Aubrey's chest. Her fists clenched, her jaw locked so tight it ached. The grief transformed into something violent and unbearable. Her legs gave way, and she dropped to her knees, palms slapping against the cold tile as a sob tore from her throat. The image of her mother, alone and in agony, was a poison in her veins.
The pathologist knelt beside her, a firm hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to carry this alone. I know it feels impossible, but you will endure this. Grief doesn't erase love," she said softly. "It confirms it."
The words were a lifeline. Aubrey clung to them, using them to pull herself, shaking, back to her feet.
---
The hallway outside seemed to stretch for miles, its fluorescent buzz a drone in her ears. Aubrey walked as if in a dream, her face raw, her body a shell filled with lead.
Two figures detached themselves from the shadows ahead.
A young woman with perceptive eyes and a calm demeanor held up a badge. "Detective Nia Holloway."
Beside her, a taller man with dark hair and a smirk that didn't reach his eyes flipped his wallet open. "Detective Owen Kessler. We need you to come with us, Miss Wynter. Just a few questions."
---
The interrogation room was a gray box. A bolted-down table, two chairs, a camera with a blinking red light in the corner. A thick file labeled WYNTER, MARLENE sat between them.
Aubrey sat hunched, her eyes swollen. Nia's posture was open, her hands folded on the table. Owen lounged in his chair, watching Aubrey with the amused detachment of a man at a mildly interesting play.
"Miss Wynter," Nia began, her tone formal yet not unkind, "I am truly sorry for your loss. We need to discuss some inconsistencies in your mother's life. They may be connected to what happened."
Aubrey looked up, bewildered. "What inconsistencies?"
Owen leaned forward and snapped the file open. "Were you aware your mother owned a property in Crestwood called Maison Crestwood?" His voice was laced with sarcasm. He began reading, painting a picture with dismissive flair. "Imported Italian styling chairs. Gold-plated fixtures. A crystal-lit reception area. A waiting list for the city's elite."
He looked up, his eyes sharp. "Sound like the business of a simple caterer?"
Aubrey could only stare, her mind reeling. "I… I don't understand."
"A multi-story salon," Owen continued, relentless. "Teams of stylists, inventory worth tens of thousands. We estimate the property itself is worth one to three million. Annual revenue pushing two point five." He let the page drop. "And now, it has no owner."
"Are you suggesting—" Aubrey's voice cracked with rising anger—"that I had something to do with this? I didn't even know it existed!"
Owen's smirk widened. "Your tuition at Everthorne. Your house in a high-end neighborhood. The 'catering job' your mother claimed to have? It doesn't exist. No records. No payroll. So, where did the money come from, Miss Wynter?"
"No," she whispered, then stronger, "That's not possible! She worked, she told me—"
Owen shoved the file toward her. "See for yourself. It's all a ghost story."
Her hands trembled as she flipped through the pages, her eyes scanning the damning lack of evidence. The internal scream was deafening: Who were you, Mom? Did I ever know you at all?
"I'm not buying the innocent act," Owen pressed, his voice turning cold. "You never once wondered how a caterer afforded all that?"
Aubrey's tears returned, hot and shaming. Nia silently slid a box of tissues across the table.
But Owen leaned in, his voice a blade. "The truth, Aubrey. Did you know? Did you want her out of the way?"
"I DIDN'T!" she screamed, slamming her palms on the table.
"Owen." Nia's voice cut through the tension, sharp and final. "That's enough. The Lieutenant wouldn't tolerate this, and neither do I." She turned back to Aubrey, her expression softening into one of belief. "Miss Wynter, I apologize. But we do need your account of the car chase. Why were you driving like that?"
The story tumbled out of Aubrey then—the call from "Witnessing of the Hollow," the hooded figure, the artificial voice, the riddle.
"What is bought with silver, but costs a soul?" she recited, the words tasting like ash. "I solved it. The answer was 'a lie.' But he… he killed her anyway. He made me watch."
She broke down, sobs wracking her frame.
Nia reached across and covered her hand with her own. "I believe you."
Owen rolled his eyes. "You're buying this performance?"
Nia's glare was a physical force. Owen raised his hands in mock surrender, muttering under his breath.
Through her tears, Aubrey grabbed a pen and scrap of paper. With furious, shaking strokes, she sketched the Negasign—the spiral, the triangle, the weeping eyes, the six-fingered hand, the void. She shoved it toward them. "This is his mark. It's the same symbol from the Azaqor killings four years ago."
Owen let out a short, bitter laugh. "You mean the murders pinned on Lucian Freeman? The man who's been in custody for months?"
"What about Victoria Lockridge?" Aubrey shot back, desperate. "She had this carved into her skin!"
Nia frowned, considering. "If that's true… it could point to a copycat. Or an accomplice."
Owen clapped his hands together once. "A lovely theory. But it doesn't change the central question: why did your mother own a million-dollar salon, and why are you pretending you didn't know?"
"The beneficiary of the estate is still unknown," Nia interjected calmly. She held Aubrey's gaze. "And my instinct tells me you're telling the truth."
Owen simply leaned back, his eyes fixed on Aubrey, radiating a cold, unwavering suspicion. His silent accusation hung in the air: You're guilty. And I will be the one to prove it.
---
When they finally released her, Nia walked Aubrey out. The corridor felt longer, the walls closer. Behind them, Owen remained in the interrogation room, his calculating stare following her until the door swung shut.
The weight of the spiral went with her, a brand on her soul, and the chilling void at its center felt like her own future.