Curiouser and Curiouser

When a familiar nemesis returns with an impossible request, Mags and Amy find themselves pulled into a search that hits uncomfortably close to home. As a missing girl, an anxious mother, and a trail of half-answers collide, the girls follow a shadowy trail of clues — and realize how quickly curiosity can turn into something much darker.

Old rivalries resurface, new alliances form under pressure, and every step forward raises more questions than it answers. 

Transcript

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Murder Girls is created, written, and produced by Eternal Teenager. Content warning. This episode contains references to missing children, trespassing on corporate property, environmental crimes, parental anxiety, discussions of past trauma, mentions of drug smuggling operations, references to death and murder, and ongoing themes related to corporate corruption and profanity throughout. Listener discretion is advised.

Previously on Murder Girls.

We were in Holtwood, a restricted area near the old paper mill. We wanted proof the originals have been tampering with clean sites. This is what we found.

He shows me a video on his phone. Shaky footage, shot through trees at night. A massive concrete pad, 200 feet easy, hidden under camo netting in the redwoods. Ghostly headlights slice through the dark. ATVs roll in, cargo lashed to their backs. Plastic pods like something you'd ship alien eggs in. Suddenly, there are severe audio glitches, teethache sounds even through the phone speaker. Lily and Daniel's voices, agitated, nauseous.

So, that cursed video that's going to scar us for life?

Yeah, what's in the video?

Footage from Lily Siaya and her dad.

They took this Monday night, same window as Dylan's murder.

Wait, the Daniel Siaya, the protest guy?

Yeah, he and Lily were trespassing on Holt Land. They saw something they shouldn't have.

And if what's in this video is what we think it is, it's not just trespassing anymore, it's evidence.

Like, felony level evidence?

Worse, the kind that gets people killed.

Holy shit, what is that?

They all lean closer, eyes wide, faces lit blue by the screen glow. It's the same look Mags and I had once, the one that says this is real now.

Okay, yeah, that's, wow, that's a felony. More than one. We're also on the clock, Minerva Maddox. She's got a podcast up and running about Dylan's murder. Uh, Pipes, you okay? Yeah, just like, really hate that woman. Duly noted.

And that's when we see her, standing on the doorstep of loose ends. Minerva fucking Maddox.

Took you long enough.

Minerva, what are you doing here, again?

I need to talk to you.

We're not doing an interview.

It's not about the podcast.

Okay, okay, okay, then what's this all about?

It's about my daughter. She didn't come home last night. She stopped answering texts as of 8 p.m. last night.

What's her name?

Well, she's going by Pipes now, but her name is Piper.

Murder Girls, episode 13. Curiouser and Curiouser. What did you say her name is?

Piper, but she has, for reasons known only to the developing adolescent brain, elected to go by the sober K, Pipes.

Pipes?

Yes, Pipes. Is that a nickname or a warning?

It's a cry for help.

When someone tells you their kid is missing, there's a correct way to react. There's also the way you react when you already know the kid, but can't admit to the person you know them. Just take my word for it.

Right. Why don't we go inside? Talk about this properly?

How gracious of you to invite me into your establishment.

Okay. So when did you last hear from Piper Pipes?

8 p.m. last night. A text. One of those deliberately vague, quintessentially teenaged ones that translates to, I'm alive, don't ask questions.

And you haven't heard from her since? No.

Which is not entirely unusual. Piper enjoys her autonomy. But she failed to return home last night, and she wasn't at school this morning. I've checked with the attendance office.

What about, I don't know, find my phone? Can you track her location?

Oh, Amy. Sweet, naive Amy. My daughter disabled location services approximately three minutes after receiving her first smartphone. I believe her exact words were, surveillance capitalism is a scourge upon individual liberty.

Oh, yeah, that tracks. Uh, I mean, based, no doubt, no doubt.

If she wanted privacy, she earned it. If this becomes an emergency, I'll reassess.

Somewhere deep inside me, something horrible whispered, good mom.

Does she have friends she might be with? Someone she'd crash with if she needed space?

She's selective, which I respect. Piper runs with a small collective of similarly disenfranchised youth. Her closest friend is Valentina Reyes, Val. Her mother Lula owns the diner on Main Street.

Right, we know of it. We know of it. The diner. Lula's. It is called, I believe, which turns out is her name. So.

Holy fuck.

Yes, that's the place.

Amy, we should probably briefly confer.

Oh, yeah, about how to proceed. Strategically, yes, briefly confer. Let's.

That's we do that. Yes. Yeah. Professional detective stuff.

By all means, conference away.

Holy shit.

Holy shit.

Holy shit.

Piper is Minerva's daughter.

Piper.

Pipes.

And she's missing, Amy. She is missing. We are so dead.

Okay. Okay.

Okay.

First things first.

First things first. We need to check if Piper and or the other weirdos are okay. Right? Right. That's logical. That's a nice logical course of action. Any non-terrible person would take that nice logical corpse of action. Corpse of action? Why did you say corpse of action right there, Mags?

Why?

I don't know, Amy. I don't know why I said corpse of action right there. Well, we're jinxed now.

Hope you're happy.

Just fucking send the fucking group text to the fucking group.

On it.

Group text.

Piper's mom is looking for her.

Are you okay? Please say yes.

And sent. We should also have Kathy check Walter's trailer. Maybe they're there? Done. Asked her to check and report back. We saw Piper, all of them this morning at the library. Yeah, around what, 1030? Minerva said she last heard from Piper at 8 p.m. last night. We saw her more than 12 hours after that. So we know she was fine this morning. Do we tell Minerva that? And explain what we were all doing at the library together, Amy?

Shit. Yeah.

Okay, we table that for now. But Mags, if Piper's missing and the others aren't responding.

I know.

The Siyaia's Holtwood video. They're following it up. They could be lost in the original's Disappear You section of the Holtwood.

I know.

What do we do?

Val and Piper are best friends. If anyone knows where they are, it'll be Lula. We start with her. And that's a lead we can follow without revealing we know everything.

Right. Okay, we can do this. We're professionals.

We are amateurs.

The conference concludes. What profound investigative insights have you gleaned?

We think speaking with Lula Reyes is a good next step. She'll know where Val is and...

Val might know where Piper is.

Yes.

Logical.

You haven't tried calling Val yourself?

I don't have her number. Piper guards her social connections like state secrets. I respect her privacy.

Really?

My daughter is entitled to boundaries. I won't violate her trust unless I'm certain this constitutes an actual emergency.

That's actually really cool of you.

Thank you for your approval, Amy. I'll treasure it always.

What about Piper's room? Would there be anything there that might help? A journal, maybe? Or...

Absolutely not. I will not rifle through my daughter's personal effects like some authoritarian nightmare. Not yet, anyway. Uh, Mags?

We should briefly confer?

Briefly confer? Okay. Um...

Right.

Well, off you go.

Did Minerva just respect her daughter's autonomy?

I know. I'm having a hard time reconciling it.

Like, she's still terrible, right? She's still our nemesis? Is anything real right now?

Yes, still our nemesis. But apparently she's a nemesis with boundaries.

Okay, nothing back from the weirdos yet. Also nothing from Aunt Cathy.

They're probably fine. Maybe they're just ignoring their phones. Teenagers do that. Ignore their phones, I mean. Teenagers totally do that.

Or they're lost in the corporate-controlled Murder Woods because we sent them there.

Can you please stop saying that?

Which part? The Murder Woods part or the We're Responsible part?

Both. Either. I'm trying to hold it together out there.

Dude, I know I'm the reckless rambling shoot from the hip Aries with stunning eyes and everything, but...

Stunning? Beautiful, for sure. Intense, maybe. But stunning? I don't... That's just...

Hey! Okay, easy there. Be gentle, Chica. I'm just saying we need to tell Minerva about seeing Piper this morning.

Amy.

She's worried about her kid, Mags. We know Piper was alive and okay 12 hours after Minerva last heard from her. That's... That's something. That matters.

And how do we explain, like, any of this?

I don't know. We'll figure it out. But keeping that from her feels wrong.

Okay. Okay. You're right. We'll tell her. But we need to be strategic about how. Also, and of course when. It's really perilous, Amy. Perilous?

Percarious for sure. Grave, maybe. But perilous, I don't. That's just... We're not telling her, are we?

No. At least not right now. It'll just slow down the search.

Ugh. Fine.

Back so soon?

Is there anything else that comes to mind?

I think you're misunderstanding why I came to you to Ghosts of Theatre Kids Past. I can investigate. What I can't do is trespass, lie to security, or wander into restricted spaces without consequences. You two can. And people rarely stop you for whatever contrived reason I have as of yet been unable to uncover.

Um, sure, but...

Let me make this clear to you two persistent malfunctions. I didn't come to you because you're good at this. I came to you because you're already compromised. You're already involved, already noticed, already inconvenient. If someone gets upset, it won't be news. It'll just be you.

Wow, that was somehow meaner than helpful.

Definitely stings a bit.

It's an assessment. So in case I haven't spelled this out enough for you to melting Bella Swan flavored ice cream cones...

Oh no, I really think you have. She's executing a one-person pylon.

I don't need detectives, sleuths, cursed Tumblr fanfic Mary Sue's come to life, or whatever you are in this current sad incarnation. I need people who will open the wrong door and then keep going.

Yeah, that tracks.

Okay, well, you know, regardless, is there anything else?

Come to think of it now, huh?

What is it?

Well, I didn't think much of it, and it's probably not something, but it's definitely not nothing.

Okay, say more.

Eagles Creek, the Nausicaa. She asked me a few questions about them yesterday. She claimed it was for some school project.

What questions?

If you're working on a school project about land use, who do you even talk to? That was the first one. Then it was, is it rude for non-Nausicaa people to just show up at the council hall? Then, is there an office, or do you just stand around until someone notices you? She asked it like she was trying very hard not to be disrespectful, which frankly is how I knew she was serious. I told her the council hall isn't a tourist attraction and that land use is usually code for trouble. She rolled her eyes. Teenagers believe bureaucracy is optional if you're earnest enough. I suppose she could have gone there to ask questions, to do it the right way. That's what she said she wanted to do. She didn't ask about permission. She asked about protocol. Those are very different instincts.

Right then.

Well.

Yep, yep, yep.

Should you briefly confer?

Only briefly, of course.

So sorry.

Okay, so maybe they went to Eagles Creek?

Do you think they're just following up with Daniel?

I'll text him. Lily, too.

Maybe just fucking text Eleanor while you're at it. Why don't you?

Hey.

She definitely knows we're being weird. Minerva, I mean.

No way.

You think?

She's not pushing, though, because Worried Mom. Still nothing from the Weirdos, or Kathy. This is bad. This is really bad.

We don't know that yet.

Mags, it's been hours since we saw them. If they went to the Holtwood...

Then we'll find them. Let's go to Lula's. We'll get whatever information we can and go from there.

You know what the worst part is? Like, aside from the potential teenage death part?

What?

Minerva's actually being kind of reasonable about her kid, and it's making it really hard to hate her.

I know. It's deeply uncomfortable.

Like, she's still condescending and insufferable, but...

But she respects her daughter's autonomy and refuses to invade her privacy, which is genuinely admirable parenting.

I hate that we're complimenting her right now.

Me too.

Okay, let's go to Lula's.

So, Minerva, we have conferred briefly. And we have agreed. As we mentioned, we think the best first move is to head to the diner and speak with Lula.

Agreed. Let's go.

Great. My car's parked right out.

Absolutely not.

What?

I will not be riding in that vehicular atrocity you call transportation. Hey, the Yaris is... A rolling probable cause stop. A four-wheeled cry for help. No, thank you. I wouldn't be able to dry clean the smell of cheap weed and hot dogs out of my soul.

It hurts because it's so specific.

Maybe fucking also because it's fucking accurate.

Friendly fire, dude.

Also, I'm willing to overlook many things. The constant scurrying into the back room, the whispered panic conferences, the obvious paranoia, the fact that you two have clearly been hitting the slopes this entire conversation.

I'm sorry, hitting the what now?

You want to do cocaine? You do you. Consenting adults, free country. I'm not here to judge. God bless. But I do draw the line at riding shotgun with a couple of rampant snowblowers.

We were just briefly conferring.

Oh, whatever. I've called us a ride.

Ride? What ride?

Meet you outside, cha chas.

If you're wondering what it feels like to team up with your arch nemesis to find her missing kid, who you actually already and secretly know, and unintentionally but absolutely put in mortal danger, it feels like swallowing a lit cigarette. If that lit cigarette was making intense eye contact the entire time.

The ride Minerva summoned was not, as it turned out, a car. It was a Progress E-Rickshaw, Avalon Fall's aggressively optimistic experiment in sustainable transit. Pedal-operated, vinyl bench seats, an ad-wrap about the future of local transportation, flapping gently in the autumn breeze. Papyrus font logo. Amy looked personally offended.

This feels like a personal attack.

Get over yourself. It's efficient, carbon neutral, locally operated.

It's a golf cart with delusions of grandeur.

I'm also an early investor, so do watch the tone.

Of course you are.

Miles had warned me about progress. Terrible data security, he'd said. And yes, almost immediately, my data had gotten compromised. There was a small petty part of me that wanted to mention this to Minerva, just casually drop it into conversation. Watch her face twitch. But her kid was missing, and maybe, just maybe, now wasn't the time to discuss data breaches. So you're just going to sit in the middle?

Of course. I'm not some supporting character in your little narrative.

All right, folks, I'm Trevor, your Rick Shaw Wrangler. Lula's Diner, Main Street. Should be about eight minutes with current traffic patterns. Perfect.

Thank you.

So, Marguerite, how long have you been back in Avalon Falls?

Oh, since Monday, so I guess four days now.

Quite a hectic four days for you, hmm? And you, Amy, you've been here the whole time, haven't you?

I mean, you know that. You've seen me in town.

Ah, that's right. You scowl at me, adorably on brand. Does this town still think it owns you, or have people learned to give you space emotionally, if not legally?

I mean, it's complicated.

Do you think people here remember facts, or just the version of the story that makes them most comfortable?

That's a really specific question.

Just curious.

Small towns have their patterns.

This sounded like small talk. It felt like a deposition.

People remember stories. Facts don't last long in that environment.

Who have you been spending time with since you've been back?

Oh, you know, Amy obviously and lots of people. All kinds of...

She's been at the shop a lot, settling Dee Dee's estate.

Right. Yes, estate things. Very boring. Lots of paperwork. Nothing interesting happening at all.

I was talking too much. I knew I was talking too much, but the silence was worse, so I kept going. Oh, Miles works here, right? I mean, not here, not on this rickshaw. Miles works for Progress? Come on, Mags.

Holy fuck.

Miles. Yeah, man, I know Miles. Great kid. Super smart.

Cool. That's, yeah, cool.

Oh yeah, I see him constantly. Not just out here on these streets, but just around. That whole little squad, crew, startup, I call them Stranger Things. Nice. Honestly, I think they're building something, like an app or a documentary or a podcast about how the town is secretly evil. Oh yeah? Yeah, one of the girls is fierce as hell. Real intense eye contact. Like she's already mad at you for something you haven't done yet. And another one, quieter, but you can tell she's watching, you know? Taking it all in. And that van, bro, that van is everywhere. I'll be like, oh cool, no van today. And boom, van. White one, kind of beat up. I think it belongs to one of their parents or something.

This was no longer steerable. This was a guided tour straight through our worst case scenario.

Yeah, I'm always running into them. I do the rickshaw thing, but I also drive for a couple of delivery apps, do some night security at the boardwalk, dog sitting on weekends. Got a little crypto thing on the side, like crypto YouTube channel. I talk about crypto on the channel, my opinions and such about crypto.

Side hustles.

Yeah, got to have multiple income streams, you know.

Side hustle is a euphemism. It's capitalism rebranding instability as ambition. You're not an entrepreneur. You're working four jobs because one doesn't pay enough. They've just convinced you to call it a lifestyle choice.

Okay. Yeah, I guess that's one way to look at it.

It's the only way to look at it.

Trevor saw everything. He noticed patterns. He just didn't know what they meant. Minerva, on the other hand, was assembling a file in real time.

But yeah, those kids, they're always out and about. Sometimes I see them at the library, sometimes down by the boardwalk. Actually, a couple weeks ago, I picked up Miles and that sharp opinion girl near Founders Point super late, like 2 a.m. Oh, I think I wasn't supposed to like say anything about that. My bad.

Where do teenagers go these days when they don't want to be seen?

Oh, man, all over the beach, definitely. Library, boardwalk, Founders Point. Oh, oh, right. There's that abandoned laundry mat on Spruce Street where all the cats and that one possum hang out. But also, like, van, as I mentioned.

What about places with bad reception? Where adults don't watch as closely?

I mean, some kids go up by the Holtwood, which, you know, bad vibes. But kids love bad vibes, am I right?

And there it was. The place we'd been dancing around, the place we knew, we knew, was at the center of all of this.

All right, Lula's Diner, coming right up. Have a great day, folks. And yeah, five stars on the app if you get a chance. No pressure.

Piper doesn't disappear without a reason. She's stubborn. She has a sense of justice that borders on self-destructive. If she's not home, it's because she thinks she's doing something that matters, which means someone should have stopped her. And didn't, shall we?

Yeah, yeah.

Yes.

Kathy texted back. No sign of Walter or any of the others. His van hasn't been there all day.

Okay, let's just see what Lula has to say and go from there. We understood fully now that this wasn't theoretical. This wasn't an abstract problem we could solve from a safe distance. We were in deeper than we'd admitted, to Minerva, to each other, and especially to ourselves.

Lula's Diner is at that weird pocket between lunch and dinner where time stalls out. Regular's Nursing Coffee, Pie That's Been There Too Long, the kind of place where everyone knows your name, which sounds comforting until you remember that also means they know your business.

Mags, Amy, and Minerva Maddox. Well, that's a sentence I didn't expect to say today.

Lula, good to see you.

What can I get you three? Coffee, pie, the dinner special's not ready yet, but actually we're looking for Val.

Is she here?

Valentina, no, she's not here. Why? What's going on?

Piper didn't come home last night. She wasn't at school this morning. I'm trying to track down her friends, Val included.

Oh, honey, when did you last hear from her? Last night, 8 p.m. Okay, well, Val texted me a couple hours ago, said she was with friends and working on something.

A couple hours ago? Okay, so that's recent, then.

Yeah, maybe around 2.30? It was normal, just a check-in. She knows I worry if I don't hear from her.

Did she mention Piper at all?

No, but those two are joined at the hip. If Val's with friends, Piper's probably one of them.

Okay, that's good, that's really good.

How are you holding up?

I'm upright, for now.

Kids this age, they forget we're back here having heart attacks every time they don't answer their phones.

Wait, are you talking about Val?

Cricket, hi. Yeah, why?

I saw her today. Maybe three hours ago? Getting into that white van with her crew. You know the one that older guy with the mustache drives them around in?

I'm sorry, did you just say a white van and a middle-aged man with a mustache?

Oh my god.

No, no, that's Walter. He's their friend. He's... Look, I don't fully understand their dynamic either, but I've met him. He's harmless. A little odd, maybe, but Val trusts him, and I trust Val's instincts.

Fine. All right.

They were headed south on Maine. Looked like they were in a hurry, but not like panicked or anything, just purposeful.

I have a photo. Was she one of them? Can you confirm?

And there it was, the first real crack in her armor. Minerva Maddox, who could eviscerate you with a sentence, who walked through life like she owned every room, stood in Lula's diner, holding a photo of her daughter with a hand that wouldn't stay still.

Yep, that's her.

The hair made it easy. Love that look. Thank you.

She said thank you like she was steadying herself. Like those two words were the only thing keeping her upright.

So they were together as of three hours ago. That's good.

That's...

So, Daniel says they were at Eagles Creek 30 minutes ago. They came through the council hall earlier. Thought I was helping by sending them elsewhere. In person will make more sense. Please come to council hall. Just, you know, more serious and, well, grumpy.

30 minutes ago?

Okay, so we go there next. Daniel can tell us where they went.

I saw them earlier too.

Everyone turns. Kenzie sits alone at a corner table with a slice of strawberry pie fork-poised mid-bite. Of course, of course Kenzie was here. The universe's little way of reminding me that normalcy is a lie. Whoa, uh, hey Kenzie, when did you see them?

Maybe four hours ago? I was walking to work. They were coming out of that little camping shop on Spruce Street. The one that smells like canvas in regret.

Wait, speaking of the otter, shouldn't you be there right now working?

Closed. Jake sent me home early, locked the doors, said he needed time. Places close when the weight gets too heavy. People, too.

I wanted to ask more about Jake, about the otter, about what she meant, but Minerva was already leaning forward, and I knew we didn't have time for Kenzie's riddles right now.

What were they carrying? Could you see?

Bags, couple of them, camping gear, prolly. Couldn't see exactly what, but I heard them a-talking.

About what?

They were talking about losing Lyd. Then the boy said they didn't need it. Not for the signal. They're looking for something that wants to be found. Something secret. And the past? It don't stay buried. It just waits.

Watchin. Hmm.

Waits for what?

For someone to dig it back up. Ah, strawberry pie. How are you not more popular? Oh, well, more for me.

Kenzie wasn't a clue dump. She was a vibe amplifier with receipts. And right now, the vibe was, you're running out of time.

Oh, hang on, that's Valentina.

It's Walter.

Piper.

What does it say?

Failed to load message content.

Same here.

Wait, there's a location ping, some kind of RFID tag.

Looks like it's loading. Hang on.

For half a second, it worked. A map opened. Too general, too vague, but there. A dot flickered on the screen. A radius appeared around it, pulsing. Where are they?

I can't tell. It's not specific enough.

Says, signal unavailable, last known location, unable to update.

Of course.

But we got something. That means their phones are on, or they have some kind of tracker, or...

And we know they were at Eagles Creek 30 minutes ago. Daniel will know where they went from there.

Yes.

Wonderful. A mystery finally makes sense.

I hated that the glitch felt like momentum. I hated that my brain went, ooh, a clue, while Minerva's went, my daughter is gone.

Val always answers my texts. Always.

We're going to find them. They just went for a hike. We'll get Val to call you as soon as we do.

Lula was worried. Minerva was worried. These were adults, mothers, who understood that teenagers going dark wasn't always harmless. That silence could mean danger. And I thought about Jonathan and Dee Dee, about how Mags and I used to disappear for hours when we were younger than the weirdos. Investigating, trespassing, putting ourselves in situations that could have gone so wrong. And the adults around us, our parents, our guardians, they never seemed worried. Not really. Not like this. Maybe they should have been.

We're going to Eagles Creek. Now.

My car is closest. Unless you want to spend 400 bucks on a progress rickshaw and get there tomorrow.

Fine. Your vehicular tragedy it is.

We left Lula's with more questions than answers. The weirdos were together. Probably. They'd been to Eagles Creek. Recently. They'd bought camping gear and were talking about signals and losing light. And now they were somewhere with no cell service, sending glitchy half messages into the void. Every new clue should have closed the circle. Every new detail should have made things clearer. Instead, it just made everything feel worse.

The ride to Eagles Creek is tense, but not in the way I expected. Minerva's quiet, pensive, staring out the window at the passing trees like they might spell out answers. Amy tries twice to draw her out. Small jabs, little openings for Minerva to unleash one of her trademark eviscerations. But the barbs don't land. Minerva's responses are half-hearted at best. Distracted.

So Minerva, you gonna tell me the Yaris is growing on you? I saw you adjust the seat. That's practically an endorsement.

It's serviceable.

Oh, serviceable. I think we're bonding.

I get it. I do. Her kid is missing, and we're chasing breadcrumbs through a town that doesn't give straight answers. But there's this other thing happening in my head. This loop I can't stop playing. Minerva Maddox wrote a best-selling book about our childhood without really asking permission. She turned our trauma into merchandise. T-shirts. Mugs. A fucking true-crime empire built on some of the worst years of our lives. And when people called her out, she doubled down. No apology. No acknowledgement. Just, this is journalism. This is storytelling. This is the public's right to know. Amy thinks it was malicious. I don't. I think Minerva genuinely believed she was doing something important. But that almost makes it worse. Because she still won't admit she hurt us. And I know that I'm replaying this old resentment because it's easier than facing what's happening now. Anger is a shield. If Minerva stays the villain, I don't have to look too closely at my own role in putting Piper anywhere near danger. If I can keep blaming her for what she did to us years ago, I don't have to confront what we might be doing to her daughter right now.

Alright, we're here.

Eagles Creek Council Hall sits on Niseka land, and it feels deliberate in a way most buildings don't. Clean lines, modern civic architecture, sparse but meaningful art on the exterior. Carvings, murals, symbols I don't fully understand but know enough not to ask about. The signage is minimal, functional. It's not there to explain itself to outsiders. The whole place carries this quiet sense of jurisdiction, of long memory. It's not hostile. No one's glaring at us or making us feel unwelcome. But it's clear. Visitors are welcome without being centered. This is their space, their rules, their boundaries. And you feel it in your bones. Voices aren't raised here. Protocols matter. The air itself seems to be watching, calm and patient and purposeful.

Amy, Marguerite.

Daniel clocks Minerva. His posture shifts, still polite but more restrained.

Ma'am.

Minerva Maddox.

I know who you are.

Daniel's holding a coffee cup. It's full. Cold, probably. He looks like someone who intended to leave an hour ago and couldn't quite make himself do it.

Thanks for meeting us.

The kids came through earlier with that guy with the mustache about an hour and a half ago, not asking me directly, asking around, trying to be respectful about it, which that alone concerned me.

Why would being respectful concern you?

Because kids asking those kinds of questions usually don't understand what they're circling. And once questions like that start echoing, people start noticing.

What kinds of questions?

What's allowed? Who to talk to? Where boundaries are? They were asking about the Holtwood. And? And I redirected them. Thought I was doing them a favor.

Where did you send them?

Fern River Monitoring Station. About ten minutes from here, public land, not Holtwood. It's a small environmental site. Water quality sampling, flow rate monitoring, erosion tracking. Sometimes students do projects there.

Why send them there?

If you're looking at environmental damage, you don't start at the source. You start downstream where there's real data. Documented readings. I told them there'd be anomalies there if anything's bleeding out from Holtwood. The fern empties into the sound there.

That makes sense.

I also mentioned there's an old threshold site nearby. Legacy contamination. Nothing active. Just context for why the readings might be messy. And before you ask, no, it's not Holtwood. It's public land. Boring. Bureaucratic.

Threshold. The word alone would be like catnip to the weirdos. Daniel might as well have handed them a treasure map with a big red X.

Um, Daniel, we should probably briefly confer with you. About the, uh, geography.

Sure.

More conferring.

Just, we need to clarify some details about the area. Local knowledge stuff. We'll be quick.

Threshold. You mentioned threshold.

Yeah. Why?

Those kids know about threshold. They've been digging into corporate stuff, environmental crimes, the originals.

Shit.

Is the site still active?

It shouldn't be, but I've seen activity there. Recent. It's not as dangerous as the Holtwood, but it's definitely not somewhere kids should be poking around.

They would have gone there. The second you mentioned it, that's where they'd go.

How far is it from the monitoring station?

Close. Maybe a quarter mile through the woods. If they were looking, they'd find it.

Minerva can't know about threshold, the originals, any of it. It's...

Dangerous. Yeah, I get it. It's shady. Corporate. The kind of place where questions don't get answered. They get noticed. When was the last time you heard from them?

Not since this morning. And we got these weird failed texts about an hour ago and some location pings that didn't load.

Signals bad out there, especially near the threshold site. Great. If they went where I think they went, daylight matters. We need to move now.

Are we done with the geography lesson?

Yes. Daniel's going to lead us to the monitoring station. It's the most logical place to start.

Seems like you three discussed something a lot more serious than directions.

Just clarifying the terrain. It's easy to get turned around out there if you don't know the area.

She doesn't believe us, but she's filing it away for later, which is almost worse.

I'll come with you. Help lead the way.

That's not necessary.

Yes, it is. I sent them there. If something happened, that's on me. I underestimated them. They asked better questions than I expected. They were more prepared than I liked. I thought I was buying them time. I thought they'd poke around, get bored, go home.

You were trying to protect them.

Yeah. Great job. I did.

Are they in danger? Mr. Siaya, are my daughter and her friends in danger?

The area is isolated. Signals unreliable, and it's getting dark. So, yes. Potentially. You can follow me. I know the access roads. We'll get there faster. Then let's go.

The trail didn't stop where Daniel sent them. It accelerated. And now we were racing against daylight, against whatever margin of safety Daniel thought existed. When he pointed three curious teenagers and Walter toward a place he didn't call dangerous. Because he couldn't. Not in front of Minerva. We moved now before whatever was left of that safety disappeared entirely.

The drive is mostly silent and strained, the kind where silence feels louder than talking. Mags tries once to lighten the mood with some observation about the trees. Minerva stares out the window. We give up. There, Walter's white van, parked like it belonged there, like this was normal, locked.

I don't see anything weird, no bags left behind, no-

No signs of struggle or panic or anything like that.

She didn't even want me to know where she was going.

Minerva Maddox doesn't do messy. This was as close as she got.

She hates me. Did you know that? My own daughter.

Uh, this is- this is-

She told me once, I hate that woman. Not I hate you, that woman. Like I'm just some obstacle she has to navigate.

Minerva.

And maybe she's right. Maybe I deserve it. I work too much. I'm too critical. I turned our lives into content without asking if she wanted to be part of the story. I wrote a book, made my dream a reality, and somehow made my daughter collateral damage in the process.

So this is weird, right? Like, sure, hearing Minerva actually say this stuff out loud is nice, I guess. Growth, healing, love that for her. But also, and of course, fuck man, come on. Because we don't get to talk about our version of this. Not the book, not the dream, not what it did to us. We just get to stand here and nod while she catches up.

Ugh, whatever.

Hey, we're going to find her. She's, they're smart kids. They're together. That counts for something.

Does it?

Yes, it does.

Right. The monitoring station.

Let's check there.

The monitoring station was quiet, functional, unloved, small building, equipment sheds, a few metal grates over drainage points. Everything looked untouched, quiet.

Locked. Done for the day, I guess. Doesn't look like anyone's been inside.

No signs of them here.

Maybe we should split up, cover more ground?

Yes. Yeah, good idea. You and I can check the perimeter toward the north side into the treeline.

Daniel, maybe you and Minerva can search around the station, see if there's any sign they came through here?

Right. Great. I guess we can also take a look down by the water back there.

Why does this feel like you're trying to get rid of me again?

We're not.

We're just being efficient.

Covering ground.

Very strategic.

Sure.

We'll check in every few minutes. Yell if you find anything.

We didn't have to go far before the monitoring station disappeared behind us, swallowed by Douglas furs and that particular Pacific Northwest gloom that makes 4 p.m. feel like twilight.

Amy, look. Footprints. A lot of them.

The ground was soft, muddy, classic PNW terrain, and the prints were fresh. Multiple sizes, multiple treads, four distinct sets, maybe five if you counted the overlaps. These are definitely fresh.

They're heading toward threshold?

Yeah. We followed the prints through the underbrush, stepping over roots and ducking under low branches. The further we went, the more I felt that familiar dread settling in. The kind that says you're about to confirm something you already know, but desperately hoped wasn't true. Oh no.

Shit.

Chain link fence, barbed wire, mud halfway up, the unmistakable evidence of teenagers doing something incredibly stupid.

There, on the barbed wire.

Fabric. Looks like flannel. They threw a shirt over it to climb.

Well, yeah, they went in.

We have to go after them.

Amy.

They're in there because of us, Mags. Because we got them involved in this. Because we asked them to dig into corporate conspiracies and environmental crimes and...

I know. I know that. But climbing that fence means trespassing on threshold property, which...

Which we've done before.

And it almost got us killed. And it got Lily arrested and...

So what? We just leave them in there?

No. I'm not saying that. I'm saying... I'm saying we keep putting people in danger. The Weirdos, Minerva, Daniel. And we keep lying about it. And I don't know how much longer we can keep doing this before someone gets seriously hurt.

Mags.

We lied to Minerva. Her daughter is missing, and we know more than we're telling her, and we're lying.

Ugh.

Shit.

I know.

We got Daniel involved, and now he's out here babysitting our nemesis while we sneak off to find evidence that her kid trespassed on corporate property. Trespassing to follow a lead that we gave her.

I know.

We can't climb the fence, not without knowing what we're walking into. Let's follow it toward the water, see if there's another way in, or some other sign that tells us where they went.

Okay. Yeah.

Good plan.

We moved along the perimeter, staying close to the fence. The ground sloped down gradually, and I could hear water somewhere ahead. The waves of talakwa sound lapping against the shore.

Amy, here.

More footprints?

Yeah, but these are different. More erratic. Like, they were running.

The turbulent prints led toward the water, away from the threshold site. Not a leisurely walk, a scramble. Let's go. The trees gave way to water, and there, maybe 50 feet away, standing near a small emergency equipment shed. Daniel and Minerva.

The prints lead right to them.

There you are.

Find anything? Footprints leading here. What about you?

The emergency boat that's kept here. It's gone. Lock's been cut. Oars are missing. And the footprints lead right to where it would have been tied up.

Where would they go in a boat from here?

My eyes had already scanned to the obvious answer. And there it was, looming in the fog. That all-too-familiar shape rising out of Tlacwa Sound.

Oh, no.

Osprey Island.

Well, shit.

There it was, the place where things don't come back the same. We were out of time, out of lies, out of safe places to stand. Across the water, the fog swallowed Osprey Island whole. And that felt worse than seeing it clearly.

Amy's plan was simple, which should have been my first warning sign. Get Claire Nichols to take us to Osprey Island on her retirement boat, The Seahorse. Find the kids, bring them home. Easy. Except nothing involving Osprey Island has ever been easy. It was either Claire or find someone outside our trust circle to ferry us across Tlaquas Sound, which, given everything we were trying to keep quiet, wasn't exactly ideal.

Okay, here it is, Chateau Claire.

Daniel bowed out back at the monitoring station. Crossing the water wouldn't help. It would only turn a bad situation into an official one. An official never saves kids. It just explains afterward why nobody did. Minerva's been silent since we left the shoreline. Just this dark presence in the backseat staring out the window. She took one call, something about her podcast. But even then, her voice sounded rehearsed, like she was reading lines she no longer believed.

Claire's gonna love this. Definitely.

Oh, absolutely. Impromptu rescue missions are her favorite.

This is impressive. And you're saying she was a police officer?

Dude, you interviewed her a million times for your book. Come on.

Doesn't change how impressive this place is.

You can't argue with how impressive it is. Claire's house sits on Osprey Point. Quiet, deliberate, with a clear view of the sound. Modest, well-kept, and expensive in ways that didn't advertise themselves.

Okay, showtime.

Amy Marguerite and Minerva Maddox? What the hell is this? Some kind of true-crime crossover episode?

Hey, Claire Bear? So, funny story?

No, absolutely not. Whatever you're about to ask me, the answer is hell no.

You don't even know what I'm going to...

You show up unannounced, again, with no heads up, no warning, dragging along someone who literally wrote a best-selling book about your childhood trauma, all covered in mud and woodchips like a raccoon.

Well, admittedly, we did have a quick little sojan into the woods, actually.

So what? You expect me to just drop everything and help with whatever harebrained scheme you've cooked up this time?

Yes?

Amy.

We need you to take us to Osprey Island on the seahorse.

Excuse me?

I know, I know, but hear me out. How awesome would it be if the maiden voyage of the seahorse was the return to Osprey Island? Huh? Huh? Full circle. Poetic. Cinematic, even.

A hard pass.

Claire.

Absolutely not. That boat is for tropical sunset cruises and maybe some light fishing. Not for whatever nonsense you're about to drag me into.

Claire. Minerva's daughter Piper and her friends went out there. Their van is abandoned at the monitoring station. An emergency boat is missing. The trail leads to the island.

Your kid is on Osprey Island?

It appears so. Yes.

And you two are involved in this how exactly?

I mean, you know, we're just a concerned third party.

Officer Nichols. I realize this is an imposition, but my daughter is out there, and I... I don't know what else to do.

How old is she? Fifteen.

And she went out there with friends?

Four of them total. They stole a boat from the monitoring station.

I'm getting too old for this shit.

Oh, my God. You said it. You said it.

Uh, is that a yes?

Do not make me regret this.

Come on, Claire Bear. We both know I can make no such promises.

Give me ten minutes to grab gear, then we'll head to the docks. We'll need flashlights, first-aid kit, flares.

Thank you, Officer Nichols. Claire.

Yeah, yeah, don't thank me yet.

Minerva, we should briefly confer. Right, Mags?

Uh, right, right. Briefly confer.

Briefly confer?

With me?

Well, this is highly irregular.

So Minerva, you know you can't come, right?

Excuse me?

Minerva, if you come to the island, this becomes something else, something bigger, more complicated.

You said it yourself back at Loose Ends. You came to us because we're already compromised, already inconvenient, already a problem. Which, you know, sounded kind of mean at the time, but now I totally get it.

We open the wrong door and keep going. That's what you said.

That was before...

It's your daughter. We get it. But the logic still holds. If you show up on Osprey Island with us and things spin out, people will ask questions. There will be a story. Press attention.

If we go alone, it's just us being reckless idiots. Again, no one will be surprised.

You're asking me to trust you with my daughter's safety.

Yeah, yeah, we are.

If I come, this becomes a story. If I don't, maybe it stays a rescue. Fine, but you bring her back, both of you, or I swear to God.

We will.

We promise.

I don't believe you, but I believe you're competent enough to try.

All right, let's go get these kids before I change my mind.

A decision had been made. The universe, in its infinite wisdom and spite, had accepted it. We were going back, whether we wanted to or not, less innocent, much more complicit.

The seahorse cuts through Tilakwa Sound, black water churning in its wake, the fog's rolled in thick, everything beyond 20 feet just dissolves. Mags stands at the rail, staring out at nothing. She's been quiet since we left the dock, stoic, unreadable, lost somewhere I can't follow. And that's new, or maybe it's old. Either way, it's the first time since I woke up in loose ends that I've looked at her and felt like I'm seeing a stranger. I get it, though. It's the island. Our history there. The weight of what happened and what didn't happen, and everything in between. Osprey Island has a history that predates us by centuries. The Nausicaa considered it sacred, spiritually significant in ways I don't fully understand, and probably never will. It's technically still their land, but they left it alone, off limits, untouched. A place where the boundary between worlds felt thin. Of course, that didn't stop anyone. Bootleggers during Prohibition, smugglers, a debunked serial killer legend that still gets whispered around campfires. And then there was us. Ten years ago, Mags and I, two kids with too much curiosity and not enough supervision, uncovered a drug smuggling operation using the island as a staging ground. It went further than that, deeper than we understood. But everything bent around the island, and our time there left marks. We were twelve. We almost died. The town never let us forget it, and neither of us ever wanted to go back. But here we are, going back.

How much further?

Maybe ten minutes? Hard to tell. You understand that just like you, I can't see through fog, right?

Huh, right.

Yes, yeah.

Should have stayed home. Was gonna have a nice dry rubbed ribeye. Start the new season of Reacher and everything.

Where's the fun in that?

Exactly. Fun. That's what I'm missing. Fun.

Claire brought her gun. I noticed when she was loading gear onto the boat, saw the way she checked it, methodical and practiced, before tucking it under her jacket. She didn't say anything about it. Didn't need to. The island has a reputation, and Claire's not the type to take chances. I keep thinking about Minerva. We left her at the docks in town, standing on the pier as the seahorse pulled away, watching us disappear into the fog. She looked small, alone. And then an e-rickshaw pulled up, and she climbed in without looking back. Just left, trusting us, or maybe just out of options. The same docks where Dylan Holt was murdered, where this whole thing started, feels like a lifetime ago.

What do you remember about the island?

Trees, rocks, the ruins of that old dock that was probably from the bootleggers era. Oh, oh, and I think that was the first time you busted out those triple decker peanut butter and jelly sandwiches you came up with. What did you call those?

Triple threats.

Triple threats, yes!

I remember the smell, salt and decay, and something else, something wrong.

We were 12 Mags. Everything felt wrong. Everything was scary.

And now?

Now it still feels wrong. But, you know, at least we're not 12 anymore.

There, dead ahead.

And there it was, rising out of the fog like something conjured from memory. Dark, dense, inevitable. Osprey Island, the place where our childhood ended and something else began. The place we swore we'd never return to. But the thing about promises like that, they're made to be broken. Usually when teenagers are involved.

This is as close as I can get without hitting rocks. You'll have to take the dinghy the rest of the way.

Let's find them and get out. Agreed.

The seahorse slowed, the water went quiet, and Osprey Island stopped being a story. It was real. It was here. We just had to hope we weren't too late.