On the wall behind them, in thick black Sharpie, were fresh words:
I’m here, and I’m what you made me.
“Holy—” Cass whispered. “When did that—”
“It wasn’t here before,” Torie said, voice trembling. “Someone wrote it in the dark.”
Ciscel’s flashlight beam lingered on the writing longer than the others, his expression unreadable—almost appreciative.
Hale moved fast, scanning the room. “No one else entered. That means someone in this room did this.”
For a heartbeat, Harmony thought of the deputies first, not her friends. Training lived in their hands in ways it didn’t in anyone else’s.
“Or,” Vega added, “someone was already here.”
Mary turned toward the words, a strange, peaceful expression softening her features. “Then maybe it’s finished.”
“What does that mean?” Hale demanded.
Mary looked at her, eyes bright—too bright. “It means someone’s confessing.”
The lights went out again.
This time, several people screamed.
When the power surged back, the room reeled in bright, trembling light.
Mary was gone.
No footsteps. No echo. Just absence.
The far door stood open, curtains billowing inward as cold wind rushed through.
“Search the cliffs!” Hale barked. “Now!”
Deputies bolted out. Duong hesitated, eyes lingering on Harmony—uneasy, contemplative—before he, too, ran out. Ciscel moved last—not running, but scanning the room, as if trying to memorize where everyone stood the moment the lights went out.
Harmony remained frozen, staring at the message on the wall. She whispered the words, tasting their shape.
“I’m here, and I’m what you made me . . .”
Zach stood behind her, shoulders tight, head bowed. Something about his stillness made Harmony uneasy.
Outside, the wind carried a whisper back through the open door.
Soft.
Fading.
Broken.
“Now you understand.”
It wasn’t Mary’s voice.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Aftershocks
