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“Are you guys okay?” I heard Jackie yell over the phone as I made eye contact with Peter Baker.

I undid my seatbelt and opened my door as Oliver clasped a hand on my forearm. “What are you doing?”

“I’m just gonna ask him what he’s doing,” I explained, keeping my gaze on Peter as I climbed out of the car. I heard Oliver talk to Jackie, telling her we were okay, as I closed the door and stepped closer to Peter, keeping my hands raised.

“Are you okay?” I asked tentatively. I wanted nothing more than to throttle the man, but I needed answers first—mainly, where the hell Goldie was and what he knew.

He was quiet, his eyes flitting to the treeline at our side and back to me. Finally, he nodded furiously. I was struck by how similar that was to River just hours ago.

“Why are you in the road, Peter?” I asked, stepping closer and letting my hands lower.

He stared at me for a moment before finally speaking. “I tried to warn her. I promise I tried.”

“Goldie?” I clarified.

“Marigold,” he insisted. “Her papa was my friend. He was always my friend.”

I did my best to process his words, my mind spinning. “Her dad? Dakota?”

He nodded. “Dakota was my friend. He was nice. Then he died.”

“Did you take Goldie?” I asked.

“No!” he yelled, his voice booming, and I resisted the urge to step back at his intensity. “You’re just like them! You think I hurt them all! I would never hurt them!”

“Okay,” I insisted. “I believe you.”

He smiled ever so softly—an expression far too innocent for a man in his fifties, even his sixties. It was hard to gauge. “I tried to tell her. I tried to tell everyone.”

“Where the witches were burned—you said that, right?” He nodded. “Is that here, in Salem?” He nodded again, his smile brightening that someone understood him. “Do you know where she is now?”

His smile dropped, and he shook his head as he started to play with his hands nervously. “Close, but I don’t know how close. I just know it’s kind of here.” It was becoming more and more evident that Peter Baker suffered from some sort of cognitive impairment.

“When you say you tried to tell everyone, what do you mean?” I asked, clarifying.

“I told them all what was happening, but no one believed me. No one ever believes me.” He became sullen as he spoke, his shoulders slumping forward and his gaze downcast. “But I don’t lie. I never lie. So I left notes, telling them what I knew, to help.”

My eyes went wide. “You’re the Watcher?”

His gaze snapped back to me, and he nodded excitedly. “They didn’t believe me, but they believed the notes. They always believed the notes.”

Not once had we considered that the Watcher and the person behind the murders and abductions were different people. It was nearly impossible to think otherwise: the notes knew information about those missing, where their bodies were—information only the person responsible could know. The person responsible… and Peter Baker.

I scrubbed a hand across my jaw. “How did you know about it all? Where the bodies were? How Goldie was in danger?”

“No one noticed me watching. They thought I was stupid. They were wrong. I saw it all. I followed him when I could. I wanted it to stop.” He paused, his fidgeting stopping. “I wanted to help them. Help Marigold.”

“You warned her because you knew she was in danger?”

He nodded. “I saw how he looked at her. It wasn’t right. His eyes were never right. No light, too dark. So dark.”

“Who, Peter? Who took them?” I asked.

“I have an address,” Oliver called, hopping out of the car, the phone in the air. “You’re not going to be happy. I’m not sure if it’s true, but it’s Jackie’s best guess.”

I raised my hand to stop Oliver, turning back to Peter. He had the answer to the one question I needed answered. “Who took Goldie?”

“Marigold,” he corrected me.