Chapter Thirty-Eight
The Last Act
A month later, Avalon had already moved on. It always did.
There were no more deaths. There were no more whispers in alleyways. The tourists returned in droves, filling hotels, and clamoring for cocktails. The gossip about the island’s murders became nothing more than a macabre anecdote to share over Mai Tais—Remember that summer Catalina went crazy?
But for those who’d lived it—Tosh, Cass, Zach, Mary, Torie, Janie, and Harmony, and those who were no longer accounted for—the scars were far from healed.
The courtroom in Long Beach was cold and bright, stripped of the island’s warm colors. Everything was gray—the walls, the benches, the sky outside the window. The scent of disinfectant and coffee hung heavy in the air, a smell that clung to dread.
They sat together in a row, a soundless line of unwilling witnesses to what felt like the final act of a play that none of them had auditioned for. Mary had returned, cleared of all suspicion. Officially. She sat with them, shoulder to shoulder. Her hands were clasped tight in her lap.
The deputies had found no evidence linking her to anything.
Three local men were still “missing,” but on an island where disappearing was practically a sport, no one seemed eager to look too hard, especially when they’d been a menace to islanders for a very long time.
Some absences were easier to live with than answers.
Tosh stared straight ahead, his jaw tight. Cass kept her eyes fixed on the floor. Zach leaned forward with his elbows resting heavily on his knees, silent.
Harmony, as always, remained calm—too calm—as though nothing in the world could shake her. Calm might be a performance, but it was also clarity. And clarity, she’d learned, was the only thing that kept grief from eating a person alive.
Near the back of the courtroom, Deputy Ciscel stood with perfect posture, expression unreadable.
Harmony felt his stare long before she turned to meet it.
For a moment, she wondered if he was studying Torie .
. . or studying her. Ciscel rarely blinked when he watched someone. Surveillance required patience.
When the bailiffs brought Torie in, chains rattling at her wrists and ankles, a hush fell over the room.
She was thinner now, her once glossy hair hanging limp. Her eyes held a strange serenity—a resignation tinged with amusement. When she saw Tosh, a small smile curved her lips.
“Case number 47-93,” the judge announced. “State versus Victoria Lake.”
The lawyers murmured formalities, but the words blurred together. It wasn’t a trial so much as a diagnosis. The psychiatric reports were read aloud, each line carving deeper into the already quiet room. This was a public autopsy of a fractured mind.
It took about an hour.
Torie was deemed incompetent to stand trial—too unstable to understand the charges, too fragmented to defend herself. The prosecutor didn’t argue. The defense didn’t celebrate.
It was simply a decision that was accepted.
The judge’s voice was even, clinical. “The defendant is hereby remanded to a psychiatric facility under indefinite supervision.”
Torie laughed then—low and lilting, the sound echoing off the courtroom walls.
Dozens of heads turned. She smiled wide enough to show teeth. There was a hush in the room as everyone waited.
“They’ll pay,” she whispered just loud enough to be heard. “They’ll all pay.”
The room was so quiet that the scratching of a bug could be heard moving across the tile.
Then she began laughing—high, sharp, unhinged— forcing the bailiffs to move quickly as she twisted to look back at the people who’d once been her friends.
“Do you think this is over? Do you think you’re safe?” More hysterical laughter. “You’re not safe. None of you are safe. Mark my words—more deaths will happen, and they’ll be beautiful!”
Her laughter echoed down the hallway long after she disappeared.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then the judge struck the gavel. It sounded hollow, far away.
Cass trembled. “She’s gone,” she whispered, as if testing the words. “It’s really over.” The word felt thin in her mouth.
Zach placed a hand on her shoulder, but his eyes stayed fixed on the hallway. “Yeah,” he said softly. His tone betrayed him. “I really wish I believed that.”
Harmony remained seated as the others stood to leave. Her gaze lingered on the empty space where Torie had been. There was something in her eyes—not pity, not fear, but an eerie curiosity. Finally, she rose and followed the group from the courtroom.
Outside, the sun was blinding.
Tosh exhaled sharply, shoulders slumping. “I never thought it would end like this. She was sick, but I never had a clue how bad it was. I never thought she could do something so evil.”
Mary shook her head. “Evil doesn’t always look like you expect it to,” she murmured.
“I don’t think she did it because of hate.
I think she did it because she couldn’t tell the difference between reality and fiction anymore.
” Her voice softened. “I understand, because I’ve been there many times over the years.
When you lose a child, you lose a part of yourself, and you can’t ever get that back.
I understand her. I’ll visit her when she’s had time to settle.
Sometimes evil smiles at you, and you think it’s your friend. That’s when it does the most damage.”
Harmony shook her head. People were always looking in the wrong direction when they talked about evil. She stepped forward, her tone mild.
“Sometimes evil wants to tell a story.”
Tosh frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It wants an audience,” she said simply.
“I’m just saying that we’ll all be talking about this for years to come.
That’s what stories do. They last longer than all of us.
Look at the bible—one of the oldest written stories we know, still read by billions.
There are older texts than the bible, and while they might get read at times, they’re mostly forgotten.
Even with saying that, all it takes is one group of people to bring those books back to life.
The written world is more powerful than war, love, hate, fear, sight, and sound.
I could go on and on. Stories demand to be told.
And humans? We devour them, keeping them alive. ”
Zach watched her carefully. Something in her words unnerved him.
“Some stories shouldn’t be told,” he murmured.
“Some stories should be left to die in the dark.” His gaze lingered on Harmony a heartbeat too long, as if searching for something beneath her stillness.
For the first time, he wondered if she was watching him the way she watched everyone else.
He opened his mouth to say more . . . then closed it again. Not yet. Not here.
Harmony met his gaze without flinching. “I agree. But that’s not how people work. Just like they slow down for a car accident, even if they hate themselves for it, they’ll still watch. They’ll still read. They always will.” She paused and sighed. “The story must be told.”
No one replied.
She was right—and they hated that she was.
They lingered a moment longer, then slowly drifted down the courthouse steps, each person praying they’d never have to stand in that building again.
But the story wasn’t over.
It had only learned how to wait.