Chapter 56
Seth
The house smells like garlic, whiskey, and burnt onion.
Travis claims it's “caramelizing.”
I call bullshit the second the smoke detector chirps.
“I’m telling you,” Travis says, fanning the pan with a plate, “this is how chefs build flavor.”
“Flavor of what,” Beau raises a brow. “Ash?”
“Okay Gordon Ramsay, let me see you make some dope ass chili,” Travis sarcastically shoots back.
Beau snorts, “I’m good on your dope ass chili, I’d rather not have diarrhea tonight.”
Brooke laughs into her hoodie sleeve, curled up on the couch with a blanket half on her legs.
The weight in her shoulders has shifted. Not completely gone, but lighter and looser. I haven’t seen her sit still this long in weeks. Not since Hollow Pines. Not since the hotel. Not since the kill list started getting shorter.
It isn’t the same Brooke I first met. It isn’t the girl from the diner. But it is a version of her that isn’t clenched in fight-or-flight every second.
And fuck, I love her.
Even if this version is sharper. More dangerous. More like me.
She glances over and catches me staring and smiles.
“Alright, it’s done,” Travis declares, holding up a ladle like a trophy. “My award winning chili.”
Beau makes a face. “It looks like prison food.”
“That’s rich coming from you. You put maple syrup on eggs.”
“It’s fucking delicious and it’s culinary innovation, dickbag.”
Brooke laughs under her breath.
“Babe, you’re not eating?”
“Waiting to see if it kills Beau first.” I say as I watch Beau get a bowl.
“Appreciate you,” Beau mutters, already digging in.
We eat. It isn’t bad. It isn’t great either, but no one cares.
The TV plays the local news softly in the background.
I grab the remote, turning the volume up.
“—Kristie Talbert still missing after a month long search—”
We all look up. The footage shows the makeup trailer. Crime scene tape.
Travis spoons another bite into his mouth and mumbles, “Damn shame. Wonder if we’ll ever find out what really happened.”
Brooke lets out a small laugh.
I lean back and let the voices fade under the crackling fire.
For a moment, everything feels… peaceful.
A faint, rhythmic beeping cuts through it.
Travis’s head snaps toward his laptop on the coffee table. The sound repeats, sharper this time, urgent in a way that makes the energy in the room shift before any of us even understand why.
“That’s not normal,” he says, already moving.
His fingers fly across the keyboard, pulling up the Collective database. Lines of code flicker across the screen before a notification window forces itself to the front.
“Shit,” Travis mutters. “It’s a live feed.”
My chest tightens.
“What kind of live feed?” Brooke asks, her voice already shifting, already knowing the answer isn’t going to be good.
Travis doesn’t respond right away. He clicks into it, eyes scanning fast, jaw locking.
“Private stream. Restricted access. This is… this is coming from inside their network.”
The beeping stops.
The silence that replaces it feels worse.
Beau raises a brow, “Put it on the TV.”
Travis nods once and moves quickly, connecting his laptop to the screen. The TV flickers, then the feed fills the entire wall, stretching wide and impossible to ignore.
No one sits down.
No one speaks.
The room seems to hold its breath.
The video stabilizes.
My mother’s face fills the screen.
Samantha’s eye is nearly swollen shut. Blood crusts along her hairline, dried in dark streaks that trace down her temple.
Her lips tremble so badly that her teeth click when she tries to speak.
Her hands are bound behind her, her shoulders pulled tight, and her whole body shakes hard enough to rattle the camera.
“Seth,” she cries. “Oh God, Seth.”
Something inside my chest tears open.
I can’t move. I can’t speak. My lungs lock as if they have forgotten how to work.
Behind her, just out of frame, a voice drifts in.
It is Grant’s voice, calm and measured, and he is enjoying every second of this.
“Here’s your last chance, Samantha,” he says. “Tell your boy the truth.”
She sobs, her shoulders curling inward as much as the restraints allow. “I love you so much. I never stopped. I swear to you, I never stopped.”
The edges of my vision blur, and the room narrows until there is nothing left but the screen.
“I’m so sorry,” she sobs, her voice breaking apart. “I’m so sorry for leaving. I didn’t protect you from him. I regret it every day. I didn’t know you were alive.”
She looks down for a second, then forces her gaze back up, terror flooding her eyes. “I thought you were dead. I thought Richard killed you. That’s why I didn’t come back. I thought I had already lost you.”
Grant’s voice cuts in again.
“Time’s running out.”
Brooke shifts beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of her body, but she doesn't touch me. She doesn't speak. She just watches.
Samantha leans forward as far as the ropes allow, and her voice drops, softer now, like she is talking to a child.
“You’ll always be my baby. My little boy in the pumpkin hat.”
Every memory I buried comes back at once.
They didn't come in order. They didn't give me time to breathe. They hit hard and fast, stacking on top of each other until I couldn't separate one from the next.
I saw the park. Luke ran ahead while I chased him, both of us yelling while she called after us to slow down. I heard her laugh, clear and real in a way I hadn't let myself remember.
I saw the floor of our old place. Colored pencils scattered everywhere. My hand moved across the paper while she sat beside me, guiding my fingers, showing me how to shade, how to add depth, how to make something look real.
I saw her waiting outside school. Every time. She never missed it.
It kept coming, faster, heavier, until it landed on the one memory I had kept buried deeper than the rest.
IHOP.
My eighth birthday. Right before she left.
I sat across from her in the booth. She slid the box across the table, smiling, like she couldn’t wait for me to see it.
I opened it and saw the model car.
A ‘67 black Chevy Impala.
She told me it looked fast enough to outrun the world. Like maybe I could too someday.
I held it in my hands and understood, even then, that it was more than just a car. It mattered because it came from her.
And she was everything to me.
My throat tightens so hard it feels like it is closing.
Grant steps into frame.
The gun is already in his hand. He presses the barrel against her temple, forcing her head slightly to the side while his grip remains steady.
Samantha’s eyes lock onto the camera.
She knows what is coming.
“I love you, Seth,” she whispers, her voice barely holding together. “I’ll always love y—”
The gunshot explodes through the speakers.
Her head snaps sideways, and blood sprays across the screen in a violent burst that paints the frame red before her body drops out of view. The camera shakes, then falls and hits the floor with a jarring crack.
The image tilts.
All that remains in view is the hardwood and a smear of blood spreading slowly outward.
The feed doesn't cut.
Grant’s shoes step into frame. He crouches, picks up the camera, and his face fills the screen again. His expression is calm, and he watches me like I am part of the experiment.
“Now you know I’m not fucking around.”
He tilts his head slightly.
“You and Brooke are next.”
The screen goes black.
The room stays frozen.
The remote slips from my hand and hits the floor, the plastic cracking against the hardwood as the sound echoes too loud in the silence.
No one moves.
No one speaks.
I stare at the dark screen as if it might change if I keep looking, as if she will come back, as if this could still be undone.
My hands feel numb. My chest feels hollow.
Something in my body starts to shut down.
My fingers go still, my jaw locks tight, and my breathing turns shallow, like it can't fully come in.
The room dulls around me, sounds fading, vision narrowing until all I can see is the empty screen.
I can't swallow. I can't blink. I can't move. My body just… stops.
I manage to force one word out.
“Mom.”