Chapter 1: The Bell That Won’t Ring

Fog swallowed Bridgemoor long before the SCU van crossed the canal bridge into town. It clung to the fractured arches, seeped through the cracked glass of the abandoned textile plant, and smothered any sound that dared linger. The only movement was the ripple of tape that cordoned off the old Willoughby Motel—a two-story relic with yellowed lace curtains and warped clapboard siding, now sooty and blackened at the center. Inside the van, Lead Investigator Mira Lorne closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling the scent of mildew and burnt plastic. She listened to the distant, hollow toll of the town church bell—a sound she’d only ever heard in Bridgemoor folklore, never in waking life. Elias Vann fiddled with the mobile lab’s console, his hoodie pulled up against the biting chill. “Power grid’s still dead, but I can rig a line for our equipment. Half the town’s running off squatter generators. You want drone footage, Mira?” “After we’ve seen the room ourselves,” Mira replied, her voice low and measured. She pressed her thumb along the spine of her battered notebook, tracing the outline of old case tabs. “Let’s not trust the fog to give us a fair vantage.” Yara Novik was already at the motel’s entrance, tactical vest visible beneath her coat, scar glinting as she swept a flashlight through the shattered foyer. “Path’s clear. Local PD’s only left two uniforms—rest got called back to Greyhaven. Word is there’s a rally in Monument Plaza turned ugly.” Dr. Ivo Grell emerged from the rear van door, snapping on surgical gloves. He paused to cough, exhaling a ribbon of smoke before tucking the stub of his cigarette behind his ear. “If the deceased is still ‘fresh’ in this chill, I’d like first look before fire damage gets worse.” Celeste Arbour, unfurling a map of Bridgemoor’s pre-fire layout, hovered at Mira’s shoulder. “This motel was never registered after the 2009 rezoning. Local legend says The Ashface used to watch from Room 12’s window.” “Which room?” Mira asked. Celeste pointed. “End of the left wing. Faces the canal. Where the victim was found.” The five of them advanced as one, boots muffled by the sodden carpet. Each step creaked, the boards below threatening to confess their own secrets. At the door to Room 12, a charred number hung at a drunken angle. A riot of melted plastic and scorched bedding greeted them; the stink of chemical smoke was almost a physical barrier. Ivo knelt by the bed, careful not to disturb the blackened sheets. “Fire started here. But look—burn pattern’s odd.” He gestured to a series of concentric scorch marks, more circular than wild. “Accelerant poured in a ring. Not a typical squatter accident. Not even an angry dealer’s torch job.” Yara swept her light across the walls. “No sign of forced entry. Windows jammed shut from age. Door was locked from inside, according to PD.” She cracked her knuckles in thought. Mira’s eyes narrowed at a splash of white chalk on the floor—a hastily drawn circle, intersected with cryptic runes and half-smeared glyphs. “Someone wanted this to look like a ritual,” she murmured, tapping her pen against her chin. “Or perhaps… someone wanted us to think it was.” Elias activated a portable UV lamp; the runes fluoresced, but so did faint handprints leading to a warped panel beside the rickety dresser. “Got a trail of skin oil here. Panel’s cleaner than the rest.” Ivo looked up. “Let’s get pictures before we open that. And I’ll need to bag the bedding—see if the deceased was poisoned before the fire.” He gingerly searched the victim—what remained of him—his manner clinical, yet somehow gentle. “No obvious trauma. But lips are tinged blue. Could be asphyxia, could be something else.” Outside, the fog thickened. The distant bell was silent once more. Mira scribbled in her notebook. “Run all tox screens, Ivo. Yara, canvass the squatters—find out who this man was, and why he died here. Celeste, start on Bridgemoor’s post-collapse legends. I want to know if anyone else has been burned in a circle.” As the SCU moved through the ruined motel, the fog closed in behind them—sealing the first secret of Bridgemoor back into shadow. —

Chapter 2: The Ashface and the Ashes

By midday, the fog remained unbroken, as if time itself refused to move forward in Bridgemoor. The SCU had set up their portable crime scene tent in the motel’s empty lot, its white sides ghostly in the gloom. The generator hummed beneath Elias’s careful ministrations, powering laptops, forensic lights, and a battered coffee urn that steamed in the cold air. Ivo hunched over a folding table, methodically examining tissue smears and charred bedding. “Initial tox: cyanosis consistent with hydrogen cyanide. Not carbon monoxide—not just smoke inhalation. Someone poisoned him before lighting the fire.” He shot a glance at Yara, who was hunched over her notepad. “This was execution, not accident.” Yara looked up, her eyes hard. “Locals call the victim ‘Old Garn.’ Slept in the canalside ruins, kept to himself, never panhandled. But last three days, he’d been seen with a woman—mid-fifties, fancy coat, not from here. Some say she paid him for ‘messages.’ Others say she argued with him about ‘loyalty to the old town.’” Mira folded her arms. “Was she seen leaving last night?” “One squatter says yes. Another says she never came back. Both are high as kites.” Yara’s voice was clipped, frustration barely contained. “But there’s more: someone painted fresh runes on the town church this week—same style as in the motel. Locals are whispering about new cults, but no one admits to seeing anything.” Celeste drifted in, arms full of brittle files and printouts. “The Ashface—Bridgemoor’s favorite bogeyman—was always said to appear after the old mill fires. But there’s nothing in the old records about ritual circles or poison. That’s new. However, last week, anonymous leaflets blaming Greyhaven authorities for ‘turning Bridgemoor to ashes’ were left on bus benches in Hollowbrook and Stoneford. Political, not spiritual.” Elias, monitoring the town’s abandoned Wi-Fi nodes, piped up. “I’ve got chatter on encrypted boards—someone’s stoking anger about the SCU. Calls us ‘agents of cover-up.’ Also, outside the church, a protest is brewing. Some Greyhaven activists, some angry squatters. Police are stretched thin.” Yara’s knuckles cracked: “A riot will bury evidence—and us, if we’re not careful.” Mira paced a slow circle. “So we have a victim poisoned and burned in a deliberate circle. A woman visitor with unknown agenda. Runic symbols—possibly red herring, possibly genuine. And activists trying to draw attention to old wounds.” Ivo nodded, setting aside a bloodstained cloth. “Victim was sedated—traces of midazolam, then cyanide, then the fire. All deliberate. This was a statement.” Celeste’s eyes glittered. “Or a warning.” A distant clamor rose from the direction of Bridgemoor’s main road—shouts and the distant clang of metal. The protest, it seemed, was spilling toward their perimeter. Mira straightened. “We’re running out of time. Yara, secure what you can from the squatters. Elias—trace those encrypted posts. Celeste, I need a list of anyone with motive to make a political statement here. Ivo, focus on poison source. I’ll see what’s hidden behind that panel.” As tension crackled in the tent, Mira reached for her flashlight, and stepped back into the shrouded motel. Bridgemoor’s secrets, she knew, never stayed buried for long. —

Chapter 3: The Hidden Compartment

Mira’s boots echoed in the empty hall. She felt the motel’s age—a brittle resistance to intrusion, as if the walls ached with memory. The door to Room 12 hung open on its hinges. Inside, daylight fought a losing battle against the fog, lending every charred edge a spectral air. She knelt by the warped panel Elias had identified. The wood was cleaner than its surroundings, as though brushed by a nervous hand. Mira pressed along its edge, feeling for a catch. It gave way with a reluctant pop, revealing a shallow cavity lined with black velvet. Inside was a single object: a heavy glass vial, marked with a faded pharmacy label—cyanide compound, industrial grade. Next to it, a folded page torn from a political pamphlet. She unfolded it carefully. The leaflet’s typeface screamed in angry capitals: “BRIDGEMOOR BURNED—WHO PROFITS FROM THE ASHES?” Below, someone had scrawled a manifesto in spidery handwriting: *“Only in ashes can truth be reborn. The fire cleanses the rot. Those who sleep in ruins will wake the world.”* A chill tickled Mira’s spine. She studied the handwriting, noting its flourishes, the way each ‘t’ was crossed with a sharp upward flick. She’d seen it before—on the runic graffiti Celeste had logged from the church. She snapped photos, bagged the items, and ducked back out. In the hall, a shadow flickered at the edge of her vision. She froze—then relaxed as Yara strode up, her jaw set. “Squatters are spooked. Stories everywhere. Some think the Ashface is back—others say this is a warning to the SCU. I found this.” Yara handed her a torn business card: “Amelia Voss—Community Liaison, Hollowbrook Action Front.” “Amelia Voss?” Mira mused. “The woman with Old Garn?” Yara nodded. “Fits the description. She’s been organizing protests—blames Greyhaven for ‘deliberate neglect’ after the fire. But some say she’s gone to ground. Her last known address was a social housing block in Hollowbrook, but neighbors say she’s been missing for days.” Mira tucked the evidence into her coat. “Let’s bring her in if we find her. But I want to know who else has access to cyanide in Bridgemoor.” Ivo’s voice crackled over the comm: “Local hardware stores closed years ago. Only source for industrial cyanide is the old dye factory—long abandoned, but not fully sealed. Squatters use it for illegal distilling. I’m on my way to check the perimeter.” As Mira and Yara returned to the tent, the first sounds of the riot reached them—chanting, glass breaking, the metallic thud of something heavy against the motel’s battered sign. Their investigation, Mira realized, was about to collide with Bridgemoor’s open wounds. —

Chapter 4: Riot in the Ruins

The angry chorus outside swelled as the SCU reconvened. Protesters—some clutching homemade signs, others with faces obscured by scarves—spilled through the broken gates, funnels of fog swirling between them. In the confusion, Mira glimpsed two local police officers struggling to hold the crowd at bay, their radios blaring uselessly. Yara took command, her presence a firewall against panic. “Elias, get our data and backup drives packed. Celeste, start logging faces. Mira, you’re with me—let’s defuse this before evidence gets trampled.” They stepped into the mob’s path, Yara’s stance unyielding. Mira scanned the crowd—squatters, angry activists, a handful of older Bridgemoor residents clinging to the periphery. At the center, a woman in a dark green coat raised a bullhorn. “Justice for Bridgemoor!” she shouted. “The authorities abandoned us! The SCU is just here to patch over their crimes!” A glass bottle shattered near Mira’s feet. She didn’t flinch, but Yara moved to shield her, voice booming: “This is an active crime scene! Anyone interfering will be detained!” The crowd surged, then hesitated. Mira stepped forward, her voice low but resonant. “We’re not here to erase history. We’re here because a man was murdered. Do you want the guilty to go free?” The woman with the bullhorn hesitated, then turned away. As the crowd’s focus shifted, Mira spotted a familiar face in the throng—Amelia Voss, her eyes bloodshot, cheeks streaked with tears. Yara moved in, gripping Amelia’s arm with just enough force. “We need to talk. Here or somewhere quiet?” Amelia’s gaze flickered, defiant and afraid. “You’ll just blame me. You always do. Go ahead—take me in. I’ll confess. I did it. I set the fire. I killed him.” The crowd gasped, some jeering. Yara and Mira exchanged glances—was this a genuine confession or something more complicated? Behind them, Celeste murmured to Elias: “A public confession—too convenient. It smells of desperation, not guilt.” Yara led Amelia away as officers closed ranks around the crime scene. The riot, for now, receded—a temporary truce settled by the promise of answers. But as Mira watched Amelia’s trembling hands and haunted eyes, she wondered: Had justice just confessed, or was this another mask in Bridgemoor’s theatre of ashes? —

Chapter 5: The False Confession

The interrogation room was a storage office repurposed for the day, its walls lined with peeling safety posters and a single, flickering bulb. Amelia Voss sat rigidly in her chair, hands clenched on the table. Yara loomed across from her, arms crossed, while Mira took the adjacent seat, her notebook open but untouched. Amelia spoke before questions could begin. “Yes, I brought Garn to Room 12. I… paid him to leave messages at the old church. Slogans, nothing more. He was desperate—would’ve done almost anything for a meal. But last night, I argued with him. Told him we needed something bigger to spark outrage. I left him there. But—I didn’t poison him. I didn’t set that fire.” Mira’s gaze was steady. “Then why confess to the crowd?” Amelia’s jaw trembled. “Because if I don’t, they’ll blame someone innocent. Or the police will. Or the SCU will take the fall—like last time. Bridgemoor’s wounds never close. Someone has to pay, and today it’s my turn.” Yara pressed, her voice hard. “You know how he died?” “I saw the smoke. I knew it was Garn. I ran—like a coward. But I didn’t kill him, I swear.” Mira watched Amelia’s eyes—saw the flicker of shame, not deception. She tapped her pen, breaking the silence. “The poison used wasn’t easy to get. Industrial cyanide. Not from a pharmacy, not from a home kit.” Amelia blinked. “I’ve never even seen it. Closest I get to chemicals is glue for protest banners.” Yara leaned forward. “You’re not protecting someone else?” “No. I’m just… tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of ashes. If it helps to blame me, do it.” Mira closed her notebook. “We will find the truth, Amelia. Whether it hurts or heals.” Outside, the riot’s echoes had faded, replaced by the low hum of drones and police radios. Mira turned to Yara as they left the room. “Red herring,” she muttered. “She’s a protester, not a murderer.” Yara nodded. “But the town will want a scapegoat. And so, I suspect, will someone in Greyhaven.” —

Chapter 6: Dead Ends and Old Wounds

The mood in the SCU tent was frayed. Elias hunched over his laptop, lines of code rippling across the screen. “Encrypted board activity spiked after the riot. Lots of chatter about a ‘cleansing fire.’ No direct link to Amelia, but someone’s pushing the cult narrative hard.” Celeste paced in tight circles, her colored notes arrayed like a ritual around an old police map. “No historical match for these runes in Bridgemoor’s folklore. Closest is an esoteric sect from the 1930s—Order of the Ashen Bell. But their records end decades before the town fire. No poison, no ritual burning.” Yara, eyes ringed with exhaustion, thumped a stack of printouts. “Interviewed every squatter who’d talk. Nobody saw anyone but Amelia visit Garn. Some mention a man in a city jacket—Greyhaven DPW logo—lurking near the canal last week. No name, no description.” Ivo dropped a folder on the table, his smoker’s rasp thick with frustration. “Checked the dye factory. Cyanide stores long emptied. Old barrels, but no recent tampering. Whoever supplied the poison brought it in—maybe from Greyhaven, maybe farther.” Mira exhaled slowly. “So we have: a protester with no chemical access; squatters who saw nothing; an occultist history that doesn’t fit; and a mystery city worker. Any leads from the hidden compartment?” Elias shook his head. “Pamphlet’s from a standard activist print run—distributed at protests across Verrowind. No unique fingerprints. Handwriting doesn’t match Amelia. But—get this—I cross-checked the sharp upstroke on the ‘t.’ It’s similar to the graffiti at the church, and the signature on a petition filed with Greyhaven’s council last month. Petition against reopening Bridgemoor for development.” Celeste’s eyes lit up. “Who filed it?” Elias scrolled. “Marius Falk. Ex-council aide. Fired after the fire in ’05. Been bouncing around as a ‘community consultant’ ever since.” Yara cracked her knuckles. “He’s been in and out of Hollowbrook. Known to rile up squatters. Not above stirring trouble.” Mira’s pen hovered above her page. “Find him. And check if he has a background in chemistry or access to old council labs. We need a reason why he’d want to frame Amelia—or send a message through fire.” Ivo stubbed out his cigarette, lines deepening on his brow. “And if he’s our killer, why poison a homeless man for a political agenda? What’s the message?” Celeste spoke softly. “Sometimes a spark is needed to burn away indifference. Or to ignite fear.” The team lapsed into silence, the only sound the distant peal of a bell—soft, hesitant, as if testing whether Bridgemoor would remember how to mourn. —

Chapter 7: The Political Pressure

The next morning, the fog had lifted only slightly, leaving Bridgemoor’s skeleton exposed in a pallid half-light. The SCU’s mobile comms buzzed with urgency—this time from Greyhaven itself. Mira answered, recognizing the clipped tone of Mayor Adalyn Marchetti’s assistant. “Investigator Lorne? The Governor requests your summary by noon. There’s concern about unrest spreading from Bridgemoor into Hollowbrook. We need to reassure the public. If you’ve identified a suspect, please coordinate with local authorities for a swift resolution.” Mira’s jaw set. “We’re not done. The current suspect confessed under duress, and evidence points elsewhere.” A pause; the voice sharpened. “We expect cooperation, Investigator. The Governor is under pressure from provincial investors—reopening Bridgemoor is central to the economic plan. This cannot become a scandal.” Mira ended the call, her fingers drumming anxiously. She found the others poring over files, tension thick in the air. “Pressure’s building. Politicians want a fast answer—preferably Amelia or anyone but a former council insider. They’ll bury us if we disrupt their plans.” Yara snorted. “Let them try. We’re here for the truth, not a PR fix.” Elias blinked at his screen. “Traced Falk’s last login to a Hollowbrook library terminal. He used an alias—‘AshenBell2025.’ Booked a room at the old Crossroads Hostel right before the fire.” Celeste rummaged in her notes. “Falk’s history—he worked on hazardous materials disposal for the council. Had access to cyanide stocks, did safety training for abandoned sites.” Ivo looked up. “Find him fast. If he’s our source, he might be planning another ‘cleansing.’ Or covering his tracks.” Mira nodded. “Yara, you’re with me. Crossroads Hostel. Elias, monitor for digital activity. Celeste, comb Falk’s council files for anyone who might be helping him. Ivo, keep pressure on the protest crowd—see if anyone’s missing or suddenly flush with cash.” As Mira shrugged on her coat, she caught her own reflection in a cracked motel window: ghostly, tired, determined. Bridgemoor’s curse, she thought, was that it never let its ghosts rest—not until every secret was unearthed beneath the ash. —

Chapter 8: Crossroads

The Crossroads Hostel was less a business than a rumor—a squat gray block on Hollowbrook’s edge, once a waystation for rail workers, now a forgotten refuge for the lost. Mira and Yara moved through its narrow halls, their breath misting in the stale air. A man in threadbare corduroy sat at the end of the corridor, reading a battered newspaper. His hair was graying, his hands stained with ink and—Mira noticed—traces of yellowed chemical residue. “Marius Falk?” she asked, her voice gentle but firm. He looked up, eyes hollow, voice flat. “I knew you’d come. SCU, yes? Come to finish what the council started?” Yara was blunt. “We’re investigating a murder. Old Garn. Cyanide poisoning, then arson. Your name turned up on a manifesto found at the scene.” Falk’s lips twisted. “That was never meant for him. It was aimed at the council, at the developers—those who feed on ashes. Garn was… just there.” Mira pressed. “Did you supply the poison?” Falk’s shoulders slumped. “I gave Garn chemicals. Told him it was to ‘ward off rats.’ He asked for more—said people were threatening him, wanted him gone. I warned him, but I never lit that fire. I swear.” Yara’s voice was iron. “Who did?” Falk shook his head, regret clouding his features. “There are others. People angry enough to burn it all down. I just wanted to scare them—to remind them Bridgemoor wasn’t theirs to sell.” Mira studied his trembling hands. “Who else did you contact?” Falk hesitated. “There’s a… group. They meet in the old church, call themselves ‘The Bellkeepers.’ I thought it was empty ritual—a joke. But someone there knew about cyanide. Maybe more.” Outside, a siren wailed. Yara’s comm crackled: “Fire at the church—someone’s tried to burn it.” Mira’s pulse raced. “Stay with Falk. I’m going to the church. This isn’t over.” Yara nodded, her fists clenched. As Mira dashed into the fog, she realized: the line between ritual and reality in Bridgemoor was thinner than she’d ever feared. —

Chapter 9: The Bellkeepers’ Secret

The church squatted at the town’s heart, its bell tower half-collapsed, cross blackened by old soot. Smoke curled from a broken window, but the fire was contained—someone had doused it quickly, leaving only scorched pews and the acrid bite of chemical fumes. Elias, breathless, met Mira at the door. “Saw someone run from the back—hooded, carrying a bag. I tried to follow, but they vanished into the canal fog.” Inside, Celeste circled the altar, eyes fixed on a fresh chalk circle—this one complete, unbroken, marked with the same runes as at the motel. “Not a cult,” she whispered. “A signal. See the pattern here?” She traced a symbol: two interlocked bells—one open, one shut. “This was used by the Order of the Ashen Bell, but repurposed. It’s a warning—‘ring the bell, and you call down fire.’” A side door slammed. Ivo, wheezing, staggered in. “Found this in the vestry.” He handed Mira a torn scrap of paper: a list of names—Falk, Amelia Voss, Old Garn, and others, some crossed out, some highlighted. Elias added, “I scanned the area—recent emails sent from a burner phone. The last message: ‘Ashes tonight at the bell. Strike before they can bury the truth.’ Sent to… someone using an old SCU contact alias.” Mira’s blood turned cold. “Who?” Elias checked. “It was redirected. Masked as a tip to the Herald’s crime desk, but the sender’s metadata pings back to Celeste’s archive.” Celeste’s eyes widened in horror. “No—I never—someone must have used my credentials. Broke into my archives.” “Or you were set up,” Mira said softly. “Someone wanted to lead us here, implicate one of our own.” Ivo glowered. “False trails. Someone’s playing us off each other.” Mira looked at the list again, focusing on the highlighted name at the bottom—Darya Volkov. The church’s former caretaker, presumed dead in the original Bridgemoor fire, but never found. A chill sank deep into Mira’s bones. “We need to find Darya. If she’s alive, she knows who’s orchestrating this.” The church bell, dead for years, shuddered in the wind—its silence more telling than any sound. —

Chapter 10: The Ashface Unmasked

The sun was setting, casting long shadows through Bridgemoor’s bones. Mira, Yara, and Elias followed the canal path, tracing the route from the church to the water’s edge. Every surface shimmered with moisture; every echo could have been a whisper from the town’s ruined past. They found Darya Volkov sitting by the canal, her back to them, feeding stale rye crusts to a flock of silent crows. Her hair was white, her coat patched and faded, but her posture was regal—unyielding. Mira approached slowly. “Darya? We know who you are. We know about the Bellkeepers. We need your help.” Darya did not turn. “Bridgemoor is ash and memory. The council would pave it over, the SCU would bury its ghosts. You want to know who killed Garn? Look in your own shadow.” Yara was blunt. “You’re not a murderer. But you know who is.” Darya sighed, finally glancing over her shoulder. Her eyes were pale, ringed with smoke. “Falk thought he was clever. Amelia thought she was righteous. But neither had the courage to light the match. Garn was never meant to die—it was the message that mattered.” She paused. “But the messenger… sometimes they take the message too far.” Mira crouched beside her. “Who finished what you started?” Darya closed her eyes. “There is another—he calls himself ‘The Ashface’ now. Once, he was my son. Viktor Volkov. He grew up on these streets. Watched the fires. The council took everything from us. He wanted to give Bridgemoor a martyr.” Yara’s voice cracked. “He poisoned Garn? Set the ritual fire?” Darya nodded, tears spilling silently. “I tried to stop him. I stole the cyanide, hid the chemicals, but he found them. He thought if the world saw Bridgemoor’s pain, they’d remember us. He used the old symbols—a call for justice twisted into a call for blood.” Elias, stunned, whispered, “He’s the one spreading the cult rumors, the manifestos, the encrypted posts…” Mira reached for her comm. “Elias—trace Viktor’s digital trail. Yara, take Darya to safety. I’ll find Viktor.” Darya gripped Mira’s hand. “Be merciful. He’s not a monster. He’s just… lost in the ashes.” The crows scattered as Mira hurried into the deepening fog, the truth at last burning through. —

Chapter 11: Ashes and Aftermath

They found Viktor Volkov on the roof of the old textile plant, rain washing soot from his cheeks. He looked ghostlike—eyes hollow, hands trembling, a battered bell in his lap. Mira approached, every step careful. “Viktor. It’s over.” He didn’t turn. “They’ll forget Bridgemoor. The council. The developers. The media. Only fire makes them see.” Mira’s voice was soft. “Garn was innocent. He died for a message he never wrote.” Viktor wept, rocking the bell. “Mother said I was the bell that wouldn’t ring. But I rang. I rang for the dead, for the lost. Now the whole province listens.” Mira knelt beside him, rain soaking her coat. “No more deaths. You’ve been heard.” Below, police lights flickered—Greyhaven uniforms moving in as the fog receded. Yara and Ivo waited at the cordon, Darya held safe, Amelia’s name cleared. Viktor surrendered, his head bowed. “Ashes to ashes,” he murmured. As the SCU led him away, Mira felt the weight of Bridgemoor shift—old wounds, exposed and cauterized. The town would not be healed overnight. But the real Ashface, at last, had a name. —

Chapter 12: Cinders in the Wind

The SCU packed their equipment, the van’s headlights twin beacons in the gloom. The riot had given way to uneasy silence—Bridgemoor’s squatters watching from broken windows, the activists dispersing, the local police grateful to retreat. Mira lingered at the church, staring up at the bell that would not ring. Celeste joined her, scarf flapping in the damp wind. “Did we do the right thing?” Celeste asked, her voice barely a whisper. “Exposing old ghosts. Reopening wounds for a truth most would rather forget?” Mira shrugged, green eyes weary. “If we hadn’t, the wrong person would be in prison. Someone always wants the story to end before the truth is told.” Ivo emerged, pulling on his battered coat, eyes on the horizon. “Town will heal. Or it won’t. But the dead have names again. That’s worth something.” Yara checked the perimeter, her stance relaxed for the first time. “And for once, the politicians didn’t get their tidy scapegoat. Let them explain that to the investors.” Elias locked up the van, muttering code under his breath, the light from his laptop casting a glow on his tired features. “I’ll keep watching the networks. If another Ashface tries to rise, we’ll know.” As they drove out of Bridgemoor, fog swallowed the van’s lights, and the church bell, for just a moment, seemed to shudder in the wind—a sound almost like a sigh, or perhaps, at last, a note of peace. —