Chapter 8
EIGHT
TWIGGY
By the time we get back to my apartment, my fingers are twitching so hard I nearly drop my keys.
I blame the news alert. And Bran’s hand.
Mostly the alert.
Partly the fact that when I slipped on the ice, he caught me like it was nothing—one big palm at my back, the other closing around my arm, solid as a wall. No grunt, no wobble, just catch, steady, release.
It shouldn’t make me feel anything. It does anyway.
“Phone,” he reminds me now, nodding toward the glowing rectangle clutched in my death-grip. “Inside. Locks first.”
“Yes, Dad,” I mutter, but I unlock the door and we step in.
Habit takes over: locks, chain, deadbolt. The ornaments glitter brightly from the tree in front of the window, catching the washed-out daylight. They look out of place in all this gray.
I shove that thought away and tap the news alert.
STATE POLICE RELEASE INITIAL FINDINGS IN LUCY FALLS DEATH
Authorities investigating possible connection to prior incidents.
Of course they are. It’s the only phrase worse than no comment.
“Sit,” Bran says behind me.
“I’m fine standing.”
“Your eye’s twitching,” he says. “Sit. Please.”
The please takes the sting out of the command. Barely.
I do not flop onto the couch like my bones are jelly. I lower myself in a controlled, dignified manner. Mostly.
Bran takes the chair with his usual economy of motion, angling it so he’s got the door and window in his peripheral.
“Read it out loud,” he says.
“I can read in my head, thanks.”
“And I can read upside down from here,” he says. “But if you read it out loud, I hear it at the same time you do, and I can head off whatever stupid idea you get halfway through.”
I narrow my eyes. “Define ‘stupid idea.’”
“Any idea that ends with you closer to Henry Thurston,” he says flatly. “Read, Tallulah.”
His tone leaves less room than I’d like. I blow out a breath and scroll.
“‘The victim, a woman in her mid-twenties, was discovered at Lucy Falls yesterday evening by an out-of-town hiker,’” I read. “‘Authorities have not released the victim’s name pending notification of next of kin.’ Blah blah…‘no obvious signs of foul play at the scene.’”
Bran snorts. “Bullshit.”
“‘However, due to the location and certain similarities to prior cases, state police are coordinating with Lucy Falls Sheriff Jack Brady and federal authorities.’” My mouth twists on Brady’s name. “Congrats, Jack. You made it to the majors.”
I keep going.
“‘Community members are urged not to speculate on social media and to avoid spreading rumors that may hinder the investigation.’”
“Too late,” I mutter.
Bran lifts his chin. “Scroll.”
I skim the rest. Bland assurances, a non-quote from “sources close to the investigation,” a carefully vague reference to “events from last year.” No names. No details.
No Henry.
“They’re dancing around it,” I say, locking my phone and tossing it onto the coffee table. “But they’ve basically strapped a neon sign to the Falls that says SERIAL KILLER? QUESTION MARK.”
“Question mark’s doing a lot of heavy lifting,” Bran says.
“Tell that to the comment section,” I say. “Twenty bucks says half the town is tagging Shiloh already.”
The thought makes my stomach lurch.
She doesn’t deserve this. Not again. Not still.
Bran’s gaze drifts to my computer. “Don’t,” he says.
I pause halfway through reaching for it. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t log in yet,” he says. “You know exactly what the forums are doing right now, and none of it is going to make you safer.”
“I’m not looking for safe,” I say. “I’m looking for information.”
“You’re not working this case,” he says, voice even. “Not directly. Brady, state, Feds—they can handle the heavy lifting. You sit this one out.”
I bark out a laugh. “You’re cute.”
“I’m not joking, Tallulah.”
He uses my full name like Kael does—like a stamp on an order form.
“You dragged me into monster territory,” I say. “Then you’re surprised I want to look at the monster? That’s not how my brain works.”
“Your brain doesn’t get a vote,” he says. “Not when Henry already knocked on your window. You’re not bait. You’re not backup. You’re the person we’re protecting.”
“I’m also the person he’s talking to,” I snap. “He came here for me. He showed up at my door. You think he did that so I’d curl up and knit while other people read the patterns?”
His jaw ticks. “I think he did it because he knows you can’t resist a puzzle and he wants you right where he can see you. I’m not helping him with that.”
“You’re not helping him,” I say. “You’re helping me. Or you can try to stop me and watch how fast I do it behind your back.”
His eyes narrow. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s a statement of fact,” I say. “You can hover and glower and babysit my meat suit all you want, but you don’t get to own my mind. That’s mine.”
Silence stretches, tight as piano wire.
Finally, Bran exhales through his nose. “You’re five feet nothing of pure nuisance,” he mutters.
“And yet here you are,” I say sweetly, flipping my laptop open. “Front-row seat.”
He scrubs a hand over his face, like he’s reconsidering all his life choices.
“Fine,” he says. “If you’re going to do this, you do it where I can see it. You don’t poke him just to see him jump. You don’t respond to anything without me reading it first. And if I say we’re done for the day, we’re done.”
“That’s…a lot of rules for something you allegedly can’t control,” I say.
“It’s the difference between helping and hindering,” he says. “You want me in your way or do you want me to have your back?”
Something in my chest stutters.
“My back,” I say, quieter than I mean to.
“Then read,” he says. “But understand something, Nightjar—if this starts pulling you into his crosshairs, I will burn every router you own before I let you keep going.”
“Rude,” I mutter. “Effective, but rude.”
He doesn’t deny it.
The main chat client opens in a cascade of windows. Pings stack up in the Nightjar room, usernames scrolling like a stock ticker.
I read faster than most people can talk. Today, though, keeping up feels I’m like trying to drink from a firehose.
you see the article?
it’s 100% him
bet they’re too scared to say his name
NIGHTJAR WHERE YOU AT
“They’re subtle,” Bran says dryly.
I ignore him and start to type back on instinct.
His hand lands on the top corner of my screen—not yanking it away, just grounding.
“Slow down,” he says. “You don’t owe them anything.”
“I owe the next girl not ending up on those rocks,” I shoot back. “This is how I do that.”
He holds my gaze for a beat, then eases his hand back. Not surrender—permission on probation.
“Fine,” he says. “But we do it my way. No taunting, no grand reveals, no telling half the internet you ‘heard it’s Henry’ this time.”
I bristle. “That was strategic.”
“That was you shaking the tree to see what fell out,” he says. “Congratulations, something fell out. Now we don’t kick the trunk until the whole damn thing lands on your head.”
I grit my teeth, then type.
chill. details are vague on purpose.
Responses flood in.
they mentioned “prior incidents”
that’s code for the stalker thing last year right
…Nightjar was right about him then
A private ping pops up in the corner of my screen. Different handle. One of the old ones from last year.
Minotaur. Cute, if you like Greek mythology.
told you it was connected
I frown, fingers hovering.
Bran leans in just enough to read, careful not to touch me. “How long you known this one?” he asks.
“A year,” I say. “Came out of the woodwork during the original Thurston mess. Claimed to have an in with somebody at state level. Dropped a couple of things that later checked out.”
“Ever verified their IP?” he asks.
“Yes, Dad,” I say. “Twice. Bounces around like mine. They’re careful.”
“Careful can still be stupid,” he says. “What’d they know then?”
“Timeline on when the Feds were coming in,” I say. “Rough geography on where Henry used to work before he popped up here. Nothing I couldn’t eventually get on my own, but it sped things up.”
His jaw works like he wants to tell me to log off. Instead he nods once.
“Okay,” he says. “We treat them like a maybe-useful, maybe-hazardous source. Ask a direct question. No hints about your real situation.”
“Yes, Mom,” I mutter, fingers already moving.
you keep saying that. elaborate.
The typing dots appear almost instantly.
look at the placement
placement? of what?
No response.
“‘Look at the placement,’” I read aloud, narrating more for Bran than me. “That’s all they say.”
“What’s that mean?” he asks.
“Could mean literal placement of the body,” I say. “Could mean where the article puts the information. Could be some weird code for ‘I’m eating my feelings.’”
“Show me the last thread where you talked about Thurston with them,” he says.
I tab open an old log. It’s from eleven months ago, right after we thought we’d seen the last of Henry.
he’s a creature of habit, Nightjar
Minotaur had said that then.
he’ll come back to the same places, same patterns, same light
Same light. I flip back to the article, eyes skimming the lines.
Mid-twenties woman. Hiker…the Falls. Nothing about the exact location. Nothing about her pose.
“Jack said there was no sign she was moved,” I say slowly. “Didn’t say where she was on the rocks.”
“Where would you put her,” Bran asks, “if you were trying to send a message and not get caught—and you weren’t allowed to actually answer that question because you are not doing this in real life.”
“This is hypothetical,” I say. “You going to arrest my imagination?”
“I’ll cuff it to the radiator if I have to,” he says. “Humor me.”
My brain clicks into gear, the gross little thrill of a puzzle overshadowed by the fact that this one bleeds.
“Somewhere visible but not immediately accessible,” I say. “Enough time between discovery and contact that he can move. A place tourists know from Instagram. And if he’s mocking us…exactly where the last girl went missing.”
“You got coordinates from that case?” he asks.