He nods once at me, then looks at her.
“It’s one of the missing girls,” he says, voice low, steady. “Kelsey Livingston.”
“Livingston?” I ask, thinking of the PNZ in the ring the othernight. Rory Livingston. I remember her name being on the list, and Hunter talking about her on the radio show.
Hunter grimaces. “She’d been gone a few months.”
Arianette’s breath catches. Her grip on my hand goes vise-tight.
Hunter’s eyes stay on her. “It’s going to be hard to see,” he warns. “But we need you to look and let us know if you notice anything that tugs at your memory. We don’t have long before the feds show up.”
She nods, small and automatic, but I can feel the tremor running through her fingers. “I can do it.”
We step around the hedges.
The fountain comes into view. It’s an old stone basin with water still running in a steady stream despite the cold. The lights around it are dimmed, either turned off or broken, leaving the scene in a pool of shadow broken only by the harsh white beams of a few flashlights held by the brothers standing guard.
The girl is there, her pale skin mottled purple with the chill of death.
She’s kneeling at the edge of the fountain, elbows resting on the stone like she just stopped to think. Like she might straighten up any second and brush off her knees. Her hands are turned upward, palms cupped together as if waiting for something to be placed there.
She’s dressed in a thin white gown, almost translucent, soaked through and clinging to her skin. The fabric is old-fashioned, high-necked and long-sleeved, like something from a century ago, but torn at the hem and sleeves in ragged strips. Around her neck is a thin black ribbon tied in a loose bow, ends trailing loose down her spine. Her hair is soaked, dripping down her shoulders.
There are no other signs of ritualism, no candles or symbols carved in blood, but there’s a vibe. Everything about the scene feels staged, from the way her body is positioned to the choice of the dress, the ribbon–it feels intentional. Wrong. Like someone wanted it to look like art, or a message, or both.
She isn’t discarded. She’s posed.
Next to me, Arianette stops dead. Her hand jerks in mine, breathhitching so hard I feel it in my own chest. She’s remembering something. I can see it happening, even if she doesn’t say it.
Hunter steps closer, voice soft but firm. “Anything?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just stares.
“Who found her?” I ask.
It’s one of the guys that answers. “Some poor bastard crossing campus to go see his girlfriend. He freaked out and called the police. Luckily a friendly caught the call, the King’s contact, and he gave us a head start."
Arianette loosens her grip on me.
Not fully. Just enough to take one step forward.
My instincts scream immediately. Every alarm in my body lights up, red and furious. She moves like she’s underwater, eyes locked on the girl’s face as if the rest of the world has gone dim around her.
“Ari,” I murmur, low. Careful not to spook her.
She doesn’t respond.
She takes another step closer, crouching slightly to bring herself level with the girl’s bowed head, peering beneath the curtain of wet hair. Her expression tightens—not recognition exactly, but something adjacent. Something worse.
“Recognize her?” I ask.
She shakes her head once. Almost irritated. Like that wasn’t the right question.
Her hand lifts before I can stop her.
Not reaching—hovering.
“Arianette,” I warn, firmer now. “Doll Baby, don’t touch the body?—”
