“Justice died with my daughter,” Mary replied.
A deputy near the wall, Deputy Duong, shifted. Hale caught it.
“You have something to say?” she asked.
Duong startled. “No, ma’am. It’s just—” He glanced at Vega, then the group. “Some of the notes . . . the spacing and pressure . . . they don’t match the others.”
Deputy Ciscel stood rigid near the doorway, watching Duong carefully.
Not warning him.
Measuring him.
“Duong,” Vega warned sharply.
He swallowed and went silent.
Harmony’s eyes flickered. That was new.
Before Hale could press further, the lights flickered—then snapped off. The backup generator didn’t kick in.
Gasps filled the darkness. People stumbled closer together. Cass clutched Harmony’s arm. Someone fumbled with a flashlight. The weak circle of light landed on Tosh’s startled face.
“Mary,” he said. “You’ve scared everyone enough. Point made. Anger won’t bring her back.”
Mary’s silhouette was steady against the window. Another flash lit the room—cold and white.
“You think I don’t know that?” Mary said. “I wake up every day knowing she’s never coming back. But I want all of you to remember her. I want you to remember that silence is as deadly as any blade. Those who turned away when she needed help are just as guilty as the ones who killed her.”
“Mary,” Hale called. “I need you to step away from the window.”
Mary didn’t move. “You can’t arrest grief, Detective,” Mary murmured. “You can only witness it.” Her reflection in the glass didn’t look like someone waiting to be taken away.
Another flash outside—light flaring in the room like a camera shutter. Lily let out a soft cry and backed into Zach. He steadied her, but his eyes were locked on Mary.
“Mary, let me help you,” Zach said, stepping forward despite Hale’s instinctive reach to stop him.
Mary looked at him—really looked. “You’ve been kinder than the others,” she whispered. “But even kindness has limits. I can’t be helped. I died with my daughter. What’s standing before you is simply a shell.”
“Did you kill the women?” Tosh asked, voice brittle.
Mary shook her head. Her voice was tight. “I didn’t kill those women,” Mary said. “And I’m not mourning them either. My grief belongs to one person, and it was spent a long time ago.”
“Then who did?” Torie cried.
Hale stepped forward as more flashlights flickered on, turning the room into a broken lantern glow.
“That’s the wrong question,” she said.
Vega nodded. “Maybe it isn’t one killer at all.”
The wordallseemed to echo, sticking to the walls like humidity. A silence fell heavy as wet sand.
The lights sputtered back on—flickered—then held.
Harmony gasped. Cass’s hand flew to her mouth.
A smell cut through the room—chemical and sharp.
