SCARLETT
SIX YEARS LATER
The coffee in front of me has gone cold, but I still don’t touch it.
My hands are clasped hard on my lap like it’s the only way to keep me grounded while my private investigator sits across from me in this quiet Portland café and destroys what’s left of my world.
“I’m sorry, Scarlett.” Tom’s voice is gentle in that way people use when they’re about to wreck you with news. “But you asked me to find them, and I did. I just wish I had better news.”
The folder sits between us on the table, holding horrors inside like they always do.
I don’t want to open it because I already know from the look on Tom’s face that it’s going to be bad.
But I reach for it anyway because I’ve spent six years needing to know what happened to those five girls. The ones I left behind when I ran from that mansion. The ones whose faces still haunt me when I close my eyes at night.
Maya. Jennifer. Lisa. Carmen. Rachel.
I open the folder and the newspaper clippings spill out across the table between our coffee mugs.
The first one shows a mangled car wrapped around a telephone pole. The headline readsYoung Woman Dies in Single-Vehicle Accident.There’s a photo of Maya from her driver’s license. She’s smiling in it. She was always smiling, even when she was terrified.
“Car crash,” Tom says quietly. “Three months ago in Ohio. Police report says she lost control on a wet road and hit the pole going sixty. Died immediately on impact.”
I flip to the next clipping with hands that won’t stop shaking. A woman’s body covered with a white sheet on the pavement below a building.Woman Falls to Death from Apartment Balcony.
Jennifer’s face stares back at me from the article.
“Ruled accidental,” Tom continues. “She was hanging Christmas lights on her balcony railing. Witnesses say she lost her balance and fell five stories.”
The next one is Lisa.Local Woman Found Dead from Apparent Overdose.The photo shows her looking gaunt and tired, nothing like the girl with empty eyes I remember from that room.
“Heroin overdose,” Tom says. “Found in her apartment by her roommate. She had a history of drug use, so nobody questioned it.”
Carmen next.Woman Drowns in Bathtub After Hitting Head.The article is short. Barely three paragraphs about how she slipped getting out of the tub and drowned in two inches of water.
And finally Rachel.House Fire Claims Life of Young Mother.Her house burned down in the middle of the night with her inside it. Faulty wiring, they said.
I stare at all five clippings spread across the table and something cold settles in my stomach.
“Five different deaths,” I say slowly. “Five different cities. All within the last six months.”
Tom nods. “All ruled accidental or natural causes. No investigations or further follow-up.”
“Because they weren’t accidents.”
“No.” He leans forward and his voice drops even lower. “I don’t think they were. Car crashes can be staged. People can be pushed off balconies. Drugs can be forced into veins. Someone can hold your head underwater. Houses can be set on fire while you sleep.”
My hands on my lap are the only thing keeping them from shaking visibly now. “Someone’s killing them. Someone’s systematically eliminating everyone who was in that room six years ago.”
I can’t believe they’re all dead.
“That’s my assessment, yes.”
The café suddenly feels too small and too exposed. I glance around at the other customers. A woman typing on her laptop, fingerless gloves keeping her warm despite the fall chill. An older man reading the newspaper. A young couple wearing matching scarves as they share a muffin.
Any of them could be watching me. Any of them could be the next one sent to kill me.
“How did you find all this?” I ask Tom.
