Prologue
Sloane
I knelt beside his lifeless body that was lying face down in a pool of his blood. There was a single bullet hole that ran straight through the back of his head. The room smelled of metal with a hint of sage. The scent felt strange and unplaced. I was shaking and suddenly overcome with emotion. I barely knew the man, but seeing him like this was still heartbreaking. My mother stood beside me, a somber expression on her face as she stared down into the puddle of blood near her feet. The next moments were a blur of sirens and yellow tape, the bright white of cameras flashing, and questions. There were many, unending, countless questions.
“When did you last speak to him? When did you last see him? Do you know anyone who wanted to harm him?” I recall the questions all sounding the same. My one-word mumbled responses did little to aid the police. I’ve been an investigative journalist for a few years now, but being at the scene of a crime has never gotten easier. It was especially difficult when I stared down at the lifeless body of my father. The all-powerful defense attorney, Gideon Keenan. Not so powerful now, are you? I remember thinking the words and then immediately wincing at their harshness. I learned to cover up my feelings with humor, even the dark and sometimes questionable variety.
Gideon,Dad, wasn’t a good man. I was never aware of the full extent of it, only that he covered up horrible things for horrible people. The basis for my dislike stemmed from the day he left my mom when I was only seven years old. He cheated with his office secretary; how very original of him. After that, he didn’t care to have visitation with me, and I didn’t care to see him, anyway. It was only recently that he had tried to repair our irreparable relationship. He called me earlier that day to meet up for dinner. Except I was running late. When I finally arrived, I found him likethat.
Gone.
Several months passed, and yet nothing changed.
“Unsolved.”
“Mystery.”
“Murdered.”
The words headlined every major news outlet across Hollowcrest. I was sick of it, and I couldn’t bear to look at the articles a second longer. My work suffered as a result, and I ultimately took a year off from fieldwork after that night.
? ? ?
After my 365-day hiatus, my work was calling me home. My passion returned after attending a psychology seminar. It was a psychology lecture on cognitive dissonance and the mind of a criminal. I recall listening to the hot professor go on and on about ashadow self.I found it utterly fascinating, the way he spoke about it so passionately. It reminded me of Ted Bundy and all the women who worshiped him despite his actions. The fire inside my investigative veins was ignited, and I knew I had to start working again. It wasn’t my last time attending one of his seminars. Sure, the professor gave one hell of a lecture. That wasthe excuse that I told myself, anyway. In total truth, though, he wasdangerouslyeasy on the eyes.
I dove back into work head-on and returned to Obsidian Press in Hollowcrest, the city where I lived, worked, and grew up. I was reassigned to the investigative journalism unit, like I never missed a beat. It turns out that when you’re good at something, it doesn’t matter how long you take time off. Coming back was as easy as remembering the words to an old favorite song. It feltsonice to do something that felt familiar to me.
I ended up at a few more of Professor Easy-on-the-Eyes’ seminars, strictly for academic reasons, of course. One particular lecture stood out among the rest. It was a study on the psychology of music and how it can be used for healing and influencing emotion. Although I didn’t know much about the topic, I found it eerily fascinating. The content was so fascinating that when I got back to work the following Monday, I asked for a new directive.
“Music?” Alex, my boss, asked. He eyed me with a skeptically raised brow. “What’s the inspiration for this?”
“I attended a lecture on the study of music on Saturday. The potential for a story is … limitless. I just …” I paused, second-guessing my sudden impulsive change of direction. “I don’t know. You know what? Forget it. It’s silly.” I stared down at my desk.
He tilted his head to the side as he considered me. A look similar to pity flashed across his features. “Well, Sloanie, that’s not really in your wheelhouse, and I’m not sure we currently have anyth—wait. Hold on a second,” he said, turning and walking over to his desk. He combed through a set of files until he found the one he was looking for. He turned back, marched over to my desk, and dropped it in front of me. I stared down at it, confused.
“This landed on my desk a couple of days ago. It’s not completely on track with the whole music therapy thing, but I think it might be even better,” Alex said.
I flipped open the file and read the words sprawled across the middle of the page. “Masked Cult Band and Their Sudden Rise to Fame.” I looked back up at Alex, skepticism written all over my face. I knew exactly who this file was about.
“You want me to do a story on Reverb?” I questioned him.
“No, Sloanie. I want you tounmaskthem,” he said, a sinister smile spread across his face. “They’ve pulled in a massive fan base in a short time. There are tons of theories out there on why, and even more on their identity. No one’s been able to do it, but I know you can. Mix your usual style of investigative journalism in with the music, and BAM!” He clapped his hands together for dramatic effect. “You’ve got this. Do your worst.” He winked and sauntered off while I stared after him.
I spent the rest of that day going over the files. Reverb did seem to have a rapid rise to fame, and Alex was right, there was probably something to it. After reading countless theories and some seriously disturbing fan comments, I pulled up their number one song and let it play.
Hearing his voice for the first time was like being marked without consent. His voice was ethereal. It drew you in and latched its pretty jaws right into your flesh. In that moment, I understood the obsession. I understood because Ifeltit.
The allure that Reverb had over people wasn’t normal; it was otherworldly. Time didn’t dull their appeal. If anything, it sharpened it. Theiracolytes, as they were now calling themselves, grew larger and became more obsessive. Everyone wanted a way in. Women would line themselves up like they were waiting to become the ultimate sacrifice. Anoffering, they would say. Men dressed like them, walked like them, and clung to the idea of becoming one of them.
The rumors were just that. Just noise. Just chatter. Rumors of what they looked like beneath it all, rumors of what they enjoyed doing in their free time, rumors that only made them that much more mysterious. The way the music drew people in didn’t make any sense. At least, not to me. I’m a person who believes in logic and realism. I’m a bit of a cynic at best. Reverb’s pull was undeniable, almost hypnotic. Still, only one question echoed louder than the music.Why?
Lucky for them, forhim, I loved a good mystery.
No one ever got close enough to see the truth, butIdid.
1
Sloane
