Chapter 18
The interrogation room was too clean for what they’d brought into it.
The walls were white—no scuffs, no stains, nothing to catch the eye.
A bolted metal table sat in the dead center, its surface faintly scratched from years of elbows and nervous fingers.
Four plastic chairs were spaced just far enough apart to discourage eye contact.
A two-way mirror filled one wall completely, reflecting nothing back at them except their own distorted, exhausted shapes.
It felt less like a room and more like a container.
A camera blinked red in the corner, watching and waiting.
Zach sat by himself, arms folded tight, knee bouncing.
Liv was seated at the table, hands clenched together like she was praying, thumbs rubbing raw circles into her skin.
Beckie lounged across from her, slouched sideways in her chair, blood dried dark along the cuff of her sleeve. She looked comfortable.
Erica sat at the head of the table, spine straight, palms flat against the cold metal. She focused on the cold. It helped. Cold meant real, and real meant grounded.
No one spoke for a long moment. The room hummed softly, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. It reminded Erica of the old brass bell.
“So,” Zach said finally. His voice had been scraped raw. His eyes flicked to the mirror, then the camera. “Now what?”
Erica didn’t hesitate. “We tell them what happened.”
Liv let out a small, broken laugh. “They’ll never believe us.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Erica said, and she meant it. Belief had already proved unreliable. Chad hadn’t believed. Look what it got him.
Zach frowned. “How does that not matter?”
Erica turned slightly toward him. “Because the worst part is behind us.”
“Do you really believe that?” Liv asked, meeting her gaze.
“Yes,” she said. The certainty surprised even her, but it settled in her chest like something solid. “The door is closed. Whatever was there, it’s done. And whatever happens now happens. We’ll go with the flow, and we’ll figure it out.”
“Go with the flow?” Liv repeated weakly.
Zach shook his head. “I didn’t feel anything change.”
Erica met his eyes. “I did.”
He held her gaze for a beat, then looked at Beckie. His eyes lingered there longer than they should have.
Liv swallowed. “I don’t feel anything. I just feel . . . empty.”
Beckie sighed loudly. “God. This is boring.”
Liv shot her a look. “What?”
Beckie shrugged. “I just thought surviving a massacre would come with more adrenaline. Or snacks. I’m starving.”
Zach blinked. “You’re . . . what?”
“Hungry,” Beckie said. “And bored. Mostly bored.”
Liv narrowed her eyes, really looking at her now—not reacting, not snapping back. Just seeing. Something uneasy flickered across her face, but she said nothing.
“How long do you think they’ll keep us in here?” Zach asked, trying to redirect.
They were exhausted, frayed, ready to explode on each other in an instant. Talking felt safer than sitting in silence.
“A while,” Erica said. Her gaze drifted to the mirror. She imagined silhouettes on the other side—detectives whispering, taking notes, judging. Then her eyes flicked to the camera, to the red light. “They’re watching us.”
Beckie smiled. “Good,” she said. “That’s how it’s supposed to be.”
The room went still. Even the hum of the lights seemed to falter.
Liv lifted her head. “What do you mean, ‘supposed to be’?”
Beckie’s smile widened, just a touch. She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
The wrongness was so subtle it felt familiar, like noticing a word spelled incorrectly after reading it a hundred times.
The interrogation room door burst open.
“God dammit!” the red-faced officer barked. “Who put them all in the same room?!”
Liv turned toward the sound, and before she could speak, her neck twisted, neither fast nor clean.
It looked like she was stretching her muscles—but her head just continued rotating with a wet, grinding snap, bone popping under skin like breaking twigs.
Her scream collapsed into a choked whisper as her skin split and her vocal cords separated.
She was staring forward again, mouth slack before her face slammed into the table.
Blood fanned across the metal and teeth clattered to the floor.
The officer froze. “What the fu—”
His arm tore from his shoulder. It didn’t rip so much as detach, flesh peeling away as if unzipped. Blood painted the wall as the arm pointed back at him, the gun in his hand firing once as it fell to the floor. The bullet punched through his chest and hurled him backward into the doorframe.
Erica screamed. The sound felt distant, like it belonged to someone else.
Zach stumbled back, crashing into the wall, hands clamped over his mouth. “Holy—holy fuck—”
Another officer rushed in. Her neck spun in a quick full three-sixty, spine twisting until it severed itself. She dropped straight down, her head lolling at an impossible angle.
A third followed.
Then a fourth.
Limbs tore free like loose branches. Bodies collapsed in boneless heaps. Blood pooled across the floor, slick and steaming, creeping toward Erica’s shoes. The room filled with the sounds of tearing meat, cracking bone, and screams that cut off before they could echo.
Erica staggered back until her shoulders hit the wall. Her breath came in sharp, panicked gasps. Zach slid down beside her, shaking, eyes wild and unblinking.
Then there was silence. The only sound was the wet drip of blood and the hum of fluorescent lights.
Erica lifted her head, noticing Beckie hadn’t moved. She sat with her hands flat on the table, palms down. Blood speckled her cheeks and lips like freckles. She was smiling.
Zach stared at her, color draining from his face as understanding finally arrived.
“We didn’t just let it in,” Erica said. “We invited it to stay.”
Beckie laughed. “You’re really hung up on that ritual.”
“You were the last one,” Erica said. The pieces locked together with revolting clarity. “Your flame went out last. Your hands were the last to leave the slab.”
Beckie’s smile widened. She shrugged, rolling her shoulders like she was settling into a jacket that fit just right.
“Guess I’m a better host than you.”