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I rake my fingers through the new length.
I feel steadier. There is a logic to it: when the universe narrows down to things you can’t influence, you find a boundary you can defend. You alter the external to survive the internal.
I set the scissors down. The two severed braids lie in the basin, discarded against the white porcelain. I lift them out and brush the hair from the counter into the trash before running the tap, rinsing away the dark remnants until the sink shines.
6
RED FLAGS EVERYWHERE
BARYN
There are three versions of what happened to Casey Whitmore.
The one police documented. The one Stillwater has spent seventeen years telling itself. And the one that actually happened.
Unfortunately, I have a growing suspicion that the first two have very little in common with the third.
I spread the case files across the small table beneath the window, arranging witness statements, newspaper clippings, and the handful of photographs I’ve managed to collect into something resembling a coherent timeline. The trouble with a cold case in a town this size is that everyone remembers something, and absolutely no one seems to remember the same thing.
My phone vibrates somewhere beneath a photocopy of the original missing person report.
I ignore it.
There’s a discrepancy in the timeline that’s been bothering me since yesterday, and I’m reasonably certain another ten minutes of staring at it will either produce a breakthrough or a migraine. Given my track record, I’m putting money on the migraine.
The phone vibrates again.
I pull the report aside and glance at the screen.
Cebastian Price.
Fifth call this morning.
Price is many things—wealthy, persistent, allergic to common sense—but subtle is not one of them.
I consider letting him call a sixth time.
"Fine," I mutter to the empty room.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and snag the phone, hitting speaker as I trudge toward the kitchenette. I shove a coffee pod into the brewer with a satisfying, plastic crunch.
“What,” is all I can muster.
“Good morning to you, too,” Price says, then asks immediately, “Where are we with the project?”
He barks the question with brisk impatience. To him, time is money, and the people who work for him are perpetually wasting both.
I slide my mug under the drip and press the button. The machine groans, a mechanical whimper that mirrors the depths of my soul. “You could at least pretend to care about my well-being before you start interrogating me, Cebastian. It’s basic human decency.”
My Supreme Overseer of Narrative Direction is a man who believes success is something you can purchase outright if you throw enough money at it and maintain aggressive eye contact while doing so.
Price has spent his career in glass conference rooms, bullshitting through complex concepts he only half-understands to an audience that knows better, but prefers stroking his fragile ego to the trouble of correcting him.
He’s never actually created anything in his life but has become extremely good at acquiring the things other people build.
My podcast, for example.
I spent years building Casket Case out of a desperate need to own something that didn't have my family's name attached to it. It was forged in subpar caffeine, relentless nights in a cramped apartment no one even knew I had, and a microphone that literally caught fire mid-recording once—but every broken component was a bill I paid for myself.
