Thorns of Truth

The tension in Millness had become palpable, a quiet unease settling over its pristine streets. Whispers replaced the usual polite greetings, and people walked with wary glances over their shoulders. The Petersons' incident had been the first crack in the town's perfect veneer, and it was as though the entire community was holding its breath, waiting for the next blow to land.

It came sooner than expected.

The Danvers household was the next target. Ivy overheard the news at Sophie's place the following afternoon. Mrs. Danvers had discovered it early that morning—her garden gate left ajar, her prized rose bushes trampled, and the back door left slightly open. Nothing appeared stolen, but the family's framed photographs had been knocked off the walls, their glass shattered across the polished floors. On one of the photos—a formal family portrait—someone had scrawled in red marker: "Not even roses can hide the rot."

Ivy listened intently as Sophie recounted the story, her voice a mixture of fear and fascination. "Can you believe it? They didn't take a single thing! It's almost worse than a robbery. It's like... whoever did this wanted to send a message."

"It's working," Ivy said, her tone carefully neutral. She sipped her coffee, her gaze fixed on the steam rising from her mug.

Sophie leaned forward, lowering her voice. "You know what they're saying, don't you? That it's someone who knows us. Someone who knows the town."

Ivy gave a noncommittal hum, but her mind raced. It was working, indeed.

By the time Michael arrived at Sophie's, the town was in a frenzy. He looked more worn than usual, his expression dark as he pulled up a chair. "It's getting worse," he said without preamble. "Two incidents in two days. People are terrified."

"Do you think it's random?" Sophie asked, her brows furrowed.

Michael shook his head. "No. There's a pattern here. The Petersons and the Danvers—they've both got skeletons in their closets, and someone's rattling the doors."

Ivy watched him carefully, noting the way his jaw tightened as he spoke. She could tell he was frustrated, his sharp mind already working to connect the dots. For a moment, she felt a pang of guilt, but she pushed it aside. This wasn't about Michael or Sophie. This was about her mother.

The conversation drifted into speculation—who could be behind the attacks, why they were targeting specific families, and what might come next. Michael was cautious, offering only what he'd pieced together from the evidence, but his concern was evident.

"They're escalating," he said finally, rubbing a hand over his face. "And the way they're doing it—it's personal. They're not just trying to scare people. They're trying to make them feel exposed."

"Do you think they'll stop?" Sophie asked, her voice tinged with worry.

Michael hesitated, his gaze flickering to Ivy before he answered. "No. Not until they've made their point."

Later that evening, Ivy left Sophie's house with her mind buzzing. The air was thick with humidity, the distant sound of cicadas filling the silence. Her route home took her past the Danvers' house, where the broken glass had already been swept away, and the damaged photographs were nowhere in sight. But the house itself seemed darker than usual, as though the attack had left a permanent mark.

As she approached her street, her phone buzzed in her pocket, startling her. She pulled it out, frowning at the unknown number on the screen. For a moment, she considered ignoring it, but something compelled her to read the message.

"Not even you can escape the past."

Her breath caught, and she instinctively looked around, her heart pounding. The street was empty, the faint glow of porch lights offering little comfort. Ivy felt the familiar twinge of fear creeping up her spine, but she pushed it down, forcing herself to focus.

She shoved the phone back into her pocket and quickened her pace. By the time she reached her house, her mind was racing. Whoever was sending these messages knew far too much, and she was running out of time to figure out what they wanted.

But one thing was clear: the game wasn't over yet.