The morgue had never been meant for those who still drew breath.
Everything about it rejected life. The air hung motionless and thick, carrying the sharp tang of formaldehyde mixed with something metallic that coated the back of Aubrey's throat. Overhead, fluorescent tubes buzzed their monotonous dirge, casting wan light across tiles so pale they might have been bleached of all color. Her footsteps rang hollow against the floor, each echo swallowed by the oppressive silence that seemed to drink in sound itself.
Steel compartments lined every wall in perfect, terrible rows. Their chrome handles gleamed like bared fangs under the clinical lighting. At the room's heart sat a gurney—polished metal on silent wheels—bathed in brightness so merciless it refused to grant even the mercy of shadow.
And upon that table lay her mother.
Marlene Wynter's form stretched beneath a white sheet drawn up to her collarbones. Death had transformed her skin into something waxen and brittle, as though the gentlest pressure might shatter it entirely. Her lips had caved inward, robbed of the warmth Aubrey remembered from a thousand smiles. Though her eyes were closed now, Aubrey couldn't forget what the pathologist had revealed earlier—irises clouded like spoiled milk, threaded with ruptured vessels that painted the whites bloody red. Even in death, her mother's eyes had seemed to search for something just beyond comprehension.
But the true horror lay carved into her flesh.
Low on Marlene's abdomen, etched with surgical precision, sprawled a symbol that shouldn't exist in any sane world. An inverted spiral coiled inward at its center, trapped within a triangle whose three corners bore open eyes. From each eye, a single teardrop had been burned into the skin, black as old blood. Surrounding the entire design, a handprint pressed outward—not the familiar five fingers of humanity, but six, each digit seared deep into yielding flesh. And at the very heart of this nightmarish sigil sat an absence more disturbing than any mark: a circle of untouched skin, a void that seemed to scream its emptiness.
The Negasign had claimed her mother's body as its canvas.
Aubrey's legs trembled beneath her weight.
Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. Tears carved hot tracks down her cheeks before she even registered they'd begun to fall. She reached toward her mother's still hand, then froze with her fingers hovering inches above that cold skin. Some instinct warned her that contact would shatter whatever fragile denial still protected her heart. The truth crushed down against her chest like physical weight: Marlene Wynter was gone. Forever.
"Mom..." The word escaped as barely more than a whimper.
Grief folded her shoulders inward as she stared at the shell of the woman who'd raised her. Then, unbidden and merciless, memory crashed over her in waves.
---
*She was seven years old again, wind tangling through her hair as Marlene's voice rang out behind her: "Don't look down, sweetheart—keep your eyes ahead!" Small hands gripped bicycle handlebars white-knuckled, the whole frame wobbling dangerously. But then Marlene's laughter wrapped around her like a safety net, one warm hand steadying her back with gentle pressure. Aubrey could still hear her own shriek of triumph when the bike finally found its balance, could still see her mother clapping with eyes that shone like captured sunlight.*
*The memory shifted, pulling her forward through time. Thirteen now, standing before her bedroom mirror. The Everthorne Academy uniform transformed her: a blazer the deep blue of midnight, the school's golden crest embroidered above her heart. Crisp white shirt beneath, navy and gold striped tie knotted perfectly. The charcoal plaid skirt swished softly when she turned. Mary Janes polished to a mirror shine.*
*Marlene had been there, adjusting her collar with practiced fingers, whispering encouragement about that terrifying first day of high school. Aubrey had practically vibrated with excitement, her face glowing like dawn breaking. And her mother had smiled—that radiant, all-encompassing smile that had always felt like coming home.*
---
The memories released her as suddenly as they'd seized her, dumping Aubrey back into the morgue's sterile chill. More tears fell, splattering against the tiles.
*Why? Why her? Why my mom?*
Movement at her periphery made her flinch. The forensic pathologist—a woman perhaps in her late forties, iron-gray hair scraped into a severe bun, latex gloves still bearing traces of disinfectant—stepped closer. When she spoke, her voice carried surprising gentleness beneath its clinical steadiness.
"Miss Wynter." She paused, as though weighing her next words carefully. "There are... findings we need to discuss."
Aubrey forced herself to meet the woman's gaze.
The pathologist's eyes held depths of compassion earned through years of bearing witness to the worst humanity could inflict. "Your mother's body shows evidence of deliberate and extensive mutilation. Several fingernails have been forcibly removed. Three toes as well. We found contusions and ligature marks consistent with prolonged restraint."
Each word landed like a physical blow.
"She suffered, Miss Wynter. Considerably and for some duration before death occurred." The pathologist's professional mask cracked slightly. "Whoever did this wanted her to feel every moment."
Rage erupted in Aubrey's chest so suddenly it stole her breath. Her hands clenched into fists tight enough to drive nails into palms. Her jaw locked, teeth grinding audibly. The grief that had weighted her down transformed into something molten, something that threatened to burn through her skin from the inside. She dropped to her knees, palms bracing against freezing tile as her body shook with the force of helpless fury. Her mother—tortured, violated, murdered by some faceless monster who'd enjoyed every second.
The pathologist knelt beside her, one steady hand on Aubrey's shoulder. "You don't have to bear this weight alone. I know it feels impossible right now, but you will survive this. Grief doesn't erase love—it proves its existence."
Those words formed a lifeline in churning darkness. Aubrey clung to them as she dragged herself back to her feet on legs that felt like water.
---
The corridor beyond the morgue stretched endlessly, fluorescent lights casting their sickly glow across institutional beige walls. Aubrey walked it like a ghost, her reflection wavering in the polished floor beneath her feet. Salt dried in tracks down her face. Her shadow stretched thin and distorted beside her.
Two figures materialized ahead, resolving from silhouettes into solid forms.
The woman moved forward first—sharp-featured and composed, her expression carefully neutral as she raised her badge. "Detective Nia Holloway."
Her partner followed, all lean height and dark tousled hair. His mouth curved in a smile that suggested he found the entire situation vaguely amusing as he flipped open his own credentials. "Detective Owen Kessler." His gaze fixed on Aubrey with unsettling intensity. "We're going to need you to come with us, Miss Wynter. Just to answer a few questions."
Something in his tone made it sound less like a request and more like an inevitability.
---
The interrogation room had been designed to strip away any sense of comfort or security.
Concrete walls painted the color of old bones enclosed a space barely large enough for the metal table bolted to the floor. Two chairs faced each other across that table like opponents in some grim game. A single light fixture buzzed overhead, its fluorescent tubes flickering intermittently. In the corner, a camera's red eye blinked its patient observation.
A thick manila folder sat centered on the table's surface, WYNTER, MARLENE printed across its tab in block letters.
Aubrey slumped in her chair, shoulders curled inward protectively. Her eyes had gone red-rimmed and puffy, the skin beneath them bruised with exhaustion. Across from her, Detective Nia sat with perfect posture, her hands folded neatly, her expression radiating calm professionalism tinged with genuine sympathy. Owen had claimed the other chair, leaning back with arms crossed and that infuriating half-smile playing at his lips—as though he were watching a particularly entertaining performance and waiting for the actress to slip up.
"Miss Wynter." Nia's voice emerged measured and gentle, though formality edged each word. "First, please accept my condolences for your loss. I can't imagine how difficult this must be." She paused, seeming to choose her next words with care. "However, our investigation has uncovered certain... inconsistencies regarding your mother's life. Details that may prove relevant to understanding her death."
Aubrey's gaze lifted, bewildered and raw. "What are you talking about?"
Owen leaned forward, the manila folder snapping open beneath his hands with theatrical precision. "Tell me, Miss Wynter—were you aware that before her death, your mother owned a rather substantial commercial property in Crestwood?" His smile sharpened into something predatory. "A high-end salon called Maison Crestwood, to be precise."
He made a show of consulting the documents before him, his tone dripping with exaggerated wonder as he began to read.
"Let's see... Italian leather styling chairs with gold-plated fixtures. State-of-the-art equipment including advanced color processing systems and spa technology. A custom-designed reception area featuring crystal lighting installations and designer furniture." He glanced up, watching her reaction. "Multiple treatment rooms appointed with premium materials. Extensive product displays showcasing exclusive luxury brands."
His fingers drummed against the papers. "Ring any bells?"
Aubrey's face crumpled in confusion. She shook her head mutely, unable to form words.
But Owen wasn't finished. He clearly had no intention of letting this go.
"The salon maintained a waiting list stretching months into the future. Crestwood's social elite competed for appointment slots. Exclusive membership tiers. Private VIP suites for their most valued clientele." He let the page flutter back to the table. "Quite impressive for someone you believed worked as a simple corporate caterer, wouldn't you say?"
Nia's steady gaze remained fixed on Aubrey, cataloging every micro-expression, every involuntary response.
Owen flipped to another section, his voice taking on an edge of steel beneath the mockery.
"According to our research, Maison Crestwood employed teams of stylists, colorists, and aestheticians working across multiple floors. Your mother regularly flew in specialists from Europe and Asia to conduct workshops and masterclasses. She maintained a management staff overseeing inventory worth tens of thousands of dollars at any given time."
The folder slammed shut with finality. "Conservative estimates place the property's value between one and three million dollars. Annual revenue? Approximately two point four million." He leaned back, letting that sink in. "And now it sits without a legal owner. Interesting timing, don't you think?"
The blood drained from Aubrey's face. "Are you—" Her voice cracked, then surged with sudden fury. "Are you seriously suggesting I had my own mother murdered for inheritance? I didn't even know that place existed!"
Owen's eyebrows rose in theatrical disbelief. "Come on now. You really expect us to swallow that story? Your tuition at Everthorne Academy—one of the most exclusive private schools in the state. Your college education, fully funded. Your current residence in one of Crestwood's most expensive neighborhoods." He ticked items off on his fingers. "And yet the job your mother supposedly held—catering manager for a tech company—has left absolutely zero paper trail. No employment records. No tax documents. Nothing." He leaned forward, eyes boring into hers. "So tell me, Miss Wynter, where exactly did all that money come from?"
"No..." Aubrey whispered, then louder, panic bleeding into anger. "No, that's not possible. She worked, she told me about her job, about the—"
Owen shoved the folder across the table toward her. "See for yourself. There's nothing there. Your mother's supposed employer? Doesn't exist. Never has."
Aubrey's hands trembled violently as she pulled the documents closer, her eyes scanning page after page of findings. Her internal monologue screamed in chaos: *Who was she? Did I ever really know my own mother? How could she lie to me for years? What else did she hide?*
"I'm not buying the innocent act," Owen continued, his voice gone cold and hard. "You never questioned where the money came from? Never wondered how a caterer afforded to send you to schools that cost more per year than most people's salaries? Never thought it was strange that you lived in luxury while your mother supposedly worked a middle-class job?"
Fresh tears spilled down Aubrey's cheeks. Nia silently produced a tissue packet from her jacket pocket, sliding it across the table without a word.
Owen pressed his advantage, sensing blood in the water. "The truth, Aubrey. Right now. Did you know about Maison Crestwood? Did you decide you wanted that inheritance sooner rather than later?"
Aubrey's palms hit the table with enough force to make the folder jump. "I DIDN'T KILL HER!"
"Owen." Nia's voice cracked like a whip through the tension. "That's enough. You're out of line." Her eyes flashed warning. "Lieutenant Caleb would never approve of this approach, and you know it."
She turned back to Aubrey, her expression softening. "Miss Wynter, I apologize for my colleague's tactics. This isn't how we should be conducting this conversation." A pause, then more gently: "But we do need to understand what happened the night of your accident. Why were you driving at such excessive speed? What led to that crash?"
Aubrey swallowed hard, her throat clicking. Then the words began to pour out in a torrent she couldn't contain.
"He called me. The killer—he called himself 'Hollow.'" Her voice shook but she forced herself to continue. "He showed me footage of our house. Live footage. He was wearing a hooded cloak, and his voice... it was distorted, artificial. I couldn't tell if it was a man or woman. Nothing about it sounded human."
She drew a shuddering breath. "He gave me a riddle. Made it some kind of game:
*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.*"
Her hands twisted together in her lap. "I solved it. The answer was 'lie.' I got it right, I answered correctly, but he..." Her voice broke completely. "But he killed her anyway. Made me watch through the camera as he cut my mother's throat."
Sobs wracked her body, each one tearing through her chest like broken glass.
Nia reached across the table, her hand covering Aubrey's. "I believe you."
Owen made a derisive sound. "You're buying this performance?"
Nia's glare could have stripped paint from walls. Owen raised both hands in mock surrender, settling back in his chair with an expression that clearly said he thought his partner was making a mistake.
Through her tears, Aubrey's voice took on desperate urgency. "The symbol—the Negasign. That's what he carved into her. The same mark the Azaqor serial killer used four years ago." She grabbed a pen from the table's center, snatching a blank piece of paper from beneath the folder. Her hand moved frantically, sketching the design: the inverted spiral coiling inward, the triangle with eyes at each point, the black tears dripping down, the six-fingered handprint, and at the center—that terrible void. She shoved it toward the detectives. "This. This exact symbol. It's identical to what they found on the Azaqor victims."
Owen's laugh held no humor. "You mean the murders they've pinned on Lucian Freeman? The guy who's currently in custody awaiting trial? Hate to break it to you, Miss Wynter, but your supposed killer is locked in a cell."
"What about Victoria Lockridge?" Aubrey shot back, desperation making her voice sharp. "She was killed just days ago with the same mark carved into her body!"
Nia's expression grew thoughtful. "If that's true... we could be looking at a copycat. Or possibly an accomplice who was never caught."
Owen clapped slowly, the sound echoing off concrete walls. "Brilliant deduction, partner. Very neat theory." His gaze swung back to Aubrey. "But let's not get distracted from the real question: why did your mother secretly own a multi-million dollar business, and why are you pretending to be shocked by this information?"
"The property's beneficiary status remains unconfirmed," Nia interjected smoothly, her eyes never leaving Aubrey's face. "And my instincts tell me you're innocent, Miss Wynter. I've been doing this job long enough to recognize truth when I hear it."
Owen remained slouched in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed on Aubrey with the unblinking focus of a predator watching prey. Every line of his body language screamed his conviction: *You're guilty. You're lying. And I'm going to prove it.*
---
When the interrogation finally ended, Nia personally escorted Aubrey from the room. The corridor seemed to have stretched longer in their absence, the walls pressing closer with claustrophobic intent. Behind them, Owen remained seated, his watchful eyes tracking the girl's departure with an expression of cold calculation.
Aubrey walked with her arms wrapped around herself, exhaustion weighing down every step. Her mind churned through everything she'd learned, trying to reconcile the mother she'd known with the stranger who'd apparently lived a secret life mere miles away.
The hallway took a sharp turn ahead, shadows pooling thick in the corner despite the overhead lighting.
Aubrey almost didn't notice the figure standing there.
Someone waited in that patch of darkness where the corridor bent—perfectly still, perfectly patient. As Aubrey's gaze finally registered the presence, the figure stepped forward just enough for light to catch their features.
The person's face remained mostly obscured, but their smile cut through the dimness like a blade.
Wide. Too wide. Stretched in a grin that held nothing of warmth and everything of anticipation.
When they spoke, their voice carried an unsettling quality—smooth as silk over broken glass, gendered in a way that defied easy categorization. Each word felt deliberate, chosen for maximum impact.
"It appears my benefactor was correct about you." That terrible smile widened further. "You are indeed a very emotional individual, Miss Aubrey."
The figure's head tilted at an angle that suggested predatory curiosity.
"And that emotional nature? It's your weakness. The thing that clouds your judgment every single time."
The words hung in the air between them like a curse.
Then, as suddenly as they'd appeared, the figure melted back into the shadows, leaving Aubrey frozen in the corridor with ice spreading through her veins.
The weight of the spiral had found her again.
And this time, it had a voice.