The morgue was not built for the living.
The air sat still and damp, tinged with chemicals and faint iron. Fluorescent lights hummed in their overhead casings, bleeding pale illumination across polished tiles the color of dead bone. Each step Aubrey took echoed back at her, hollow and thin, as if the room swallowed her very presence.
Steel drawers lined the walls in strict symmetry, their handles catching light like silver teeth. The table at the center, brushed metal on wheels, was bathed in a sterile brightness that made what lay upon it impossible to soften with shadows.
Her mother.
Marlene Wynter's body was stretched out across the table, covered only by a white sheet pulled to her collarbone. Even in death, her skin seemed waxen, fragile, as if the smallest touch would fracture it. Her lips had collapsed inward, pale and drained of their familiar warmth. And her eyes—though closed—were marked by something terrible: when the pathologist had first shown them, Aubrey had seen the irises clouded and ringed with broken red veins, as though her mother had died still trying to look upon something she could not understand.
The worst of it sat carved into her flesh.
Low on her abdomen, etched with inhuman precision, was a grotesque insignia: a concentric inverted spiral set within a closed triangle, its three corners punctured by eyes. Each eye bore a droplet, blackened like ink, dripping downward in eternal mockery of tears. Around it stretched a handprint, not five-fingered but six, each line burned deep into her mother's skin. At the very center of the design, disturbingly blank, was only void—no mark, no cut, only untouched flesh, a hollow absence that felt louder than the symbol itself.
It made Marlene's body terrifying, like a canvas claimed by something cruel and otherworldly.
Aubrey trembled where she stood.
Her breath came in jagged pulls, and before she realized it, tears were already streaking her face. She reached toward her mother's still hand but stopped just short of touching it, as though contact would shatter the fragile illusion that Marlene was only sleeping. The truth pressed against her ribs, sharp and merciless: she was gone.
"Mom…" The word slipped out cracked, broken.
The weight of anguish bent her shoulders as she stared down at her mother's silent body. And then—like floodgates breaking—the memories came.
---
She was seven again, wind in her hair as Marlene's voice urged her forward: "Don't look down, sweetheart—look ahead!" Small hands clutched handlebars, the wobbling bike nearly tipping, but Marlene's laughter steadied her, a hand on her back pushing with gentle insistence. Aubrey remembered her own triumphant shriek as the bike carried her across the yard, her mother clapping, eyes alight with pride.
Another memory overtook it, sharp and vivid. She was thirteen, standing in her room before a mirror. Her blazer, deep midnight blue, fit neatly across her shoulders, the Everthorne crest shimmering in gold thread above her heart. A crisp white shirt beneath, her tie striped navy and gold. The skirt's charcoal plaid swished softly when she turned. Her polished Mary Janes gleamed.
Marlene had been there, adjusting her collar with nimble fingers, whispering encouragements about the first day of high school. Aubrey had been buzzing with excitement, face lit like dawn, while her mother smiled a smile so radiant it felt like home itself.
---
The memories tore back into silence, the morgue reasserting itself with clinical chill. Aubrey's tears dripped onto the floor.
Why? Why her? Why my mom?
The forensic pathologist—a woman in her late forties, hair bound into a tight bun, gloves still stained with antiseptic—shifted closer. Her voice was gentle but steady.
"Miss Wynter," she said softly, "there are… signs we need to address."
Aubrey forced herself to look up.
The doctor's eyes were grave. "Your mother's body shows evidence of… deliberate mutilation. Several fingernails have been removed. Some toes as well. There are marks consistent with prolonged restraint."
The words thudded like stones.
"She suffered before she died," the pathologist concluded quietly. "Whoever did this wanted her to experience it."
Rage rose in Aubrey's chest so suddenly it made her clench both fists tight. Her jaw locked, teeth grinding. The grief shifted into something molten, unbearable. She shook, then dropped to her knees, hands braced against the cold tile. Helplessness thundered through her—her mother tortured, defiled, murdered by some faceless psychopath.
The pathologist knelt, steadying Aubrey's shoulder. "You don't have to carry this alone. I know it feels impossible, but you will endure. Grief does not erase love—it proves it."
Her words were a lifeline, and Aubrey clung to them as she pulled herself shakily back to her feet.
---
The corridor outside the morgue was long, its fluorescent lights buzzing faintly. Aubrey walked it in a daze, her face streaked with salt, her body weighted by sorrow. Her shadow stretched thin across the sterile walls.
Two figures emerged ahead.
A young woman with sharp eyes and a calm expression stepped forward first, badge lifted. "Detective Nia Holloway."
Beside her, a tall young man with dark hair and a faintly mocking half-smile flipped open his badge. "Detective Owen Kessler. We need you to come with us, Miss Wynter. Just a few questions."
---
The interrogation room was as impersonal as it was suffocating. Concrete walls painted off-white, a single table bolted to the floor, two chairs opposite one another. A faint buzz of overhead light. A camera blinked red in the corner.
On the table sat a thick file marked WYNTER, MARLENE.
Aubrey sat with shoulders hunched, eyes red-rimmed. Detective Nia's face was calm, sympathetic, her hands folded. Across from her, Owen leaned back, amusement dancing in his eyes as though the room itself were a stage and Aubrey the unwilling actor.
"Miss Wynter," Nia began carefully, her tone formal but not cold, "I am deeply sorry for your loss. But we need to discuss certain… inconsistencies about your mother's life. Some of them may have contributed to her death."
Aubrey lifted her gaze, tear-streaked and bewildered. "What?"
Owen leaned forward, file snapping open in his hands. "Were you aware, Miss Wynter, that before her death, your mother owned a certain property in Crestwood?" His smile sharpened. "A sprawling, sunlit salon. Maison Crestwood."
He tapped the papers and began reading, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
"Imported Italian styling chairs and gold-plated fixtures. State-of-the-art hair and spa technology. A custom-designed, crystal-lit reception area. Rows of premium product displays, each bottle gleaming under soft lights."
He looked up, eyes narrowing. "Sound familiar?"
Aubrey's face twisted in shock. She shook her head, stammering.
But Owen continued, relentless.
"A waiting list months long, with Crestwood's elite vying for appointments. Exclusive memberships. VIP suites. Renowned across the region for excellence and opulence." He dropped the page to the table. "Impressive for a simple caterer, isn't it?"
Nia's gaze remained steady, quietly studying Aubrey's every flicker of expression.
Owen wasn't finished. He flicked through more pages, voice hard.
"Teams of stylists, colorists, therapists working across multiple floors. Specialists flown in from abroad for workshops and masterclasses. Managers overseeing inventory worth tens of thousands."
The file snapped shut. "By our estimate? A property worth one to three million. Annual revenue of up to two point four million. And now? All of it… without an owner."
Aubrey's breath hitched. "Are you—" her voice cracked into anger—"are you trying to claim I had my mother killed to inherit this? I didn't even know she owned it!"
Owen's eyes glinted. "Come on. You expect us to believe that? Your education at Everthorne Academy, your college tuition—thousands upon thousands of dollars. And your current residence? A high-end neighborhood. And yet, the supposed job your mother held—catering for a tech company—doesn't exist. No records, no payroll, nothing. So tell me, Miss Wynter, where did all that money really come from?"
"No…" Aubrey whispered, then louder, frantic. "No, it can't be. She worked—she did! She told me—"
Owen shoved the file toward her. "Read it yourself. There's nothing there."
Her hands trembled as she flipped pages, eyes wide with disbelief. Internal thoughts roared in chaos: Who was my mother? Did I ever know her at all?
"I'm not buying your innocence," Owen pressed coldly. "You never questioned where all the money came from? Never wondered how a 'caterer' afforded elite schools?"
Tears streaked Aubrey's face again. Nia silently offered her a tissue.
But Owen leaned forward, voice sharpening. "Tell me the truth, Aubrey. Did you know? Did you want her out of the way?"
Aubrey slammed her hands on the table. "I DIDN'T!"
"Owen." Nia's voice cut sharp. "Enough. You've gone too far. Lieutenant Caleb isn't here, but if he were, he wouldn't tolerate this."
Nia turned back, softening. "Miss Wynter, I apologize for my colleague. This isn't how questioning should feel. But we do need to know: what happened the night of the accident? Why were you driving so recklessly?"
Aubrey swallowed, shaking. Then the words poured out.
"The killer—he called me. He used the name 'Hollow.' He showed me footage of our home. Hooded. Artificial voice—I couldn't tell if it was man or woman. He gave me a riddle:
What is bought with silver, but costs a soul?
What seems to make one person whole,
While ensuring another's story is never told?
To save the hand that took the fee,
You must speak this truth to me.
I solved it—the answer was 'lie.' But…" Her voice broke. "But he still—he still killed her. Made me watch as her throat was cut."
Sobs wracked her chest.
Nia reached across, laying a hand on hers. "I believe you."
Owen rolled his eyes. "You're buying this?"
Nia shot him a glare sharp enough to silence. Owen raised both hands in mock surrender, muttering, "Fine, fine."
Aubrey, through her tears, demanded: "The symbol—the Negasign. That's his mark. The same one the Azaqor serial killer used." She snatched a pen and paper, sketching the inverted spiral, the triangle, the eyes dripping black tears, the six-fingered hand, the void at its center. She shoved it across the table. "This is what I saw. The same symbol from four years ago."
Owen gave a bitter laugh. "You mean the Azaqor murders? The ones pinned on Lucian Freeman? He's still on trial, Miss Wynter. Locked up."
"What about Victoria Lockridge?" Aubrey shot back, desperate. "She had the Negasign carved into her too!"
Nia frowned. "If that's true… it could be a copycat. Or an accomplice."
Owen clapped his hands once. "Bravo, partner. Sounds neat enough. But I say—stop trying to divert. The real question remains: why did your mother own Maison Crestwood, and why do you pretend not to know?"
"The beneficiary of the property is still unconfirmed," Nia interrupted calmly. She looked at Aubrey with quiet certainty. "And my gut says you're innocent."
Owen, meanwhile, leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing with a detective's suspicion fixed squarely on Aubrey. His look said everything his words didn't: You're guilty. And I'll prove it.
---
When the session ended, Nia escorted Aubrey out of the room. The corridor seemed longer this time, the walls pressing closer. Behind them, Owen remained in the chair, arms crossed, watching the girl leave with a gaze both calculating and cold.
The weight of the spiral still clung to her like a shadow.