Sheriff Samuel Reeves stood in the center of the Ashwick sheriff's station briefing room, the list from the Historical Society laid flat on the table. His officers sat around him, their expressions tense, waiting for direction.
Reeves tapped the paper once.
"This list didn't place itself in the archive. Someone slipped it into the Warren collection. Someone who either knew exactly what they were doing… or was trying to make sure we found it."
Officer Dyer lifted his hand slightly. "Sheriff, what's the objective?"
Reeves straightened. "We find out who had access to that room. I want a full enquiry. Talk to every member of the Historical Society. Staff, volunteers, cleaners, visiting researchers—everyone."
Miller nodded. "I'll start contacting them."
"Good. And pull security logs if they have them."
Miller blinked. "Sheriff… the Historical Society barely has working lights. They don't have cameras."
Reeves sighed. "Then we rely on people. Someone saw something."
He gathered the papers and straightened them into a neat stack.
"This was placed deliberately. And until we know by who, assume they are watching us."
The room shifted uneasily.
Reeves dismissed the officers and motioned Miller over.
"Deputy, assign Lorna and Jacob to interview the staff. You go to Mrs. Hawthorne personally. She trusts you more than the others."
"And you, Sheriff?"
"I'm going back to the Warren house."
Miller stiffened. "…Alone?"
Reeves gave him a tired look. "It's broad daylight. And I won't be long."
Miller didn't argue, but his silence said enough.
The Warren Property
The Warren house stood at the edge of Ashwick like a skeleton left upright. Paint peeled off in long strips, windows clouded with dust, the porch sagging under the weight of time. The trees around it were unnaturally still, their branches unmoving even though the breeze pushed across the rest of town.
Reeves ducked under the police tape and stepped inside.
The air was stale.
Not foul, not rotting—just still.
As if no living thing had breathed inside the house for decades.
He moved slowly, flashlight in hand though sunlight bled through broken shutters. The floor creaked under his boots. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beam of his light.
He checked the same rooms he had inspected weeks ago.
Nothing had changed.
No footprints besides his own and the officers from the Bennett case.
No disturbed furniture.
No torn boards or forced windows.
No signs of entry.
But the silence… felt heavier now.
Reeves's throat tightened, the memory of Henry Warren's trembling voice slipping back into his mind:
"The silence comes first."
He pushed the thought away. Hard.
He checked the back entry. Then the storage room. Then the old kitchen where Elias Warren had once been found—
He paused.
The wallpaper above the stove had peeled slightly more. But that could've been age. Or humidity.
He scanned it carefully.
Nothing.
He opened every drawer, every rusted cabinet, every narrow hallway. He walked through the back garden, where weeds had taken over the stone path.
Still nothing.
No footprints.
No fresh disturbances.
No scraps of cloth or evidence of someone entering the property.
Nothing but the wind, moving gently through the tall pines.
He exhaled sharply. "I'm wasting time."
He pulled out his radio.
"Reeves to Miller."
Static buzzed for a second before Miller answered. "Go ahead, Sheriff."
"I'm sealing the Warren property. Put in an order. No one enters until forensics goes through every inch."
"Understood."
Reeves took one last look at the house. He wasn't sure what he expected to find—scratches, symbols, evidence of someone watching. Anything. Even one clue.
But he left with the same thing he found weeks ago.
Silence.
Something New at the Library
Back at the station, Miller returned sooner than expected. Reeves met him halfway.
"That was quick."
"Because Mrs. Hawthorne had something to tell us, Sheriff," Miller said, clearly unsettled. "And she didn't want to say it on the phone."
Reeves gestured for him to continue.
Miller lowered his voice. "She wasn't the one who found the envelope."
Reeves frowned. "Then who?"
"One of the sweepers. Early morning shift. Name's Gloria Renner."
Reeves nodded impatiently. "What did she see?"
Miller took a breath.
"She said she saw someone last night. In the Historical Society building."
Reeves stiffened.
"At what time?"
"Just after closing—around 9:30 PM."
"Who was it?"
Miller swallowed.
"She said it was a tall figure wearing a long black cloak. Hood up. Face covered. She thought it was some reenactment volunteer or maybe someone from the costume rentals. But when she called out, the person didn't answer."
Reeves's pulse quickened, though his face stayed composed.
"Did the person go into the archival room?"
"Yes. Gloria said they walked straight to it."
"And then?"
Miller's voice dropped.
"She said… they never came out."
Reeves narrowed his eyes. "What does that mean?"
"She checked the hallway after they entered. Waited a few minutes. When she didn't see anyone exit, she thought maybe they'd already gone down the other side of the hall. But when she checked the building…"
Miller hesitated.
"Sheriff—there was no one there. Every door was locked. Only staff keys work. No windows open. No exit alarms triggered."
Reeves stared at him.
"You're telling me someone entered a dead-end archive room and disappeared."
"That's exactly what I'm telling you."
Reeves sat slowly, the weight of the information settling on him like a stone.
"Gloria said something else," Miller added.
Reeves looked up.
"She said the person didn't walk normally."
Reeves's brows furrowed. "Explain."
"She said their steps made no sound. Not even on the old floorboards. And… she said it felt like they were gliding."
Reeves didn't respond.
He couldn't.
Because although every instinct in him rejected the implication, the evidence was becoming impossible to dismiss.
"Where's Gloria now?" Reeves asked finally.
"She's waiting in the conference room. Shaken. But she insisted she's not imagining anything."
Reeves stood.
"Interview her. Get every detail. Write everything down. And Miller—keep this quiet. No public statements. No leaks."
Miller nodded. "Already planned on it."
Reeves walked to his office, closed the door, and sat heavily in his chair. For a moment, he simply stared at the blank notepad on his desk.
A list appearing out of nowhere.
A cloaked figure silent on old floorboards.
A sealed building with someone vanishing inside it.
Another body at the Warren house.
Piece by piece, the puzzle was forming.
But every piece pointed to something Reeves wasn't prepared to face.
He reached for the pendant again — the photograph of Elias Warren staring back at him with those stern, knowing eyes.
"Henry…" Reeves whispered to himself. "What did your family get tangled in?"
Outside his office window, the fog thickened, rolling through the pine trees as though drawn toward the town's center.
Toward them.