The Girl with the Red Ribbon

After a revelation that refuses to settle quietly, Mags and Amy regroup—first in silence, then in motion. What begins as an attempt to follow one artist’s erased history leads them out of Avalon Falls and into a place where memory lingers longer than anyone expects.

And just as the pieces begin to align, a voice from the shadows redirects the hunt—away from what was buried, and toward what was poisoned.

Because some stories don’t end where you think they do.

And once the door is opened, there’s no pretending you didn’t hear the knock.

Transcript

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Murder Girls is created, written and produced by Eternal Teenager. Content warning, this episode contains discussions of murder, references to past trauma, institutional abuse, and environmental harm. It includes references to substance use, threatening situations, and depictions of a character experiencing hallucinations. Listener discretion is advised.

Previously on Murder Girls. What about the Driftwood School? The artists? You ever heard of them? A girl with the red ribbon.

What?

Wasn't she a painter?

Who do you mean?

I don't... I can't remember. Someone mentioned her.

Or maybe I dreamt it.

Okay, so the Calhounes.

The Calhounes are our county's favorite ghost story. They were one of the older families in the county.

Quite powerful actually, but they fell during the Great Depression.

The Calhounes weren't just some rich family that got wiped out.

They were one of them, one of the originals. The Calhounes weren't erased by strangers. They were erased by family. And that's when I see it. A mural painted directly on to the plaster. There, in the corner.

Sculptures. Bronze, I think.

Two figures. A man and a woman.

Oh, hey, there's something carved underneath.

Says Dorothy Calhoun.

Have you heard of the Driftwood School?

Communal movement. It burned bright, and after that, the movement turns into more ghost stories. Anyone still alive?

Clement Dryer. Lives in Holloway now, I believe. Then I noticed it. The flash of color. She's near the center. Bella Harper. Not posing. Not smiling. A long and wide red ribbon tied in her hair, like it was an afterthought she never bothered to remove. Anson Calhoun didn't remember much, but he remembered that.

The Girl with the Red Ribbon.

Bella had problems. That's the word we used back then.

Manic, depressive, unstable. She was brilliant, yes. But brilliance doesn't protect you if people decide you're unwell.

Yeah, just random employee IDs. Pine Ridge, Oakmont, Riverside, all mental health facilities. 1960s through early 80s. Wait, wait, wait. This one's got a red mark. Vernon Crocker, Night Shift Charge Aid, Pine Ridge Psychiatric Center.

Last box. Oh, okay. Pine Ridge Psychiatric Center. Same place our lanyard friend worked. These are patient files. Huh, no red marks.

Maybe the bottom?

Wait, he didn't mark it because it's gone. What? Look, the files are all in order. File 1582, 1583, then 1585.

Dylan took it.

Because it was too important to leave behind. Let's see here. Whoa. Oh, oh my, oh my god.

Mags? Hey, what, what is it?

It's, it's your patient ID number. It, it has the CIS tag. Amy, you're, you're a Calhoun.

Murder Girls, episode 20, The Girl with the Red Ribbon.

Amy?

Yeah, hey, yeah, I'm good. Great even, yeah. People are saying I'm the greatest I've ever been.

Amy.

So, that's not real, right? Like, that's a, this isn't real, right?

We don't have to solve it right now.

No, I know, I just, I don't, do I look, how do I look?

You look like someone trying to look like someone standing in a pharmacy.

Fuck, man, bad start. I was trying to look like someone completely different than that. Uh, I don't know. Maybe I should grab some perfume samples. Maybe that will make it all go away.

That's a fundamentally flawed perspective.

Uh, blah, whew. Okay, okay, it's fine. This is fine. I'm fine. Amy? Ah, yes, I'm Amy. All set. Same dosage.

No changes. Any questions?

Uh, nope, no questions. Very pill-shaped pills. Love that for me. And are they pink? Aw, so, so cute.

And the adjuncts? I printed the options. Nothing you need to start today. Just, you know, if things spike. That's great. Thank you. Okay, then. See you in a month.

Uh, thanks again, doc.

Of course. Take care of yourself, Amy.

Always fine. What? I'll be fine. I mean, I will be. I'll be, I'll crush it. You'll see.

Great.

Good to hear.

Bye. We are going now.

Oh, dear. Love a light afternoon apocalypse. So, hypothetically, if someone were a secret heir to a cursed legacy...

No hypotheticals.

Right.

Just one foot after the other.

I can do that.

You're gonna kill it. Let's go home.

Lucens has always been good at holding things. Objects, stories, other people's fragments, people who don't know where to put themselves yet. Guess I didn't realize I'd walked in as one of the all of the above category.

Hey, don't worry, those aren't going to explode.

I just, I don't know where they go.

Counter's good, nightstand if you want them close. Bathroom if you want to pretend they're not a thing yet.

Counter feels honest.

There you go, coffee?

Always. You know, I keep replaying it, like maybe if I run it back enough times, I'll hear the part where it makes sense.

You won't.

I know it's not as big a deal as it feels, but it just has that thing where it feels like a big deal.

I get that.

But I mean, Danielle Chase and her family, they don't even know about any of this. They're just living, nothing shifted, no secret weight dropped on their heads.

Right.

And Anson is a Calhoun by name, and he's living his best life right now. Fuck, I want that life.

Okay, well, you know, that's a bit of a, like, that's not really...

Okay, okay, you know what I mean?

Sure.

I want that, like, the part where this doesn't rearrange your entire sense of self.

Yeah, that part's underrated.

And this all just feels heavy, maybe because we're learning what happened to them, the mural, the pin, all of it. And now I'm one of them.

You don't have to justify how it feels, just feel how it feels.

Right. Well, feels bad, man.

I can only imagine.

Coffee is great, thank you. It's not from Jonathan's side, can't be.

Makes sense.

He moved here from Austin. The O'Connels have been in Texas for forever. No Avalon Falls nonsense, no cursed lineages, just normal disappointments.

The dream.

Which means it's through my mom. She's the Calhoun.

Obviously not by name.

No, she's Mary Wilson. Honestly, that's really all I know about her.

You never looked for her online, anything like that?

I mean, a little. Mostly locally, for more of a historic overview. There's not much, really. Any of that would have been from the world before the internet, so it's...

Her name mostly on school or public records?

Yeah, and also, it feels like she didn't want anyone to look. So I didn't. Obviously part of that is because she left me, and yeah, okay, fuck her, but also I just didn't want to live in that. When Jonathan died, finding out what really happened to the parent who stayed felt more important.

Do you remember anything about her?

I don't remember her, not really. Sometimes it feels like I'm about to, like there's something there, but then I realized I'd be lying to myself if I called it a memory. What I actually have is the idea of a person shaped by other people's complicated feelings they never fully expressed, none of them mine.

What did Jonathan tell you about her?

He didn't, not in a we don't speak of this way, more like she was already gone by the time I learned how to ask questions.

That's weird. But yeah, when we were kids, I remember it wasn't something anyone talked about.

At the time, it was just us, our life, me and my dad. There was a missing part, but it didn't feel urgent. Now it feels like a really loud silence, like he was waiting for me to get older, and we just ran out of time.

My parents didn't bring it up. Dee Dee didn't. You and I didn't. I didn't know how to ask. You never talked about it, and you seemed fine.

There weren't even photos, no papers. He didn't keep the marriage certificate? Nothing. It was like she was erased, but not angrily, not cruelly. Just quiet, like this soft and fuzzy cover up.

Did you ever ask Dee Dee?

Yeah, a few years ago, she didn't say much.

Well, that's a fucking red flag right there.

I know. She gave me facts without context, dates, vibes, a very careful shrug.

More screaming negative space.

Exactly. The Calhouns were originals.

Yes, but you don't need to wear that.

Good, cause I don't want that. I don't want the mythology. I don't want to be folded into the town's fog and ghost haunted house narrative.

You're not obligated to play the role.

Avalon Falls doesn't really care about consent.

True, but this isn't going to suddenly change everything. We're not going to drop this into Minerva's feed and watch the town flip overnight. There's no redemption arc, no clean reset, no dramatic apology tour. That's not how Avalon Falls works. Hell, that's not how America works.

Dark, but fair.

This is like one of those ancestry searches. Instead of being related to Joan of Arc, you're related to a cursed Pacific Northwestern elite family.

The town loves inheritance. It just never asks what it costs to carry. So if she was a Calhoun, my mom, if that's why she disappeared, it feels like the town did this to me before I was old enough to notice.

It doesn't get to keep doing it.

I don't even know what I'm allowed to be angry about.

Everything, nothing, a little, a lot. You don't need to optimize your feelings for fairness.

I don't know what I'd do without you.

You don't have to find out. And same.

Aw, thanks sweetie, honey, honey.

Okay, okay, I'm gonna go get food before we both forget eating is a survival mechanism.

Lula's?

Always.

I would like the Double Smash Burger, please. Falls style. And when I say double smash, I mean double falls style as well.

So that means two eggs as well as two patties. Yeah, obviously. But it also means double sides and double toppings. That's the Amy style, double falls style, smash secret style, secret style.

Yes. Oh man, you get me. You really do. Hey, Mags, thank you.

Anytime doesn't even cover it.

When she leaves, the quiet doesn't feel like punishment. It feels fragile, temporary, like it's trying to be kind.

You look like you're trying very hard not to fall apart.

I've had practice.

You're better at it now. Welcome to being an adult.

I don't know anything about her.

I know.

You never talked about her.

I don't think I knew how.

Was she kind?

I don't know.

I only know what you know.

I can't give you answers. I only have your questions.

Right.

I forgot.

I'm talking to a hallucination of my dead father about the mother I never knew, who you never explained.

I'm sorry.

For what?

That you don't get to be angry at me properly.

It's okay. What about Kathy?

I mean, you've never asked her about your mom before. Must be a reason, right?

Yeah. She's well-meaning.

But?

But has loud opinions.

That are?

Heavily influenced by whichever podcast she listened to last.

Super accurate.

Yes. To her credit, she's never actually said anything about mom.

Probably not an accident.

Because it's not about her?

Bingo. But also, she didn't want to put words in your mouth or mine.

I think... I think I'll be okay.

Glad to hear it, kiddo.

Not because this is fine, but because I'm not alone.

Yeah, that sounds right. Do you need me to go away so you can take that?

Actually, yes. Yes, I do. Sorry.

No need. For the record, I've always been in favor of this.

I know. It's just...

Look, I'll still be around for a bit, and, well, I'm glad means I'll get to see the results.

At least for a little while.

Okay, well, I'll leave you to it.

Uh, Jonathan? Dad? Yeah? I-I'm glad I remember you.

Me too, sweetheart.

Found family doesn't erase what you lost, it just gives you somewhere safe to put it down. Not forever, just long enough to breathe.

Avalon Falls doesn't really do comfort food, not the way people mean it. Lula's is the closest we get, grease-stained paper, food that's hot enough to demand attention, something you can hold while you figure out what you're feeling later. Didi believed in feeding people like it was a moral obligation. Didn't matter if you were sad, sick, angry, or just drifting. You sat, you ate, you survived another hour. Her stovetop mac and cheese with kimchi and gochujang was legendary, not subtle, not polite, perfect. I'm hoping this food run does the same thing, not fixes anything, just keeps Amy upright. This week has been a lot, for her, for both of us, but mostly for her. I keep thinking about what it must feel like when the ground under you suddenly comes with footnotes. And then I notice a quiet, inevitable kind of movement, the kind that only happens when something's already over. The news crews are leaving. Dylan Holt's funeral was the finale. The last clean beat anyone was going to get. After that, it's just wa iting, and waiting doesn't film well. Cheryl?

Hey, Mags, right? Or should I call you Nancy Drew?

Ha, sure. Okay. You know what I mean.

Didn't expect to see you out here.

I could say the same. Cheryl, Channel 7. We crossed paths yesterday. She remembers that we're the Murder Girls, but she doesn't seem to want to use it.

We're packing up. Most of us, anyway.

Already?

Funeral was the last big visual. After that, unless something breaks, there's nothing to point a camera at.

And if nothing breaks?

Then it just keeps going without witnesses.

She doesn't sound cynical, just accurate. Feels fast. Always does when you're standing inside it.

Couple of outlets are hanging around, long tail stuff, but the oxygen's gone.

Because of Omnia?

Because of Omnia.

Which was the point? The Holt's timed it clean.

And the funeral.

Roll straight into the future.

And the murder?

That's not future-facing.

She doesn't say it cruelly, just like someone reciting a rule they didn't write. How's the sheriff holding up? Carter's trying.

I'll give him that. But this is bigger than his training videos.

You talk to him much?

Enough to know he's drowning politely. There was something weird, though.

Yeah?

Victor Holt showed up once most of the crowd had cleared. He and Richard had a moment.

A moment?

Low voices, too close, not performative.

Thomas stepped in, didn't say anything, just repositioned.

Not grief, that's management. What was it about?

No idea. Could have been anything.

Could have been nothing.

But I will say, it didn't really look like it was wearing nothing's clothes. You know what I mean?

What about Amber Holt?

No statement, no too devastated, no stand-in.

Just silence, even from Richard.

You hearing any theories?

Loads. Most of them bad.

Drugs, affairs, secret accounts. Someone always floats a cult by day three.

None of it sticks, not yet.

Anyway, that's my cue.

Yeah, thanks for talking to me.

Take care of yourself, Mags.

And whoever that's for.

Eileen, was it?

Oh, Eileen. Ha ha, funny. I will. The circus packs up fast, leaves the mess behind, calls it closure. And no one complains because there was a show. And candy. Victor Holt isn't done. Richard Holt isn't steady. Thomas Holt is already adjusting the furniture. And Amber Holt, she isn't anywhere the story can reach her. I tighten my grip on the bag, feel the heat soak through the paper. Whatever's coming next, it's not for them. It's for us.

Here's the thing that feels illegal to admit, I'm happy right now, like annoyingly happy. I'm sitting in a basement that smells faintly like dust, old paper and whatever someone spilled down here in 2013 and never fully cleaned up. We're surrounded by screens and cables and the soft hum of corporate grade servers that definitely weren't designed for justice but are doing their best anyway. I have a smash burger in one hand, fries in the other. They're greasy in that way that makes your brain go quiet. The kind of food that doesn't ask questions just shows up and says, I got this. Mags ordered extra onion rings by accident, which is a lie she tells when she's being kind and doesn't want credit for it. And we're doing the thing, the thing we're good at, looking at pieces that don't want to fit together and making them nervous. Which is wild, considering that just over an hour ago, I found out I'm apparently descended from one of the town's cursed ghost families. The kind you're supposed to react to with dread o r fury or a dramatic stare into the middle distance. But instead, I'm down here, eating fries, running searches, listening to Mags mutter at a loading bar like it personally betrayed her. All while a moderately moody, Mags Park curated indie folk playlist spins sublime sads in the background. And my body hasn't gotten the memo that this is supposed to feel bad. Maybe that's the trick. Maybe knowing where you come from doesn't actually get a vote in how things feel right now. Right now feels like this. Warm food, cold soda, a basement full of secrets, and the quiet certainty that whatever the town thinks it handed me, I didn't have to pick it up alone.

Okay, logistics check. You still sure you're okay eating and working, you don't just want to eat first or...

Come on now, I can multitask.

Bold claim. Historically inaccurate, but bold.

Oh wow, you got extra napkins? So, so fancy.

I'm not a monster. Also, you eat like a fucking raccoon, it's just being proactive.

I would say wild dog, but sure. So, Bella Harper. Let's see what the internet remembers.

Or pretends to.

Starting academic, keeping the expectations low, remaining emotionally armored.

As one should be, always start with the people who pretend objectivity is a personality.

Okay, we've got regional modernisms of the Pacific Northwest. Post-war collectivist art movements, Driftwood School, a regional collective of outsider modernism. Guess who wrote half of these citations?

Clement Dreier.

He's everywhere. Footnotes, citations, editorial introductions. It's like he's haunting JSTOR.

Academic Spectre. Very on brand.

God, it's all so smooth. Like everyone sanded down the sharp parts and agreed not to ask why.

That's how history gets marketed.

Driftwood School is framed as a collective, which, yeah, that was their thing. But it's also doing a lot of work here.

Some would say too much, like it's flattening work.

Exactly. Everyone's interchangeable. No individual arcs, no sharp edges. Bella's here, but she's small.

Define small.

Appendix small, citation small, mentioned alongside the other artists, no images, no deep analysis.

So she exists, but quietly.

There's a lot of emphasis on shared intent, which feels curated.

And controlled.

This doesn't feel like lying. It just feels like choosing what not to say.

Which is usually worse. Okay, let's get weird. Fan stuff, blogs, scenes, message boards.

Yes, the internet's emotional memory. Oh, wow. This site hasn't been updated since Obama's first term.

That's how you know it's sincere.

Driftwood remembered. Run by one person. Definitely unpaid.

Bless them.

Photos are terrible.

Oh yeah, like aggressively bad.

Scanned with a bad scanner and uploaded just poorly.

But real.

Okay, Bella has her own, you know, like her own little page here. People really love her.

What are they saying?

Uh, that she scared people and that her work was angrier. That she didn't, you know, soften things.

Based on the pieces we've seen, it makes sense, right?

Subject matter isn't really fleshed out, like political, obviously, but...

Not any one type of political.

Right. More like structural. People keep using words like pressure and containment and systems that don't notice they're crushing you.

Ah, yes. Everyone's favorite genre. Vibes you feel in your bones but can't indict in court.

Someone says her work made them feel like they were being watched by something that already knew how the story ended.

I love that.

Same. Oh, here's a thing that keeps coming up. Multiple people mentioned that she stopped producing work suddenly. Not a tapering off, not a style shift, just... gone. But I guess... like... that's because she was... you know... because she was forcibly committed, right?

Translation. Something happened, and nobody wants to say what. But that's weird North American hangups disguised as manners. Not a cover-up.

Right. More like communal discomfort. There's a bio here, fan-compiled, Earth year, exhibitions, driftwood stuff. And then, Bella Harper died at Pine Ridge Psychiatric Center in 1973.

Huh.

Yeah, I mean, she was institutionalized. We knew that part. So, hospital, death, era? It follows.

It does. Everything about her feels carefully handled, even when Dreyer talked about her.

Like everyone agreed on the same soft lie and never revisited it. Still, fans don't linger on any of it. No conspiracy tone, just sadness.

Because they don't need to sell it.

Exactly. Oh, okay, here. Someone's paraphrasing an old interview fragment. No audio, just a transcription.

Hit me.

She talked about art like it was a responsibility, not expression, not therapy. Like something she owed to people who didn't have language yet.

Wow.

Yeah, that doesn't sound like someone who just fades out.

Yeah, that sounds like someone who made herself inconvenient.

Which historically does not end well for women.

No. Let's switch gears. Let's check market stuff. Galleries, auctions, that sort of thing.

Business.

Okay, yeah, auction listings. Private sales. Oh, Elizabeth Venering's name is orbiting this constellation where the Driftwood School and Commerce meet up.

Okay, juices are flowing now.

Bella's presence is tiny. One major piece sold and a few maquettes.

Which piece?

Portrait of Georgia Wilkes. Here's a pic.

That's restrained.

Yeah. Listing says, uncharacteristically tender.

So they're branding it.

Yes.

Georgia Wilkes. That's her friend, right? Dreyer said they were always together.

Yes. We can look up Georgia at some point.

For another sad story, I'm assuming.

Oh, for sure. Okay. Here's what they have for Bella's bio. Wow. That's gross. What? It's very publicity bio, writing 101. They're using Pine Ridge as texture, saying she struggled with mental illness.

Like seasoning.

Exactly. Just enough tragedy to add depth, not enough to ask questions.

So they flatten her life, aestheticize her suffering, and then sell the one piece where she wasn't terrifying.

Capitalism loves a woman once she's quiet.

Or contained.

Hmm.

Pine Ridge.

Huh?

She died at Pine Ridge though, right? Pine Ridge Psychiatric Center. That's what the fan bio or whatever said, right?

Uh, oh, yeah, it did. Oh, wait. We've heard of Pine Ridge before.

Dylan.

The box from Black Cedar.

The missing file.

He didn't take a random one.

No, he took hers.

Why?

I mean, she's the one who painted the girl with the red ribbon. The painting he was furious was being sold to Evan in Omnia. But other reasons?

Not sure. Hmm. You know what? Let me just check something.

Photos?

Yeah, one sec. Yes, here we go. Vernon Crocker.

Betty's dad?

Uh, what?

Betty Crocker? Cake mix? No? Never mind. Did you know Betty Crocker isn't a real person and the whole cake industry was basically a psy-op to sell heavily processed food?

That's an oversimplification, but yeah, I did know that, actually.

Fucking wild, right?

Can we just, you know, can we just fucking focus here right now for a bit?

Okay, okay. I just thought about cake thanks to Crocker. Now, I'm really regretting not getting dessert like churros or crawlers or...

Shit!

A cake, right? That makes sense. Because I tell you, now I'm just a flapping in the breeze if you know what I mean.

Amy.

Sorry, sorry. Vernon Crocker is... Who again? Like, not for me. I know who he is. I totally know who he is. Like, obviously, but, you know, for the audience.

He's the guy from this old badge we found at Black Cedar in a box of old badges that Dylan also seemed interested in. He even marked it with his red pen. Look where Crocker worked.

Pine Ridge.

As a night shift charge aid during the time when Bella was there.

Okay, that's good.

So if Vernon Crocker is alive, Dylan would have gone to him.

Marguerite, fetch me my Polaroids.

Here you go. We already know these work.

And here, Vernon Crocker from early last week.

What did he write?

Memory isn't perfect, but it remembers.

Okay. Vernon Crocker. Let's see what kind of digital footprint 50 years of minding your business gets you.

If he's on Facebook, I'm calling it a win.

He's in his 70s. Of course, he's on Facebook. Profile pic from 2016. Cover photo is a lake at sunset. Bio says, retired, Vietnam vet, night shift forever.

Where does he land on the whole minion memes spectrum?

Not registering at all. He's more a sharer of local news articles with captions like makes you think.

Devastating.

Okay. Nothing weird. No conspiracy stuff. Mostly photos of beer, the same three guys, and a dog who has definitely passed, but is still loved very loudly.

Let me see. Oh, oh boy. Okay. So now I'm crying a bit. Sorry. Uh, sorry. I'm okay now. I'm okay. So where's Vernon live?

Uh, Tlaqua Ridge.

That's what, 20 minutes?

Uh, yeah, I don't know. I haven't lived here in 10 years and don't have a car.

Right, right. Well, then yeah, let's say 20 minutes. So how do we change location from town to front door?

Hold on. Tagged photo. Three years ago, retirement dinner. Someone tagged the bar and congratulated him on finally settling into the Ridge.

Gotta love the overshare era. Yep.

And there we go. Public voter registry link in the comments. Someone being helpful.

Oh my God.

I know. It's always the comments. Okay. Vernon H. Crocker, registered Tlaqua Ridge single-family residence. Address found.

Nice. You ready for wheels up in five?

Yes. And I'm bringing Valentina. Whoa.

Really? I don't think we'll need her. And honestly, I think she would kill our boy Vernon, Vietnam vet or not. So let's avoid that at all costs.

Valentina makes no promises.

Absolutely love that energy. Let's go. Oh, and I'm eating your fries, BT dubs. And like this sort of like schmear of, you know, like pickle and onion and ketchup mess here. This is the part that still surprises me. Not the secrets, not the dead ends, not even the fact that everything keeps tracing back to places designed to make people disappear quietly. It's that my body knows the difference between doom and purpose. A few hours ago, I learned something about myself that should have cracked me in half. Some inherited story, some old gravity I didn't ask for. But right now, right now, I have greasy fingers, a full stomach, a lead that actually means something and Mags already halfway to the door, like the world just dared her to keep up. And that's the thing, the past can knock the air out of you, but the present doesn't wait for you to catch your breath. So we don't sit with it. We grab our coats.

Avalon Falls looks different once you start leaving it. The house is thin out, the trees get taller, the road stops pretending it's a destination and admits it's just a way through. This is the part of the county where the past doesn't bother dressing itself up anymore. No plaques, no guided tours, just asphalt laid over decisions that never got revisited. You can tell when you've crossed the line, even though there's no sign for it. The streetlights spread out, the cell signal gets a little smug about how optional it is, and suddenly every place looks like it was chosen for a reason someone didn't want to explain. I've always thought of Avalon Falls as a town that keeps its mess indoors. Basements, back rooms, places with names that sound comforting until you think about them for more than a second. But the farther you drive, the more you realize it didn't bury everything. Some of it just moved out here, put down roots, waited. Which is funny, I guess. Because for the first time all day, Amy looks lighter, f ocused. Like the world finally asked her a question she knows how to answer. And me? I'm watching the road and thinking about how every town has people who remember things it wishes it could forget. Hey, you've been quiet again. Not bad quiet, just loaded.

Oh, yeah, sorry, I'm still here.

I know, I just wanted to check.

It's weird. I don't feel different exactly. I just feel like something got assigned to me without asking.

That's not wrong.

Like I woke up and the town slit a folder across the table and went, Congratulations, this is yours now.

And you didn't sign for it.

Didn't even see the pen, but yeah, I'm good. I just needed to say it out loud so it didn't turn into something else.

That's what the car's for.

Okay, so Crocker, Dylan already talked to him.

Which means we're not the first people to knock on that door with questions.

Do you think he remembers because he wants to or because it never stopped?

The second one, probably.

That feels worse.

It usually is.

I keep thinking about what it costs to remember something like that, especially when no one ever asked him if he wanted to forget.

No one asked Bella, no one asked Dylan. Like we said, Avalon Falls doesn't really run on consent.

So what does that make us?

People who knock, and listen if the answer's no.

Lead with Dylan?

I think we have to.

Not the murder, just him.

Yeah, the kid who showed up asking questions badly and meaning them anyway.

Ha! Actually, Dylan was running a crazy solid investigation here.

I was going to say.

Like multiple threads, suspects, timelines, several time periods even?

Definitely impressive.

Yeah, respect. Okay, Crocker. No pressure, no ambush, no pretending we know things we don't.

Just honest Pacific Northwestern curiosity. Tlaquah Ridge. Same county, same reign, different rules. It's where people go when they want space without vanishing. Close enough to Avalon Falls to stay relevant. Far enough away to stop being asked questions. No monuments here, no town myths, just streets named after trees and houses built for people who were done being useful. Avalon Falls stores its messes in basements and back rooms. Tlaquah Ridge stores it in retirees, in former night shift workers, in people who were present when something went wrong and were never consulted about how to carry it afterward. It's not a cover-up town. It's a cool downtown. And if you're unlucky, you end up remembering anyway.

This is it. You ready?

Let's do this thing.

Talacwa Ridge feels like a place people come to stop being asked questions, not to hide, just to rest from being visible. The houses all look like they were chosen carefully. Not fancy, not cheap, old, full of secrets that can never leave. Not because they're dangerous, but because who would listen? The kind of places that say nothing happened here and mean it, even if that is a lie.

Yeah?

Hello, sir.

Hi.

Sorry to bother you, my name's Marguerite, and this is...

I know who you are.

Oh, wow. Okay.

You're those kids, were those kids, the private eyes who were kids.

Well, see, we prefer...

Doesn't matter what you prefer. Right, cool.

Why are you here? We're looking into something Dylan Holt was working on.

You shouldn't say that name on my porch. We figured.

Then why did you?

Yeah, why did you, Mags?

Because he came to see you. You don't know that.

We do.

You're cops?

Fuck no, man.

Not the police. Reporters? Also, no.

Then what are you?

She's a doctor.

Almost.

That's really funny, girl.

I'm closing this door now.

Okay, okay. We're people who didn't like how Dylan's questions ended.

That boy had no sense of self-preservation. Guess that's well documented now.

Showed up polite. Too polite.

Like he didn't want to scare me off.

Like it mattered that we spoke.

We feel the same.

You two better not be wearing wires.

I'm not even wearing deodorants, so yeah.

Not a flex. Look, if you want us to leave, we will.

You two got a car? Yes. That bad boy parked right there.

Good. Means you can leave when I tell you to.

I talked to him once, on my terms, outside. Didn't invite him in. Didn't write anything down.

He asked me things. Things I hadn't thought about in 40 years.

Things you wanted to forget? Yes.

But that's not how it works.

You got five minutes.

On the porch.

That's generous.

No. That's cautious.

You ask clean questions. And when I say we're done, We're done.

Good.

Then let's not make this worse than it already is. You want to know about Pine Ridge.

We want to know what he wanted to know. He wanted to know if I remembered her.

The girl with the red ribbon. That's what he called her. Did you?

Hell no.

No idea who he was talking about. What is this?

Some kind of bullshit on Netflix?

Almost kicked his ass into the street right then and there.

I may not be no fancy hope from Avalon Falls, but you don't come up to my house late on a Tuesday night wasting my TV time on my front porch.

Okay, but then what happened? Then he said her name.

Bella Harper. That's right.

And you remember her? Memory isn't perfect, but it remembers. We're not here to make you remember more.

That's not how memory works. Why did you talk to him?

Because he wouldn't leave me alone.

What did he ask about?

At first, nothing special. Names, dates, shifts. And then? Then he asked me what she was like. And I told him the truth.

Which was?

That most of the time, she wasn't anything.

Not to us, not to the system.

Meaning?

Meaning Pine Ridge ran on routines.

Med pass, lights, restraints when needed.

Paperwork that mattered more than faces. He remembered the ones who break the pattern.

The screamers, the fighters, the ones who make problems. And Bella wasn't one of those?

She was quiet.

Mostly sedated quiet. Mostly?

They had her locked down that way most of the time. Heavy.

But it's dangerous to keep that up long term, so they would reduce her meds for a bit.

Give her a breather. During those times, she would still be quiet, but watching quiet.

That's worse.

Yeah, it is. So what else do you remember about her? She always had her hands tucked into her sleeves.

Then you'd notice the gloves.

Looked like oven mitts.

Then you notice how often she's written up as a risk to herself, even when she's barely awake.

They kept her restrained. They kept her managed.

If she was awake, she mostly seemed tired. A lot of the patients did. Listen, I don't think anyone meant to hurt her, but I don't think anyone meant to help her either. Did she have visitors? Yeah, a few, sometimes. Less and less through the years.

Family?

A woman, like a cousin.

Was she here a lot? For a while.

Anyone else?

I mentioned this to the whole boy.

There was a man that come round.

A man?

Nice.

Forgettable.

Come by maybe three, four times a year for a spell.

How old? Hard to say.

No younger than 30, no older than 40. You said he was forgettable, but was there anything to remember?

Wore weird clothes for the occasion, like he had been hunting. Even had the hat.

Okay, weird, for sure. Anything else?

He sat there talking to her.

She couldn't do anything but listen.

It was like...

Like...

Like it was more for him than her. The funny thing about it though, and I remembered this when I was telling the Holt boy, was that he would always put a red ribbon in her hair, so I guess that's where that came from.

He brought one and put it in her hair?

Yes, big thick one. It looked nice, seemed to make her happy somehow, but as soon as he left, that went straight in the trash.

Dangerous to have things like that lying around in a hospital like that.

That is like sad and scary all at once, isn't it?

Compared to the rest of the story, no.

Anything else about this guy you didn't know his name?

Something like will or win something? Maybe.

I didn't go looking at the guest log, so didn't really have occasion to learn his name and was never introduced.

I do remember, though, he said one of the strangest things to me.

Visiting hours were ending. I told him he'd have to wrap it up. He smiled, didn't argue, didn't apologize.

Had this weird way about him. Strange way of talking.

Clipped, like he spoke without opening his mouth, with his teeth clenched. He looked at me and said, Some things don't stop just because you locked the door behind you. Demolished the house and salt the land.

I'll tell you that for free. That's a weird thing to say.

Yeah. Didn't mean anything to me at the time. Still don't. But you remembered it.

Yeah.

Because it didn't sound like something you say to a stranger in a hallway.

What did it sound like? Confession. Promise. Hard to tell the difference sometimes. Did Dylan say why he was asking you all these questions? He said some stories don't end where people think they do.

Poor son of a bitch.

Did you think talking to him was a mistake?

I think not talking sooner was.

I'm sorry for asking you to remember all this.

You didn't make it worse. It was already there.

Thank you, really. I didn't do it for you. We know.

Care for what you do with it. Some memories don't like being handled.

There are stories that don't feel dangerous while you're hearing them. They don't raise their voice. They don't ask for belief. They just take up space, sit with you, wait to see what you're going to do next. Bella didn't get to decide what was taken from her. Jonathan didn't get to decide what killed him. Dylan didn't get to decide how far his questions would follow him. And Crocker didn't get to decide what stayed lodged in his head after the doors closed and the lights went out. I keep thinking about that red ribbon. How something meant to look gentle can still be used to measure how little choice someone has. How easily kindness turns into control when the person receiving it can't say no. I used to think the worst thing about places like Pine Ridge was what happened inside them. Now, I think it's how much survives afterward, in memories, in habits, in sentences people repeat without knowing where they learned them. Some stories don't end when the doors close. They just change hands. And once they do, you don't get to decide whether you're part of it anymore. Only what you do with what you're holding.

Driving after something like that always feels strange. Like your body knows you're done for the day, but your brain hasn't gotten the memo. Vernon Crocker didn't give us answers. He gave us texture. The way people do when they've been holding something too long and don't know what shape it's in anymore. You okay?

Yeah, I mean, no, but yes, in the functional sense.

That's my favorite category of okay.

Crocker was scared.

Yes.

Not of us, of remembering wrong, of saying something that would make everything real again.

People think forgetting is mercy. Sometimes it's just unfinished business. You tired? Feeling some side effects?

A little. A good kind. The kind where my brain stops sprinting.

We can take it slow tonight.

Sounds good.

Okay, Crocker said family. Let's see what that actually means.

Not bloodlines, just people.

Fans are good at people. Okay, Driftwood School nostalgia blog, archived, very earnest, too many ellipses.

I love a good ellipsis, but yeah, that tracks.

Here we go, someone transcribed Bella's obit. Nothing about being in Pine Ridge.

Hmm.

She is survived by extended family in Tlaquah County, her aunt Susan Harper, Uncle Warren, and cousin, holy shit, Mavis Beals.

Mavis Beals? No way.

Dylan flagged her.

The social services worker.

With the CIS tag, same decade, same county. Mavis Beals is a Calhoun.

And so was Bella.

Holy shit. I mean, it explains the art now, doesn't it?

Fuck, for real.

It wasn't dramatic, it was worse than that. It made sense. They didn't just institutionalize her.

They contained her. They contained the story she was trying to tell.

Hey, you okay? We don't have to solve everything tonight.

I know.

Hey, is that?

It's the original's payphone. Video incoming.

The original's payphone, the one place in town where secrets still believe they're safe. Someone's using it.

Sweet. Hey, can't see who that is. They're hidden.

Whoa, holy shit.

They're calling us? Oh my God. I can never predict the escalation.

Answer it.

Okay, okay.

Hello?

You're asking the right questions.

Just not in the right order.

Who is this? Jonathan O'Connell didn't die because of what he was chasing. He died because of what he was about to prove. If you want the truth, stop digging for what they buried.

Start digging for what they poisoned.

Omnia doesn't like surprises. Neither do the Hulks. Holy fuck.

Some people believe justice arrives when you demand it. Others wait for the moment it can't be stopped. Either way, once someone opens the door, you don't get to pretend you didn't hear the knock. The only difference is whether you walk in to finally turn the lights on, or to burn the whole place down.