Chapter One

 

The dead were easier to understand than the living. Dead people didn’t lie. They didn’t smile while secretly hating you. They didn’t swear they loved you before fucking somebody else. They didn’t sit across from detectives and tell a story they knew wasn’t true. Most importantly, they didn’t disappear. I learned that lesson ten years ago.

“Daija?”

I blinked. Mrs. Beatrice Holloway stared up at me from the embalming table. Well. Not stared. Her eyes were closed. That would’ve been terrifying. I released the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and adjusted the collar of her lavender blouse.

“There you go, Mrs. Bea,” I murmured.

She looked peaceful. Her daughter requested lavender because it was her mother’s favorite color. She’d brought the blouse folded neatly inside a Belk bag along with a pearl necklace and a photograph taken at Mrs. Holloway’s seventieth birthday party.

“Make her look like this,” her daughter had said to me.

Families always said that. They wanted their loved ones to look like this. Alive. Healthy. Before cancer. Before the stroke. Before the accident. Before death came through the door and rearranged everything. I couldn’t give them alive, but I could give them recognizable. As the assistant coroner of Briar’s Hollow, I worked alongside my father, the town’s coroner and owner of one of its most successful funeral homes. I’d grown up in the business, learning every role along the way, so assistant was more than a title. It was what I’d always been. It was part of my job to give families peace of mind and at least make their loved ones recognizable.  

Sometimes that was enough. I stepped back. Mrs. Holloway had been eighty-two when she died Monday morning, surrounded by her children and grandchildren. A good death if there was such a thing. My father always said there was, but I wasn’t convinced.

“Daija,” the voice called again, “Please tell me you’ve eaten.”

I glanced over my shoulder and my best friend, Nicolette Carter, stood in the doorway holding two paper bags and a drink carrier.

“You know you can’t just walk back here,” I reminded her.

“And yet,” she smiled, “here I am.”

“This is a restricted area.”

“And yet,” she repeated as she took another step inside.

I gestured toward the embalming table, “There  are dead people.”

Nicolette peeked around me.

“Hey, Mrs. Bea,” she said casually like the three of us were about to sit down for brunch.

“Nicolette,” I warned.

“What?” she looked at me innocently, “I knew her.”

“You know everybody.”

“That is because I am delightful,” she replied.

I snorted. “That is not the word I'd use.”

She lifted one of the bags and gave it a little shake. “I brought chicken biscuits.”

Delightful was exactly the word I'd use.

I stripped off my gloves. “I forgive you.”

Nicolette frowned,  “For what?”

“Everything you've ever done.”

“That's the power of fried chicken,” she said with a grin.

I washed my hands and followed her into the employee lounge.

Nicolette had already made herself comfortable by the time I sat down. She shoved a biscuit toward me.

“Eat,” she ordered.

“Yes, ma'am,” I said, giving her a mock salute.

“Don't get smart, heifer.”

I unwrapped the biscuit, and Nicolette watched until I took the first bite. She'd been doing that more often since Mama died.

Feeding me.

Checking on me.

Showing up without warning.

Mama had been gone three years, but grief apparently didn't come with an expiration date, and neither did friendship.

Nicolette and I had been best friends since sixth grade, back when she'd punched Tiffany Sanders in the mouth for calling my braids ugly.

She'd gotten suspended, and I’d gotten a best friend. Fair trade.

“You going tonight?” Nicolette asked.

I groaned.

“That sounded sexual.”

“It wasn't,” I replied to her quickly.

 She rolled her eyes.

“Then no.”

“Seven Nights of Fright,” she clarified.

“Still no.”

“Daija.” Nicolette dragged my name out.

“Nicolette,” I mimicked.

“Everybody is going.”

“I hate everybody,” I said before taking another bite.

“You do not.”

“I work with dead people voluntarily.”

“You work at your family's funeral home,” she corrected.

“Exactly. Generational antisocial behavior.”

Nicolette laughed. Outside the break-room window, downtown Briar's Hollow was already drowning in orange. Fake spiderwebs covered the streetlights. Plastic skeletons climbed storefronts. Pumpkins sat beneath every awning. Halloween in Briar's Hollow wasn't a holiday. It was a personality disorder.

Every October, our little Alabama town transformed itself into something between a Hallmark movie and a haunted house.

The final week was the worst.

Seven Nights of Fright.

Seven nights of Halloween events beginning October twenty-fifth and ending at midnight on Halloween.

Bonfires.

Haunted houses.

Costume contests.

Ghost tours.

Pumpkin carving.

A massive Halloween masquerade.

People came from miles away. Hotels filled months in advance. Restaurants stayed open late. Local businesses made enough money in one week to tolerate the traffic nightmare.

Everybody loved it. Everybody except me.

“You can't hide in here all week,” Nicolette said, pointing at me with half of her biscuit.

“I absolutely can,” I replied.

“No.” She shook her head as if she had authority over the matter.

“Watch me.”

“You said that last year,” she reminded me.

I lifted one shoulder. “And?”

“And you came out.”

“Under duress,” I muttered.

Nicolette laughed. “You had fun.”

“I tolerated fun. There's a difference.”

She reached across the table and stole one of my hash browns.

“Your daddy's going,” she said before popping it into her mouth.

“My daddy thinks socializing is a medical necessity,” I replied, glaring at her for stealing my food.

“He's worried about you.”

“He's always worried about me.”

Her teasing expression faded.

“So am I,” she said quietly.

I looked at her. The sudden shift in her tone put me on alert.

“Why?” I asked.

Nicolette hesitated. Her fingers tightened slightly around her coffee cup.

“Because it's ten years,” she finally answered.

There it was. My appetite vanished.

“Don't,” I said.

“I'm just saying—”

“Then don't,” I interrupted.

“Daija.” Nicolette sighed.

“I know what year it is.”

Her face softened. “I know.”

October thirty-first. Ten years. Ten years since my little sister put on a white dress, cheap angel wings, and a crooked plastic halo. Ten years since I told her she looked stupid. Ten years since she rolled her eyes and told me to kiss her ass.

Ten years since—

Nothing.

My memory of that night had always been strange. It came in fragments. I remember Autumn sitting on my bathroom counter applying mascara.

Music.

Someone laughing.

Orange lights.

Her white wings brushing against a doorway.

Then, my memory always flashed to the next morning. I recalled the police arriving at the house and mama screaming. My father stood in the kitchen with bloodshot eyes. In what felt like the blink of an eye, Autumn was gone. The therapists blamed trauma for the gaps. Apparently the brain could simply decide there were things you didn't need anymore. I disagreed. If my brain wanted to be helpful, it could've erased the whole damn thing.

“You okay?” Nicolette asked softly.

“Fine,” I replied.

She studied my face for several seconds. “You've always been a terrible liar.”

“Then stop asking questions you don't want honest answers to.”

Her phone buzzed against the table, and she glanced down. Something flickered across her face then disappeared.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“Nobody,” she answered quickly.

She turned the phone facedown.

I raised an eyebrow. “Secret boyfriend?”

“I wish.”

“Secret girlfriend?”

“I'd tell you,” she replied.

“IRS?”

Nicolette shuddered. “Now that's terrifying.”

I laughed, and the moment passed. At least I thought it did. Nicolette checked the time.

“Shit. I have to go,” she said, pushing away from the table.

“You just got here.”

“I have things to do.”

“Mysterious,” I teased.

“Very.” She smiled as she gathered the trash.

“Seven tonight,” she reminded me.

“No.”

“I'll pick you up at six-thirty.”

“No.”

“Wear something cute.”

“No.”

“Preferably orange.”

“I'll call the police.”

Nicolette  laughed as she leaned down and kissed my cheek.

“Love you.”

“Unfortunately, same.”

She walked toward the door, but just before stepping through it, she stopped.

“Daija?”

“Hmm?”

For a second, Nicolette looked like she wanted to say something. Her lips parted, then closed.

Instead, she just smiled, “Don't work too hard.”

“I'll try not to,” I replied.

The door shut behind her, and I stared at it a second longer than necessary then went back to work.

At 12:17 p.m., my father walked into the preparation room and ruined my day.

“Malachi Graves is back,” he said, and I stopped moving.

Mrs. Holloway's pearl necklace hung between my fingers.

“What?”

Thomas Mercer stood near the door. He was sixty-four. Six-foot-one. Silver creeping into his beard. And wearing the expression he'd worn every time he'd ever had to tell me something bad.

“I saw him yesterday,” Dad explained.

“Who?”

Dad just stared at me. I knew who. I heard him the first time. I just wanted him to say it again because I was hoping I'd heard wrong.

“Malachi,” he repeated.

I carefully placed the necklace beside Mrs. Holloway.

“Malachi Graves?”

“Yes.”

“In Briar's Hollow?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I don't know.”

“Did you ask?”

“No,” Dad replied.

“Did he see you?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

Dad shrugged. “And nothing.”

I folded my arms, “He hasn't been here in ten years.”

“I know.”

“He leaves the night Autumn disappears and comes back exactly ten years later?” I asked. “You don't find that strange?”

“Daija—”

“That's not weird to you?”

“I didn't say that” Dad responded.

“Then what are you saying?” I asked him.

He exhaled through his nose. “I'm saying I wanted you to know before somebody else told you.”

I turned away. Malachi Graves. He was Autumn's boyfriend and the last person anyone admitted seeing with her. The police questioned him and then released him. Three days later, he left Briar's Hollow. Everybody had their theories. He killed her. He helped her run away. They planned it together. He knew where she was. The police never found enough evidence for any of them, and neither did my family. I hated Malachi anyway. Hating him gave my grief somewhere to live.

“Maybe he's visiting his mother,” Dad suggested.

“Then he can visit quickly.”

“Daija.”

I turned back around. “What?”

“Stay away from him,” Dad said.

Something about the way he said it bothered me.

He didn’t say  don't upset yourself or leave the past alone. Stay away from him. The words echoed in my mind for several minutes before I spoke again.

“Why?” I asked.

Dad's eyes shifted ever so slightly, but I saw it.

“You know something?”

“No,” he answered.

“You hesitated.”

“I didn't.”

“You absolutely did.”

Dad sighed and rubbed a hand across his beard.

“I'm your father. I'm allowed to not want you around a man connected to the worst night of your life.”

“Connected how?”

“You know how.”

“Actually, I don't,” I shot back. “Nobody ever figured out what happened.”

His jaw tightened, “Exactly.”

Then he turned toward the door.

“Daddy?”

He stopped but didn't look at me.

“What?”

“What aren't you telling me?”

His shoulders stiffened. For a second, I thought he might answer. Instead, he shook his head.

“Leave it alone, Daija.” Then he walked out.

I stared after him. Dead people were easier. I meant that shit.

At six thirty on the dot, Nicolette leaned on her horn outside my house. I ignored her. She leaned again. I continued applying mascara. A third blast sounded from outside. I opened my bedroom window.

“BITCH!” I yelled.

Her laughter floated up from the driveway.

“HURRY UP!” she shouted back.

“I HAVE NEIGHBORS!”

“They already know you!”

I slammed the window. Ten minutes later, I climbed into her SUV. Nicolette looked me over. I wore a black sweater with jeans and ankle boots.

“You own colors,” she said.

“I wore lipstick.”

“Burgundy.”

“That's practically festive.”

“You look like somebody's sexy widow,” Nicolette said, pulling away from the curb.

“Thank you.”

“That wasn't a compliment.”

“I received it as one.”

Nicolette snorted.

By the time we reached downtown, Briar's Hollow had transformed. Orange and purple lights stretched above Main Street. Smoke rolled from machines positioned near the sidewalks, and music played from the square. The air smelled like cinnamon, caramel, fried dough, and woodsmoke.

A giant banner hung above the street.

SEVEN NIGHTS OF FRIGHT

Underneath:

SEVEN NIGHTS. ONE UNFORGETTABLE HALLOWEEN.

“Cute,” Nicolette said as she looked up at it.

“Threatening,” I corrected.

“Everything sounds threatening to you.”

“I work in death.”

“You're so dramatic,” she said with a laugh.

We entered the crowd, and for fifteen minutes, I managed to forget. Nicolette bought cider. I bought a funnel cake. She convinced me to take a picture beneath a twelve-foot skeleton.

“If you post that, I'll kill you,” I warned.

Nicolette’s thumbs immediately started moving.

“Too late.”

“You bitch.”

“Love you too.”

Then I saw him. Malachi. Everything around me seemed to mute. He stood across Main Street beneath an orange streetlight with his hand tucked in his pockets. His black leather jacket clung to him like a second skin giving way to dark jeans that looked like they’d seen better days.

Ten years had hardened him. The boy I remembered had been lean and handsome. The man standing across the street was broader. His edges were sharper, and a  beard covered his jaw. A faint scar cut through his left eyebrow, and another across his left cheek. He looked different, but his eyes were still the same. They were dark, unreadable, and fixed directly on me.

“Daija?” Nicolette called.

I barely heard her. Malachi didn't move, and neither did I. Over the past ten years, I had imagined this moment hundreds of times. I told myself that if I ever saw him again, I’d probably scream. Maybe I’d scream or slap him. Maybe, I’d demand to know where Autumn was. I didn’t do any of that. Instead, I stood there holding apple cider like a fucking idiot.

“Daija,” Nicolette said again, touching my elbow. “What are you looking at?”

Then someone stepped in front of Malachi. James Cross. My stomach tightened again. James had been twenty-five when Autumn disappeared. He was one of the older people at the party, and one of the last people who claimed to see her alive. He looked nervous. Even from across the street, I could tell.

James said something to Malachi, and his expression hardened. James glanced around before grabbing Malachi's arm.

“What the hell?” I whispered just as Malachi jerked his arm free.

Nicolette followed my gaze, and her entire body stiffened. I felt it through the hand she still had wrapped around my elbow.

I looked at her, “What?”

“Nothing,” she answered.

“You know what's happening?”

“No,” Nicolette said quickly.

Across the street, James leaned closer to Malachi and a heated exchange ensued between the two. Whatever was said caused the color to drain from James’ face, and he backed away immediately. Then he walked away quickly, disappearing straight into the crowd.

I turned toward Nicolette, “What was that?”

“I don't know.”

“You looked like you did.”

“I was looking at Malachi,” she replied.

She shoved her hands into her coat pockets.

“I didn't know he was back.”

I studied her. Dad had only told me hours earlier. There was no reason Nicolette should've known. Still something felt off.

“You okay?” Nicolette asked.

“Yeah.”

“Want to leave?”

I looked across the street, and Malachi was still watching me.

“No,” I said.

Nicolette followed my gaze again, “You sure?”

“I said no.”

“All right.” She lifted both hands. “We're staying.”

But when I looked at her again, Nicolette wasn't watching Malachi. She was staring in the direction James had gone.

 At 11:38 p.m., my phone rang.

Dad.

I had been asleep for exactly fourteen minutes.

“This better be important,” I mumbled into the phone.

“Daija.”

I sat up. That one word was all it took.

“What happened?”

“I need you at the funeral home,” Dad said.

“Why?”

“We have a removal.”

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, “So?”

Silence. I lowered my hand.

“Dad?”

“It's James Cross,” he finally said.

I stopped breathing, “What?”

“He's dead.”

The image of James, Malachi, and their argument returned to my mind  instantly.

“What happened?” I asked.

Dad was quiet.

“Daddy?”

“Just come,” he said. Then the line went dead.

Police cars surrounded James Cross's house. That was my first indication this wasn't normal. My second was the deputy who stopped me at the driveway.

“Daija.”

Grant Ellis stepped into my path.

“Dad called me,” I told him.

“I know.”

“What happened?”

Grant looked toward the house. Then he looked back at me.

“You sure you want to go in?”

“I work at a funeral home. I’ve seen a dead body before.”

“That isn't what I asked.”

My stomach tightened, “Where's my father?”

“Inside,” Grant answered, “He’s been waiting on you. The investigators finished processing the area around the body, so the coroner’s office has been cleared to begin removal.”

I nodded, trying to steady my nerves. My father had called me, and it wasn’t the first time I’d assisted him on a crime scene. But, something about this particular scene had my stomach in knots.

Grant lifted the crime scene tape, allowing me to duck beneath it.

“Stay with your father, Daija. And don’t touch anything outside of what you’re here to do.”

“I know the procedure Grant.”

“Just making sure,” he replied.

 I made my way into the house. The smell hit me before I reached the dining room. It was a strange mixture of copper, smoke, and pumpkin. Yes. Pumpkin. My feet stopped.

“What the fuck?” I whispered.

James Cross sat at the head of his dining-room table. A pumpkin sat on the table in front of him. A candle burned inside it. Orange light poured through triangular eyes and a jagged mouth. Blood covered the pumpkin and  ran down the carved face. It ran down James’s shirt, across his hands, and onto the white tablecloth.

His throat had been cut so deeply that the skin gaped open revealing torn muscle, exposed cartilage, and the pale, glistening structures beneath. Blood had dried in black-red rivers across his chest and more had pooled beneath the chair.

But the wall…Jesus Christ…The wall. Someone had written on it.

In blood.

Huge letters stretched above the dining table.

LIAR.

Underneath:

LIAR.

My stomach rolled.

“Daija.”

I turned toward my father's voice. I hadn't even noticed him standing near the kitchen. He moved toward me, but I stepped back.

“No.”

“You don't need to see this,” Dad said.

I stared at him, “Little late.”

My eyes returned to James. The pumpkin. The blood. The candle. Something was carved into the pumpkin's mouth. It wasn’t teeth but letters. I moved closer, but Grant caught my arm.

“Don't touch anything,” he warned.

“I wasn't,” I said, pulling my arm from his grip.

I leaned forward again until I could make out what was actually carved into the pumpkin. Two words.

TELL HER.

My skin prickled.

“Tell who?” I asked, but nobody answered.

I looked from Grant to Dad then from Dad to Grant.

“Tell who?” I repeated.

Grant's mouth tightened, “We don't know.”

“Who found him?”

“Daija—”

“Who found him, Grant?”

“His neighbor,” Grant answered. “She saw his front door open and called it in.”

“Did she come inside?”

“No. Thank God.”

I stared at James again. Then, I noticed the card. It was black and pinned directly through James's shirt with a silver straight pin.

“What is that?” I asked.

Grant's expression tightened, “Evidence.”

“No shit. What kind of evidence?”

“Daija.”

“What does it say?”

He didn't answer, so I looked at Dad. His face had gone strangely pale.

“Daddy?”

Dad glanced toward Grant. That was enough. Their silence started to drive me bat shit crazy. They knew something, and they weren’t telling me.

“Read it,” I said.

“Daija, let them do their job,” Dad replied.

“Then tell me what it says.”

Grant swore beneath his breath.

“Fine.”

He glanced toward the crime scene photographer, “Did you get a clear shot of the card?”

“From three different angles,” she confirmed.

Grant nodded before turning his attention back to the card. He leaned closer, careful not to disturb it, and studied the silver lettering. He exhaled sharply, jaw tightening.

“I’m showing you this because I think you need to know what we’re dealing with. But this stays between us for now, understood?”

I nodded as he pulled on a glove and carefully  lifted the card so I could see it.  Written on the card in silver lettering was:

SEVEN DAYS.

Underneath:

SEVEN SECRETS.

Then:

SEE YOU ON HALLOWEEN.

Grant flipped it over. One word.

ONE.

The room became very quiet.

“Is that supposed to mean he's the first?” I asked.

“We don't know,” Grant answered.

“Then why are you all looking like that?”

Grant's eyebrows pulled together. “Looking like what?”

“Like you know something I don't.”

“We're standing in front of a murdered man with a carved jack-o-lantern in front of him and a number pinned to his chest,” Grant said. “I don't need to know anything else to be concerned.”

I looked toward Dad. He wouldn't meet my eyes.

“Daddy?”

“Grant's right,” he said quietly.

That wasn't what I'd asked. I stared at James. His hands rested neatly on the table.

Someone had positioned him, placed the pumpkin on the table in front of him, and lit the candle. This wasn't rage. This wasn't somebody losing control. This took time and planning. Whoever had done this wanted him found exactly this way.

A vibration against my hip made me jump. It was my phone with a message from an unknown number. I stared at the screen.

You shouldn't have come inside.

Every drop of blood in my body went cold, and I looked around nervously. All I saw was police, crime-scene technicians, Dad, Grant, and two deputies.

“What?” Grant asked, noticing my expression.

I didn't answer as another message appeared. This one was a multimedia message with a  photograph attached.

My fingers began to shake as I opened it. It showed me standing in James's dining room. Right now. My back was toward the camera, and Grant stood beside me. The photograph had been taken from outside the dining room window. The curtains were open, and with the lights on inside, anyone standing in the darkness beyond the glass would've had a clear view of us. But it was the angle that made my stomach twist. Whoever had taken the picture hadn't been standing out by the street. They'd been close enough to the house to capture every detail. Close enough to watch us without either of us knowing. Seconds ago.

I spun around. Darkness stared back at me through the glass.

“Daija?” Grant called.

I rushed toward the window, and Grant grabbed my arm.

“What happened?”

“Someone's outside,” I said.

His expression changed instantly, “What?”

“Someone is outside!”

Every officer in the room moved, and Grant went for the door. A deputy ran toward the back of the house.

Dad caught my shoulders, “What are you talking about?”

“Somebody took a picture of me.”

“What picture?”

“This!”

I held up my phone, and Dad stared at the screen. Another message appeared.

James lied.

Then another.

They all did.

“What the hell does that mean?” Grant asked from behind me.

“I don't know!”

A final photograph loaded. It wasn’t of James's house or me. It was of Autumn. She was seventeen years old dressed in her white dress, angel wings, and crooked halo. She stood in front of a bonfire surrounded by people.

James Cross.

Lydia Shaw.

Marcus Bell.

Janelle Price.

Trevor Mills.

Wesley Reed.

Malachi Graves.

My hands shook harder.

“I've seen this,” I whispered.

Dad looked at me, “What?”

“I've seen pictures from that night, but…”

I enlarged the photograph.

“But not this one.”

Because in this photograph, Autumn wasn't smiling. She was looking directly at the camera. Terrified. A final message appeared beneath it.

Six more.

I stopped breathing.

“Six more what?” I whispered.

Grant looked over my shoulder.

His face hardened, “Give me the phone.”

I pulled it against my chest. “No.”

“Daija, this is evidence.”

“It's my phone.”

“Someone just murdered James and is now sending you photographs from outside the crime scene.”

“I know what they're doing!”

“Then stop fighting me and give me the damn phone,” Grant snapped.

Before I could answer, someone shouted outside, and flashlights sliced through the darkness. Another officer ran past the window.

“Did they get them?” I asked.

Grant grabbed his radio, “West side. What do you have?”

Static crackled. Then, a voice responded.

“Nothing. Backyard's clear,” the officer on the other end responded.

My stomach felt like it sank to my toes. Dad stared at the photograph on my screen and his face changed. There wasn’t an ounce of confusion or horror. Instead, there was recognition in his glare.

I looked at him, “Daddy?”

His eyes lifted to mine, “What?”

“You've seen this picture.”

“No,” he responded.

“You have.”

“No, Daija,” he insisted.

“I just watched your face.”

“You're upset.”

“Don't do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make me think I didn't see something I know I fucking saw,” I said out of anger.

“Watch your mouth.”

I laughed once, but there wasn't an ounce of humor in it.

“There's a man sitting ten feet away from us with his throat cut and a jack-o'-lantern in front of him. I think we're past worrying about my language.”

Dad looked away and refused to meet my eyes. Something wasn’t right. I didn’t know what it was, but I could feel it in my spirit.

“Daddy, look at me.”

He didn't.

“You know something about that picture.”

“No,  Daija,” he said through gritted teeth and walked away.

I stared after him.

“What the hell?” I whispered.

Grant stepped beside me, “Daija.”

“What?”

“Your phone.”

I looked down at it, and it vibrated again.

One final message. This time, there were no words only a photograph.

            It was of me from Halloween ten years ago. I was standing beside Autumn. She was dressed in her angel costume, and I was dressed in all black. There was blood on the front of my shirt. I stared down at the photo and could feel my stomach drop.

“No.”

“What?” Grant asked.

I zoomed in, “No.”

“Daija, what is it?”

“I wasn't there.”

Grant moved closer, “What are you talking about?”

“I wasn't there that night.”

He looked at the photograph, “That's you.”

“I know what I fucking look like,” I damn near growled at him.

 I didn't remember taking this photo. I didn't remember being there. I didn't remember the clothes or the blood. But it was me. There was no mistaking my face.

Grant looked from the screen to me, “Where was this taken?”

“I don't know.”

“Daija.”

“I said I don't know!”

Dad turned at the sound of my voice. His eyes dropped to the photograph. He froze.

There.

Again.

Recognition.

This time, I knew I hadn't imagined it.

“Daddy,” I whispered.

He didn't answer.

“Why am I in this picture?”

Dad's mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

“Why am I covered in blood?”

“Daija…”

“No.” I shook my head. “Don't ‘Daija’ me. Answer me.”

“I can't.”

The words barely left his mouth.

I stared at him.

“What?”

Dad swallowed.

“I said I can't.”

“Can't or won't?”

His eyes met mine.

Pain lived there.

Fear too.

And something worse.

Guilt.

Before I could ask another question, my phone vibrated.

All three of us looked down.

Written across the bottom of the image in red letters were four words.

YOU LIED TOO, DAIJA.

I stared at the screen.

The room tilted beneath my feet.

“I didn't lie,” I whispered.

Nobody responded.

I looked at Dad.

“I didn't lie.”

He still said nothing.

My chest tightened.

“Daddy, tell them.”

His eyes dropped.

That terrified me more than James Cross's body.

“Tell them I wasn't there.”

Silence.

“Daddy.”

Still nothing.

The candle inside the jack-o'-lantern flickered. His blood gleamed through the orange light.  I looked at the photograph again.

At Autumn.

At myself.

At the blood staining my clothes.

For ten years, everybody in Briar's Hollow had asked the same question.

What happened to Autumn Mercer?

Standing in that dining room, with a murdered man behind me and a photograph in my hand that shouldn't have existed, I wondered if we'd been asking the wrong question all along.

Maybe the question wasn't what happened to Autumn.

Maybe it was—

what had I done to her?