CHAPTER TWENTY

I had a dream.

No—scratch that. It was a damn nightmare.

I stood inside a cell bathed in shadow, the air damp like it had forgotten what freedom actually felt like. The cemented walls were chipped, cracked—like they'd been screaming for years and no one listened. Scribbles lined them, desperate markings etched by someone's broken thoughts. I tried to read them, but the words stayed hidden, beyond my understanding.

A shove caught me off guard.

The guard threw me inside like I was nothing more than trash. My body slammed hard onto the icy floor, and pain lanced through my leg. I hissed, biting down a curse. The bandage wrapped around my calf was already soaked, the wound underneath angry and fresh.

"You run again," the guard growled, voice as thick as the cell walls. "Then maybe you do hate yourself."

He threw jammed the gate and sealed any chance of escape with a padlock.

Then he turned and walked out, leaving me to rot.

The second his footsteps disappeared, I moved.

I dragged myself across the floor, ignoring the fire in my leg. Every breath felt like inhaling stone, but I had a mission. I reached for the bed frame—bare, rusted, no mattress—and shoved it aside with every bit of strength I had left. Dust kicked up into my face, but I didn't stop. My hand reached behind the corner of the bed, fumbling for it…

There.

Fingers curled around plastic.

I pulled out a doll.

It was small, weirdly shaped. Its eyes bulged too wide, and the ears were shaped like something not quite human. Creepy as hell. Haunted, even. But I didn't flinch. I'd seen it many times that I grew used to its creepy appearance.

I pressed a trembling finger to its left eye.

Click.

"You have two new messages," the doll said in an eerie, automated female voice. No soul behind it. Just cold code and static.

My heart thudded. I held my breath.

Click.

A real voice came through—ragged, female, shaking. I knew that voice. I felt it in my spine.

"If you are hearing this," she said, panic in every word, "it means they've got me. Darren is dead, Sinclair."

I froze.

A static sound, then—

"I heard the guards speaking. They are taking us far away. To—"

A scream.

Violent, sharp. A scream that cut the message off like a blade across a flesh.

"No. No, no, no, come on," I muttered. I tapped the doll. Slammed my palm against its face. "Say the rest. SAY IT!"

Nothing.

"Don't do this to me," I growled, losing grip. I shook the thing violently. "What did you hear?! Where?!"

It stayed silent, unbothered.

I lost it.

With a roar, I hurled the doll across the cell. It smacked the opposite wall with a dull thud and slumped to the floor, staring at me with those dead plastic eyes. I pressed my palms into my face as the scream tore from my chest, raw and bitter. Tears burned down my cheeks, but I didn't wipe them away.

I don't cry often.

But this—this hurt.

When I looked up, I saw something on the wall.

A name. Or part of one.

Scribbled in delicate, familiar handwriting—too familiar. It stopped my breath.

"Ra was here."

That was all.

The rest of the name had been wiped off by time or by someone who didn't want me to know. But I knew that penmanship. Elegant, deliberate. Beautiful.

And it broke me all over again.

"Ra…" I whispered, voice cracking like old glass.

I didn't know whether I was mourning them, cursing them, or begging them to come back. Maybe all three.

So I did what I always do when I'm at my lowest—

I broke down, the sound bitter and taunting. It felt so real that I let out a soft whimper to reality.

I flipped my eyes open gently, staring back at the bright day. What a confusing dream.

"Ra…" wasn't that what had been in that clip I played in apartment 204?

Was this a real memory or is it a mere dream in response to the events of the past few days?

Oliver looked up from his phone the moment I slid into the booth across from him. He was dressed clean, effortless, like always—a black tee hugging his toned arms and matching pants that gave off an "I don't try too hard, but I still win" vibe.

He gave me a once-over and smirked.

"Well damn," he said, tilting his head, "you sure you're handling a cold serial murder case? You look like you just stepped off the red carpet."

I snorted, waving a hand toward the waiter who was already eyeing our booth.

"I am handling a case, thank you very much," I said, settling in. "And just because I don't look like a wreck doesn't mean I'm not one."

"Bullshit," he replied immediately, leaning back into the booth with a crooked grin. "You pulled up in an Audi, wearing a velvet jacket like you're a Bond villain on a coffee break. And don't even get me started on the way you smell. What is that—oud and quiet threat?"

The waiter came over. I didn't look at the menu.

"Iced Americano. Tall," I said, and nodded my thanks as the waiter scribbled and left.

I turned back to Oliver with a dry smile. "It's not all about appearance. My mind's a whole damn mess, trust me."

"Please," Oliver drawled, lowering his voice and leaning in like we were sharing a state secret. "No one with that kind of cologne and car combo has a messy mind. You smell like private island money."

He narrowed his eyes at me, smirk deepening.

"Where are you getting all that cash from, Sinclair?" he asked in a mock-whisper. "And don't you dare say Miss Karen. I know it's not Miss Karen."

I raised a brow, then nodded in appreciation as the waiter returned with my drink. I sipped it slow.

"It is Miss Karen," I said smoothly, setting the glass down. "She's been getting an allowance from a sponsor. Survivor compensation, apparently—from the Blossom Home Orphanage missing case."

Oliver opened his mouth to reply, but a shadow fell across the table.

A man slid into the booth beside Oliver. He was in his mid-forties, wearing a Grey suit that fit a bit too perfectly and a faux hairstyle that looked like it hadn't changed since high school debate club.

"Hey," Oliver greeted, sitting up straighter. "Sinclair, this is Preston."

Preston extended a hand. "Pleasure," he said in a practiced voice, eyes sharp behind rectangular glasses.

I shook it firmly. "Likewise."

"He's the director working on the Rosemount Home for Children missing case documentary," Oliver explained.

I tilted my head. "Ah. The other ghost file."

Preston chuckled politely. "Yes. We're wrapping up filming by the end of the year. Should hit the necessary platforms early next."

"And how's it been?" I asked, leaning in, my tone casual but my focus razor-sharp. "Any new research worth knowing?"

As the two men flagged down the waiter for their drinks—Oliver asked for an espresso, Preston for herbal tea—I watched Preston carefully. He had the kind of face that always looked like it was hiding something behind a clean smile.

"Well," he began, clearing his throat, "I did some digging into Rosemount's real origin. Most people think it was discovered by Hannah's father's friend. But turns out, it was actually both of them who found it."

I folded my arms. "And?"

"They had a falling out. A big one. Hannah's father started threatening the friend. It got… dark."

"How dark?"

"Attempted poisoning. Multiple times," Preston said flatly. "Didn't work. So Hannah's father took it further—intervened in the friend's business, tanked it. Drove him into bankruptcy."

"Jesus," Oliver muttered.

Preston nodded. "Eventually, the friend gave up ownership of the orphanage entirely. Handed it over to someone else."

I narrowed my eyes. "And who was that?"

He shrugged. "That's the mystery. We can't confirm it yet, but we suspect it was someone powerful. The place grew almost overnight after that. More kids added. More attention. But then, they started disappearing. By the time the reports came in, over two hundred children were gone."

"Gone?" I asked, voice low.

"Vanished. Never found. Not even a trace."

I leaned in slightly. "You do realize how creepily similar that sounds to the Blossom Home Orphanage case?"

Preston nodded slowly. "Funny you say that. I met the detective in charge of that case once. Years ago. He said something that stuck with me."

"What?"

"That the founder of Blossom wasn't who people thought it was. He claimed it was a politician. Even gave me a name."

I sat forward, heart suddenly alert. "What name?"

Preston lowered his voice. "Dr. Rune. F. Adams. A retired Senator."

I stilled.

Preston continued, his voice grim. "Apparently, Dr. Rune kept his identity hidden, but the detective was convinced. Swore up and down he was behind the entire thing."

"And what happened to the detective?"

"He got accused of bribery. Fired a week later."

"Of course he did," Oliver muttered, drumming his fingers on the table.

I stared at Preston. "What about Rune? Where is he now?"

"In a coma," Preston said. "Was attacked a few months after the dead bodies from Blossom were discovered. Rumor says he was poisoned—slow acting. Ate his cells from the inside, and by the time they caught it, it had already started eating at his brain."

The drinks arrived. Preston sipped his tea and sighed.

"And then there's this," he added. "During the investigation, we found something else. People were being paid to give up their children. Fifty million dollars per child."

I stared at him. "Fifty million?"

He nodded. "Makes you wonder what they were doing with those kids, doesn't it?"

My mind went blank for a second.

Miss Karen.

She'd been giving me everything since Darren's death—comfort, shelter, expensive food, an Audi.

She said the money came from the sponsor supporting survivors of the Blossom case.

I whipped my head back to Preston, heart pounding.

"Wait," I said. "Were there any actual sponsors for survivors of Blossom?"

Preston blinked. "None that I'm aware of. We've looked through everything. There were no public or private sponsors listed in any record."

My Americano sat untouched on the table as my stomach flipped.

My mind reeled.

Miss Karen had lied.

Or worse…

She might have been part of it.