BESS' POV
The photo has been sitting under my desk lamp for over an hour.
I've tilted it, zoomed in, traced it with my finger more times than I care to admit. It's not just about what's there, it's what it suggests. What it refuses to explain.
Steve Howard, maybe eight years old, standing proudly beside a shaky, aluminum-and wires robot that looks like it could fall apart with one wrong breath. A red ribbon is pinned to its base: Third Place.
But it's not the robot that holds my attention. It's the man in the background.
Darren Hill, sitting at a long table with other judges, is staring at Steve. Not with amusement or indifference. With intensity. Like the little robot made of soda cans and duct tape had just confirmed something he already suspected.
I zoom in again, but it doesn't change. That expression is fixed. Measured. Intent.
I close the photo viewer and slide the printed copy into my folder. Cynthia's digging into school district records, looking for any teachers or officials who might remember the fair. But I don't want to wait. We also found out Steve's father used to work part-time with Darren Hill but we couldn't found the exact work he used to do.
I text Steve:
"Are you free to come by the office? There's something I'd like to ask you in person."
He replies a minute later.
"Sure. 20 minutes?"
We sit across from each other in a quiet corner conference room at Apex. Most of the floor is empty by now, the late hour casting a hush over the building. The usual chaos is replaced with stillness.
Steve looks more composed today. Clean shirt, no tie. But there's a kind of watchfulness to him now, like he's starting to sense just how deep this thing runs.
I don't waste time.
I slide the photo toward him. "Do you remember this?"
He leans forward slowly. His brow furrows before softening with recognition.
"Wow… I haven't seen this in years. That's me. Third grade, I think. Science fair."
"What was your project?" I ask.
He lets out a breath. "Some kind of robot. It could move when you clapped. Nothing special. My dad helped me design it."
"It's more than 'nothing,'" I say quietly. "That kind of motion-sensor tech wasn't widely available at the time. And the judges list included Darren Hill."
Steve's gaze shifts to the background. His mouth tightens. "Yeah. I remember him now. Not well, but… I remember he asked questions. Really specific ones."
"About your design?"
Steve nods. "About how I coded it. How I calibrated the sensors. Stuff I didn't even understand. I just copied what my dad wrote on the schematic board."
I watch him closely. "Do you think your dad was testing something through you?"
He looks startled by the question. "What do you mean?"
"I know your dad worked with Darren. You were just a kid, but what if your project wasn't just a school entry? What if it was part of something larger, something your dad was developing with him?"
Steve leans back in the chair. "You think they were experimenting through me?"
"I think it's possible," I say carefully. "And I think Darren remembered that fair a lot more than you did. His records suggest he was working on early res-onance theory, that could 'mimic frequency signatures across dimensional thresholds.' Whatever that means."
Steve shakes his head slowly. "I just remember building something that beeped when I clapped. I remember my dad staying up late, tweaking wires, saying, 'Almost there.'"
I jot that down. "Did he say what he was working toward?"
"Just that it had to work. That it could… connect things." He hesitates, search-ing his memory. "I thought he meant people. After Mum died, he was always talking about connection. But now…"
He doesn't finish. He doesn't need to.
I let the silence stretch. Then: "Do you think Darren Hill stayed in touch with your dad after that?"
Steve shrugs. "Maybe. I don't know. He died not long after. Or…" he stops. "He disappeared, I guess. There wasn't a funeral. I just… stopped seeing him."
I sit forward. "Steve, I can't find a death certificate. Not in any public record, not sealed, not redacted. There's nothing. It's like he vanished."
Steve's hands go still. "I didn't know that."
"Did you ever see your dad again? After the day he was 'gone'?"
A long pause.
"When I was twelve," Steve says quietly. "I thought I saw him across the street. Just for a second. Same coat, same walk. But when I ran outside, he was gone. I told myself it wasn't real."
I stare at him. That knot in my stomach tightens.
"Maybe it was," I say. "And maybe your father didn't just disappear. Maybe he was erased."
Steve looks up at me then really looks. "Why?"
I don't have the answer. Not yet.
But I'm starting to think we're not looking at a simple murder case. We're standing at the edge of something else. A trail that started decades ago at a science fair… and hasn't finished unfolding.
****
XAREN'S POV
The Temple gardens were never meant for secrecy.
They bloomed too brightly. Sang too loudly. Even in the cool hush of night, the air carried whispers of old incantations and the soft hum of life threaded through the roots.
But the eastern corridor, the one that curved behind the Triads' chamber, was different. Quiet. Shielded. I used to follow my father here after long council sessions, careful to keep my footsteps light, too young to be included but too curious to stay away.
Tonight, I return alone.
The moon hangs low, nearly touching the temple spires, and the wards around the corridor buzz faintly, like something straining against stillness.
I slow my pace. The corridor beyond the carved arch is cloaked in half-shadow, just enough for voices to carry and outlines to blur. I don't intend to listen. But then I hear something that stops me cold.
"The ripple returned three nights ago," one voice says, measured, deliberate. Elder Veren.
A pause.
"So soon?" The second voice, lighter, female. Aramyth.
"Subtle, but there. Not like the last breach. This one was… tempered. Slower."
They fall silent for a moment. I edge closer, careful not to step too close to the barrier spell woven into the floor.
"If someone crossed, they were skilled," Aramyth continues. "Left barely a trace."
"Do you believe it was from the outer realm?" Veren asks.
"Where else would that kind of pull come from?"
Another pause.
"And the resonance pattern?"
"Odd," Aramyth murmurs. "It mimicked old magic. From before the Sealing. Like something reaching across, not breaking through, but bending."
The words settle uneasily in my chest. They don't know it was me. But they suspect someone. And they're watching.
"There was a presence," Veren adds, voice lower now. "Brief. Gone before the Triad Stone could bind to it. But it was there. Enough to tip the sky."
Enough to tip the sky.
They felt it. The night I left Bess's world, the storm that followed. I thought it was just residual magic. But here, even the air remembers.
"Then we remain silent," Aramyth says. "If someone crossed, they'll reveal themselves in time. Especially if they left something behind."
I hold my breath.
"The Seer has said nothing," Veren replies.
"She wouldn't. Not unless the Balance itself shifted. And it hasn't. Not yet."
"Still... if another crossing happens, the council will have to act. Even if we don't know who."
A soft exhale, almost a sigh.
"We thought the veil was thick enough. We were wrong."
A faint chime sounds, the end of their discussion. Footsteps begin to retreat toward the upper halls.
I press my back against the cool stone, letting their words settle like ash.
They don't know it was me. But they know someone is moving between worlds. And that someone left ripples. Evidence.
They're waiting for it to happen again.
Which means I'm out of time.
And if they ever find out it was me… the veil won't be the only thing they try to seal.