In the time that passed after the second Gates Mill Gate Keepers episode was uploaded, everyone became well-adjusted to their routines.
Vance and Lumis were now following loose leads on their second suspect—as the first suspect, Jane Cooper, was a missing possible runaway from five years ago, whose family had no relevant information to give. Lumis’s wife, Marissa, was calling him much more frequently now—as she was extremely unhappy about all the time her husband was spending with Vance—but Lumis developed a habit of powering his phone off every time she called. Chief Hawkins seemed somewhat indifferent about Lumis’s proposal—that the Cutthroat Killer might’ve been a killer of justice—but just as Vance said before, the theory would be proven correct if the next victim fit the same morally bankrupt profile as the previous ones. And if that prophecy ever came to be, Lumis suspected that Chief Hawkins’s indifference to the theory would be no more.
Meanwhile, Ariella and her friends had their own routines to indulge, attending their classes every day and working on their assignments, Arkus attending his boxing club, Tammy, Zane, and Lucy hanging out with Richard nearly every day, all of them meeting with Julian on his church days as usual. Ariella was sure to help out every time she attended the church; she was glad to assist Julian, and he always graciously accepted the help. She’d also been helping to pick up things for Rodney—minor necessities from the store or lunches from the diner in town. Each time she delivered something to Rodney in his classroom, he slipped a bit of money into her hand and thanked her gratefully. And during all this—every time she was surrounded by her friends—the six of them would speak frequently about the next podcast episode, which topics to cover, and how to manufacture their new trivia game on the show. Periodically throughout their schooldays, students would approach them to talk about the podcast, as usual—and for the first time in Ariella’s life, she felt as if she was finally reaching some of her potential.
In fact, the gossip of the Gates Mill Gate Keepers had spread beyond the school—among the families of the students, the friends of the families, and so on. The number of listeners was on a slow, steady incline, and folks in Gates Mill were chatting about the podcast regularly now. The podcast seemed to give everyone in the town a sense of importance, as if they were part of something famous, something incredible and worthy of writing in a history book.
This excited societal chatter met the Cutthroat Killer’s ears the day he dared to venture into the town unarmed.
Without his tattered black overcoat, his rusty stained branch-saw, or any of the clothes he’d worn during his murders—Cutthroat approached the coffee shop on the main road of town, his matted black hair tied back, a dark fedora concealing much of his face. He wore a clean navy button-up, a pair of sleek black pants, and an ordinary jacket that looked nothing like his usual one, a nice clean outfit borrowed from a Laundromat. He gazed up at the coffee shop almost trancelike, the brick walls outside, the large rectangular window, the bar-like counter inside, and the mocha-themed wallpaper, depictions of coffee beans on each wall. Sighing deeply, he pulled out his smartphone and stepped inside, approaching the bar and claiming the stool at the corner.
He hated visiting public places, especially in his hometown. After all he’d done, it was incredibly risky to wander into a public place like this—but his smartphone was his only source of news, and he needed to check on the worldly updates every so often. His old phone had a major crack in the screen, and it had no service—as he’d originally stolen it from a stranger at a bar years ago—but the device was still useful. All he had to do was walk into a place with Wi-Fi, connect to the network, and google some local news websites.
“What can I get for you, sir?” the young man behind the bar asked, offering him a polite smile.
Cutthroat glimpsed up, quickly catching himself before he could meet the young man’s eyes. He kept his head low, his eyes hidden by the rim of his hat, reaching out and pulling a menu closer to him. After briefly skimming over it, Cutthroat tapped his finger to the list of iced coffees, pointing out a double-shot espresso.
“Double-shot espresso—would you like creamer with that?” the young employee inquired.
Cutthroat nodded without speaking, pulling out his phone and connecting to the Wi-Fi.
The young man returned the nod and shuffled off to make the order. As he did, two college boys—who were seated only one stool away from Cutthroat—spoke loudly about their latest bit of gossip.
“Did they say that on the third episode?” the larger of the boys asked.
“No—that was episode two,” the skinnier boy replied. “That’s the one where they talked about that Italian pedo dude.”
“Okay… and this podcast is about what , exactly?”
“Dude, how have you not heard of this? The podcast is recorded at our school , for fuck’s sake.”
“Well, sorry. I don’t listen to podcasts. I’m too busy getting laid.”
“Thanks…”
“Seriously, what is it about? Why’s everybody talking about it?”
“It’s about the Cutthroat Killer.”
Instantly—Cutthroat felt an icy shudder slither down his spine, his heart making a hard, painful jolt in his chest. He showed no reaction, remaining deathly still atop his stool—but his ears perked, every sense sharpening, every noise around him seeming louder, every car passing by outside suddenly feeling much closer and more threatening. Nevertheless, he forced himself to remain entirely composed, his hands coiling viselike around his phone, his eyes locked onto its bright screen. He continued to eavesdrop on the conversation beside him.
“Okay…” the larger boy mumbled. “What do they talk about?”
“The Cutthroat Killer, duh,” the skinny boy snarked. “And… y’know… some other stuff. Those guys are hilarious , man. I don’t know how they manage to make a murder podcast so fucking funny, but goddamn…”
“I might actually listen to this, then. What’s it called?”
“The Gates Mill Gate Keepers.”
Suddenly, Cutthroat remembered how to move his thumbs. He quickly searched for the Gates Mill Gate Keepers on his phone, forgetting to listen to the rest of the boys’ conversation. The first website to pop up was a dark black-and-green site, the banner displaying a round-faced guy with a fancy feathered hat on his head. After a moment of navigating the website, he managed to find the page containing all the podcast episodes, which were—thankfully—all downloadable. So, he began to download each one of them. There were five episodes thus far, and he was curious to know what was being said about him on this peculiar internet talk show.
He stood and left the coffee shop before the young employee returned with his espresso. Cutthroat checked his phone as he strolled down the sidewalk, pleased to see that all the podcast episodes had downloaded successfully.
Hours passed.
By the time Cutthroat entered his hidden home, night had fallen. He didn’t bother with his generator outside, as the candles inside his shack were still lit, providing him just enough light to meander around the tiny, one-room enclosure.
The room was home to him, a nest beyond the broken society he so despised, though he imagined most others would find the place disturbing. To the right was his mattress, lying on top of stacks of cinderblocks and covered with a self-fashioned fur blanket, consisting of numerous small animal furs sewn together. To the left was a cooler, a rickety wooden table with a hotplate on it, a few dirty dishes, and his personal notebook, an ancient gray book with a severely bent spine. But the most unsettling piece of his home wasn’t the blanket made of the animals he’d slain, nor the diary containing the darkest and most disturbing thoughts of the Cutthroat Killer.
The wall directly opposite the door, illuminated by the flickering lights of the candles’ dancing flames, a large billboard was nailed into the wall. A long, tattered paper hung over the billboard, and on the left side, several names were written in a long row.
In the killer’s sloppy handwriting, the names read:
Alison
Harley
Mary
Ken
Bradley
Joseph
Cutthroat examined his list for a moment, his gaze shifting over to the right side of the disturbing poster. The right side was the most revolting thing in the room, something he’d long grown accustomed to, something that would make any sane man nauseous. Across from Alison’s name, a black, decayed finger was nailed to the board. Underneath it, across from Harley’s name, a tiny piece of old, browned skin was taped to the poster. Across from Mary’s name was a disgusting big toe, the skin sagging and the rotted muscle tissue dangling from underneath it. Across from Ken’s name was an old discolored ear, and across from Bradley’s name was a soppy, darkened tongue. His most recent addition was the small body part that belonged to Joseph Wick, another small slice of skin pinned to the poster. Unlike many of his murders, he didn’t have time to harvest a more solid body part from Joseph Wick, though it hardly mattered. His wall of trophies was filling up nicely.
In fact, he was greatly looking forward to adding more names to his list of the damned.
Cutthroat glimpsed to the side, where his rusty branch-saw sat idly beside the hotplate on the table. He could almost feel it now, his hand coiling around it, the blood warm as it meets his hands and the adrenaline blasting through him like a wildfire of euphoria. No greater justice existed than the actions of a man outside the law, a man unbound by rules or due process, a man who’d sacrificed his own future for the retribution of the wicked.
His heart pounded with excitement as he lay on his bed, listening to the podcast and absorbing each voice he heard.
Time passed as the podcasts played, and the longer he listened to the deep speculations shared about him, the more Cutthroat’s mind began to wander into dangerous areas, thoughts of silencing the podcasters for his own safety…
But, he shook the thought away—just when he heard the name of a prolific pedophile mentioned on the podcast.
Cutthroat stared up at the splintery ceiling intensely, his eyes burning like two murderous flames. He slowly sat upright, approached his board again, and smirked icily, grabbing his magic marker and adding a new name to his list of damned souls.
Brunelli
Two days later, Vance pulled his old black Impala up to Brunelli’s Credit Loan, Lumis seated in his passenger seat.
Brunelli’s Credit Loan was in a fairly isolated area, lush with trees surrounding the impressive building. The building itself seemed to be made mostly of glass—at least on the outside—and it stood at least seven stories high, its expansive parking lot packed with cars and its employees wandering to and from the front entrance, many of them in suits and carrying briefcases or lunches from nearby restaurants.
Vance and Lumis stared out the windshield, examining the building for a moment before meeting eyes.
“Well… I don’t know why we’re here, but here we are,” Lumis remarked.
Vance sighed and tapped on the steering wheel, then turned to him. “You know that Scottish kid that’s been hanging around with Ari?”
“Yeah,” Lumis said. “What about him?”
“He’s been hanging around at the house a lot lately,” Vance mumbled. “Falling asleep on my couch, supposedly by accident…”
Lumis chuckled. “Vance… he and Ari—”
“It’s not about that,” Vance cut him off. “The first night he crashed at my house, he told me his father kicked him out. He’s apparently been living out of his truck.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I don’t think Ari even realizes…”
“Ari doesn’t know?”
“I’m pretty sure she doesn’t. If she did, then she’d be begging me to let Arkus stay with us.”
“Fair point. So… what does that have to do with us coming here?”
Vance let out a stressed breath, glaring up at the building again before stepping out of the car. When Lumis climbed out of the passenger seat, Vance met his gaze over the car’s rooftop.
“I wanna see something,” he said vaguely, closing the driver door.
Then, he marched off toward the building’s entrance without bothering to explain. Lumis repressed a groan before following after him, the cool autumn breeze gusting by as the two men approached the glass double-doors.
They entered the building and spoke to the woman at the front desk, briefly flashing their badges. The woman instructed them to take the elevator to the top floor, and they did.
On the top floor, a tiny blonde woman was sitting behind a desk in a spacious lobby, and behind her was the entrance to Mr. Faulkner’s office.
“Excuse me,” Vance said. “I need to talk to Mr. Faulkner.”
“Do you have an appointment?” the blonde asked.
“It’s about his son,” Vance told her. “It’s important.”
The blonde nodded and gestured to the door.
Vance then turned to Lumis, who was wearing a troubled and investigative expression now, slowly crossing his arms and giving his PI an expectant stare.
Vance glimpsed at the blonde, then grabbed Lumis’s arm and nudged him toward the waiting area, pushing him out of her earshot.
“I need to talk to him alone,” he said.
Lumis narrowed his eyes skeptically. “Why?”
“Because I’m about to lie my ass off,” Vance replied bluntly. “I can’t lose my job for that, but you can. So stay out here, and wait until I’m done.”
“Wait—what’re you gonna tell him?” Lumis inquired.
“I just wanna see something,” Vance assured, stepping away. “Wait right here.”
Lumis moaned out a sigh, sinking into the nearest seat and snatching up a magazine to read.
Vance approached Mr. Faulkner’s office, knocked on it, and pushed it open.
His office was huge, and most of the walls were composed of gigantic windows that overlooked Gates Mill in the distance. On the other side of the room was a rounded desk, two chairs in front of it. Mr. Faulkner was typing on his computer; he hardly looked like his son, aside from the hair color. Angus Faulkner was burly and stocky, like a bear stuffed into a suit, a broader face than Arkus’s, and his brown hair was slicked back with a thick application of hairspray. His fingers were typing rapidly, his beady eyes narrowed at the screen.
“I don’t have anyone scheduled to meet me until four,” he growled, his accent even thicker than his son’s. “What d’you want?”
“Are you Angus Faulkner?” Vance inquired.
“Aye,” Mr. Faulkner said. “Obviously.”
Vance pulled out his wallet, flashing his PI badge quickly before stuffing it away again.
“You’re a copper?” Mr. Faulkner asked.
“Yeah,” Vance lied, approaching his desk, though he made no move to sit down. “And… I’m sure you’re aware of the Cutthroat Killer here in Gates Mill.”
Mr. Faulkner’s eyes narrowed into slits, his hands slowing to a stop, no longer typing.
“What’s that gotta do with anything?” Mr. Faulkner asked.
Vance put on a somber expression, hanging his head and releasing a convincingly mournful sigh. When he met Mr. Faulkner’s eyes again, he manufactured a deeply disturbed visage.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you,” Vance uttered in the darkest voice he could muster. “Arkus Faulkner’s friends came into the station and reported him missing recently. And, today… we found a black pickup abandoned on the outskirts of town. We checked the plates. The truck belongs to your son.”
There was a long, grave silence between the two of them.
Then—to Vance’s astonishment—Mr. Faulkner returned to his computer, and he began typing again as if nothing had happened.
“Have the truck impounded,” Mr. Faulkner grunted.
Vance’s heart gave a jolt, his teeth clenching. He let out another large sigh, this time a real, truly disturbed one.
“Mr. Faulkner,” he uttered, trying to maintain his calm disposition. “I just told you that your son is missing in action while we have a killer on the loose. Is that all you’ve got to say?”
“Look, mate—I’m not about to pour my guts out even if I did care,” Mr. Faulkner griped. “Now, unless you’ve actually got business with me, I suggest you get gone.”
Vance’s hands curled into fists, his jaw twitching. He felt his temper getting the better of him, and he knew for certain he ought to leave this office right now.
He turned and grabbed the doorknob, pulling the door open and hesitating. He then gave Mr. Faulkner one final glare.
“Un-fucking-believable,” Vance snarled.
Mr. Faulkner raised his brows, smacking both hands onto his desk and cocking his head challengingly. “Hah? Whaddid you say? Do I need to call security?”
Vance scoffed, muttering several curses under his breath as he marched out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The blonde secretary—and Lumis, sitting in the waiting area—both perked up, giving him a series of odd looks.
Vance strolled toward Lumis, groaning irritably and lowering his voice. “He’s exactly what I was afraid he’d be.”
Lumis slowly stood, giving him a questioning squint. “And that is…?”
“He’s a classic case of a parent who never wanted to be one,” Vance griped. “I just told him that his son’s gone missing, and he didn’t even care.”
“You—you told him what? ” Lumis breathed, giving Mr. Faulkner’s door a wary glance.
“I needed to see how he’d react,” Vance insisted. “Come on, now. Let’s go.”
“Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you could get into for that?” Lumis hissed.
“Yes,” Vance replied simply. “That’s why I didn’t invite you.”
“Vance—did you tell him you were a cop?”
“Yes.”
“That’s impersonating a police officer.”
Vance paused, gnawing his bottom lip and glancing downward in thought. “Huh…”
Lumis fumed at him. “You need to stop pulling reckless shit like this all the time.”
“Look—he has no idea I lied, and I didn’t even give him my name,” Vance said. “I’m pretty sure I’m in the clear.”
“But why would you risk legal trouble like that? Why?”
“Because I needed to know how he’d react.”
“ Why , Vance?”
“ Because ,” Vance growled. “I don’t want Ari shacking up with her little boyfriend in my house—but if his father really doesn’t give a shit, then I don’t have a damn choice.”
Lumis stared at him. “Don’t have a choice about what?”
“I’ve got no choice but to… fucking… let him stay,” Vance sighed angrily, giving a hateful glimpse to Mr. Faulkner’s door. “If Arkus doesn’t find somewhere else to live… I’m gonna have to let him stay at our place. Judging by his father’s attitude, I’m pretty sure the kid is screwed unless someone else helps him out.”
Lumis glared into him for several seconds, his expression beginning to soften. He let out a distressed breath and ran his hands down his face.
“Fuckin’a, Vance,” Lumis grumbled. “You’re a mess. You have the best intentions, but you enact them in the most twisted ways possible. You’re a serious fucking mess…”
Vance opened his mouth to reply—and a bloodcurdling scream cut him off.
The shriek of horror echoed from far down the hall, Vance and Lumis whipping around in alarm. Both of them reached to their sides, grabbing their pistols and hurrying down the hallway, their adrenaline spiking in an instant.
When they rounded the corner, they saw another open space down the hallway—another waiting area, another secretary desk, and another office door. This office door was open, and several men and women were crowding around it. Mr. Faulkner’s secretary was scrambling away from the door in fright, stumbling out of the crowd and sobbing hysterically—she broke into a run and smashed into Vance.
“What? What happened?” Vance asked breathlessly, grasping her by the arms.
“ He’s dead! ” the woman cried terribly, tears streaming down her face. “Mr. Brunelli—he’s—he’s all— oh God! ”
The woman whimpered and sobbed beyond her control, sinking into Vance and staining his collar with her teary mascara. Vance placed an arm around her, trading severe stares with Lumis from over her shoulder.
The employees were backing away from Mr. Brunelli’s office now; one of them screamed in terror, another hitting his knees and vomiting into the nearest trash can. The rest of the crowd remained standing frozen in petrified shock, covering their mouths and staring into the office in absolute disbelief.
“Here—here, sit down,” Vance urged, guiding the woman toward the wall. “Sit right here and call 911. My partner and I are gonna take care of it, all right? Just call 911 for us.”
The woman sniffled and nodded, pulling out her phone and crying profusely.
Vance and Lumis drew their guns and approached the office, their hearts pounding harder and harder with grim anxiety the closer they treaded.
“Step aside—police,” Lumis announced, forcing the crowd to clear them a path.
As the employees stepped to either side, Vance and Lumis inched toward the open door with weapons drawn, stepping into the office and preparing for the worst.
A strong smell of iron hit their noses as they entered the office, the lifeless body of Moreno Brunelli sprawled crookedly in his leather rolling chair, his greasy blond hairs askew, eyes wide and vacant, throat split into a horrid crooked fray, dark, drying blood having saturated his mutilated neck and his once white suit.
The rest of the day passed by in a stressful, hazy blur.
Vance remembered the moment when police swarmed the scene, red and blue lights covering the property as the employees were escorted out and questioned. The crime scene was taped off, Vance and Lumis both giving their firsthand statements to Chief Hawkins and Detective Garland, who had both arrived on the scene shortly after. The police fanned out and searched every area nearby—and Vance even thought to do the same, mapping out all possible escape routes and driving to check them himself—but once more, the Cutthroat Killer had eluded their capture, and Vance and Lumis were left with no new leads as of yet.
After nightfall, when Vance and Lumis finally arrived at the Callaghan home, Arkus’s truck was parked in its usual spot behind the shrubs, which meant he and Ariella were likely inside watching TV together again.
Vance sighed tiredly, stopping at his front door and resting his head on it, feeling shocked and utterly exhausted by the day’s events.
Lumis examined him. “M’kay. Now that we’re alone… I have to ask.”
Vance rolled his head to the side, eyeing him and saying nothing.
“Moreno Brunelli,” Lumis said gravely. “That was such a random shot in the dark… and you called it. No connection to Joseph, no connection to anyone else… but somehow, you pulled that name out of your ass weeks before he died.”
Vance slowly straightened up, glaring into Lumis incredibly. “Are you accusing me of—?”
“No,” Lumis replied quickly, holding up his hand. “No, I know you’re not running around killing people, Vance. I know you better than that. But… if you have some kind of information that you’re keeping from me… you really need to tell me. I didn’t tell anyone else in the precinct that you specifically brought up Moreno’s name before, and thank God I didn’t. Otherwise, you’d probably be the prime suspect now.”
“Bill, I swear to God,” Vance said insistently. “I did not know he would actually die. When I first heard about him, I figured he’d fit the bill for a Cutthroat victim—but I also figured anyone even remotely like him would. I’m not hiding anything from you. I swear, I’m not.”
Lumis read over his expression almost invasively. Then, he let out a deep sigh. “No, I know you’re not… but that’s what bugs me. If you’re just making shots in the dark, and they end up coming true… then there are only two possibilities. Either you’re secretly a serial killer, or the serial killer got the idea of killing Brunelli from you.”
“How would he…?”
“I don’t know. By bugging your phone? Following you around and eavesdropping on your conversations? That’s all it can be.”
Vance stared caustically at him. “You really think someone’s gonna follow me around without getting noticed?”
Lumis scoffed out a dry laugh. “No. Which makes that scenario even less likely. I don’t think Cutthroat can get that close to you—not without getting caught or killed.”
“He could’ve bugged my phone.”
“Yes, but… this man’s been living off the radar for fifteen years. The likelihood of him having the ability to bug a phone is very, very slim. Besides… we never spoke about this over the phone. You were pretty insistent that we avoid that.”
“What else could it be?” Vance asked, growing frustrated by the bizarre event. “It has to be a coincidence. It has to be…”
“No… no, something else is going on,” Lumis determined. “Aside from you and me, did anyone else know about your speculations regarding Moreno Brunelli?”
“No, I don’t… think so,” Vance mumbled slowly, turning and eyeing his front door.
Lumis examined the thoughtful look on his face. “What? What’s on your mind?”
“Arkus,” Vance murmured. “He’s the one who told me about Brunelli in the first place.”
Lumis sighed and nodded. “Well… if Cutthroat heard it from Arkus somehow, then he might’ve taken the idea and ran with it.”
“How could he have heard it from Arkus?” Vance questioned. “Unless Cutthroat really is following Ari and her friends around, spying on them and—”
“Vance,” Lumis said calmly. “There’s one thing we haven’t tried yet.”
Vance huffed out an irritable breath. “Which is?”
“ Talking to them,” Lumis stated, reaching past him and pushing the front door open.
Ariella and Arkus peered around, gazing over the back of the couch and watching as Vance and Lumis strolled inside, closing the front door behind them.
Vance tossed his coat angrily onto the kitchen table, rounding on the couch and shooting both of them a glare.
Ariella and Arkus returned his stare, their smiles fading.
“What?” Ariella asked, slowly reaching her feet. “What’s wrong…?”
Vance didn’t reply, his eyes locked onto Arkus.
Inhaling deeply, Arkus reached his feet as well, giving Vance a wary stare. “What’s… um… what’s a’matter…?”
“Did you tell anyone about that conversation you and I had a few weeks ago?” Vance asked. “About the killer, and Moreno Brunelli.”
Instantly, the atmosphere in the room seemed to thicken with severity, Ariella and Arkus trading a small, troubled stare.
“Why?” Ariella wondered.
“I’m asking him ,” Vance snapped. “Arkus. Did you, or did you not—?”
“Dad, he told me about it, and I talked about it on a podcast,” Ariella declared, stepping forward. “We have this podcast club at school, and… we talk about the killer sometimes, so…”
Vance’s eyes homed onto Ariella like two cerulean missiles. He took a wide step closer, not seeming to care that a couch separated him from his daughter.
“Are you—out of— your damned mind? ” Vance snarled through gritted teeth, smacking the back of the couch hard. “I told you—Bill and I both specifically told you not to run your mouth to anyone about this—and you—!”
“Hold on,” Lumis said, moving toward them. “Ari, what exactly did you say on this podcast?”
“Well…” Ariella glimpsed away, fidgeting in her stance and feeling nervous and spotlighted. “We kinda… we talked about his possible motives, and… that’s when I brought up Moreno Brunelli. We figured the Cutthroat Killer was going after people who have done really messed up things, and Brunelli was a ped—”
“ARE YOU OUR OF YOUR MIND?!” Vance bellowed, startling Ariella so badly, she jumped from her skin and nearly tripped backward over the coffee table.
A harsh atmosphere overtook the room, Lumis and Arkus both watching grimly as Vance glared wildly into his daughter, more furious than he’d been in years. Ariella merely returned his heated stare, her breaths growing shaky, emotions beginning to well up inside.
“You might’ve just compromised this entire investigation,” Vance rumbled. “Not to mention putting a damn target on your back! ”
“Dad—I’m not afraid of that!” Ariella shot back, her voice shaking. “Same as you! I’m not afraid of that anymore!”
“I DON’T GIVE A DAMN!” Vance exploded. “That was a stupid and downright reckless thing to do—and guess what? Because you decided to spread Brunelli’s story all over town, he’s fucking dead now! ”
Ariella gaped at him, releasing an astonished breath and shaking her head. Arkus glimpsed between the two of them in surprise, Lumis frowning deeply.
“So now—now, we know two things,” Vance griped, holding up two fingers. “One—we know for sure that the Cutthroat Killer is listening to your little podcast. And two—his motive is—”
And instantly, Vance fell deathly silent, staring down at the couch as the realization overcame him. He turned to Lumis, inhaling heavily and giving him a look.
“Confirmed,” Vance uttered. “His motive is confirmed now.”
“Just like you said it would be,” Lumis nodded. “Yeah. Hawkins actually gave me a little praise for calling it. Granted, he wasn’t too happy about it, considering the obviously morbid circumstances… but you were right. Hawkins knows that we called Cutthroat’s motive before it was ever proven… and now it has been. So, if you think about it… in a grisly, awful sort of way… Ari and Arkus helped your little plan to unfold.”
“That’s not—I don’t—that’s not the point! ” Vance spat, whipping around to face Ariella again. “I don’t want you involved in this. You’ve got the attention of a serial killer now—and you—honest to God—what do you think this is? You think it’s just a fun little game you can play online? You think it’s cool to talk and gossip about a murderer who wouldn’t hesitate to hunt you down and—”
“DAD!” Ariella yelled, her voice breaking on a sob. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to get this far? Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to get to this point? I’m finally not afraid anymore—and I’m not going back to that!”
“Why now?” Vance groused, cocking his head at her. “For fuck’s sake—of all the times you could’ve had that little revelation—why the hell are you doing that now?!”
“Because it’s exactly what you would do!” Ariella yelled, moving around the couch and taking a brave step forward, glaring into him. “Are you gonna back down from this case? Are you gonna stop working with the police? Are you gonna stop anything you’re doing right now? No—I didn’t think so. You’re not gonna stop, and you’d be a fucking hypocrite for telling me to.”
“I—KNOW—WHAT—I’M—DOING!” Vance erupted, punching the air with fury. “I HAVE MOUNTAINS OF FUCKING EXPERIENCE—I’M NOT A COLLEGE-AGED LITTLE KID —AND I’M NOT GOING AROUND ONLINE AND DELIVERING NEW VICTIMS TO A GODDAMN SERIAL KILLER !”
“ Vance …!” Lumis hissed from behind him, smacking his arm. “Calm your shit!”
Ariella withdrew, her lip quivering and her will to argue vanishing instantly. She shoved her father aside and rushed into her bedroom, slamming the door shut and leaving a tense silence in the living room following her departure.
Arkus stared after her, looking conflicted. Lumis sat at the kitchen table and sighed, Vance pressing a fist to his mouth, forcing down his anger best he could, as he knew he’d gone overboard. He glared at the floor, then glanced up, eyeing Arkus intently.
Arkus glanced between him and Ariella’s bedroom door. “Sorry… I’ll just… go…”
He moved toward the front door, but Vance shook his head, snapping his fingers and jabbing his finger at the couch. “No—sit down. Stay here.”
Arkus gave him a questioning squint. “Why?”
“Because your father’s a—no—we can talk about that later,” Vance stammered, storming into the hall and approaching Ariella’s room. “Ari—open the door. Now. We’re not done talking.”
Lumis remained at the kitchen table, Arkus slowly sinking back into the couch and glumly watching the TV.
Vance hammered on Ariella’s door, demanding that she open it—and after about a minute of this, Ariella finally unlocked it and swung it open, giving her father a harsh, teary-eyed glare.
He stepped into her bedroom and closed the door behind him.
The two of them shared a serious stare, Ariella sitting on the edge of her bed and frowning deeply. Her bedroom was decorated with band and anime posters on all the walls, the dresser beneath the window, the bed in the corner. Vance approached the dresser, leaning on it and sighing, staring down at his daughter in deep thought. Neither of them spoke right away.
Ariella felt rattled to her core—shocked that this Brunelli guy had actually died, and wounded by her father’s sudden anger at her. She couldn’t know what to say or how to defend her actions, though she knew—despite the grim consequences—that she didn’t regret what she’d done.
Vance, similarly, felt frustrated—and after the horrors he’d seen today and the stress of the day’s events, perhaps he was feeling much too angry to deal with this problem responsibly. But, while Ariella was an adult now, Vance was still the parent—and as he’d said before, he never stopped being her father just because she’d gotten older. He still carried the obligation of being the more responsible and mature of the two, even now.
“I’m sorry,” Ariella murmured weakly into her lap. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to send the Cutthroat Killer after somebody. My psychology teacher knew it was a problem right off. He told me not to say any possible future victims’ names on the podcast anymore, so… nothing like that is gonna happen again…”
“Ari,” Vance said sincerely, his voice much softer and calmer now. “I really couldn’t care less about Moreno Brunelli.”
Ariella raised her head, giving him a peculiar look. “What…?”
“You want my honest opinion—I hoped it would be him,” Vance said intensely, pulling the rolling chair away from Ariella’s desk and slowly sinking into it. “For whatever reason, I fixated on him the moment I heard about him. I guess because I wanted him to go.”
Ariella gulped, waiting for him to explain.
Vance sighed. “He was a child-raping piece of shit who never faced any justice for what he did. He’s not even remotely important to me.”
“Okay…” Ariella mumbled, wiping her eye.
“But you ,” Vance said sternly. “You are a whole other story. Cutthroat is listening to your voice on this podcast. He’s focusing on you, and that is not okay. Not at all.”
“But I can…” Ariella muttered, trying to strengthen her voice again. “I can handle it.”
Vance let out a conflicted breath, staring into her with a torn expression. “Why this? Why does it have to be this? ”
Ariella surveyed him, cracking a snide smirk. “Why does a private investigator work almost exclusively with the police force and nobody else?”
Vance slowly leaned back, narrowing his eyes at her.
Ariella let out a laugh. “Because you wanted to make some kind of difference without following all the rules. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
“Yes, but… you’re treading into dangerous territory, here,” Vance told her. “What exactly is a podcast? How many people watch it?”
Ariella smiled, swallowing another chuckle. “You don’t watch it—you listen to it. It’s like a radio show. You can download it off the internet, too. We have thousands of listeners, including half the people who go to the university.”
“Jesus… thousands,” Vance breathed. “What is it for? What do you actually do on a podcast?”
“We talk about the Cutthroat Killer,” Ariella informed. “Then we drop the serious stuff and play games during the second half. People love it.”
“Ari, we told you… we specifically told you not to talk about the killer to anyone.”
“But it feels good ,” Ariella insisted, smacking her palm. “It feels good to take this on without being scared. I need that.”
“Ari…”
“Dad—we’ve been really careful with everything we say. Jax edits out anything that could be even remotely dangerous, and my psychology teacher points all that stuff out to us now. He’s really anal about keeping us as anonymous as possible. We’re not gonna have another slip-up.”
“This killer is listening to you, Ari. Do you have any idea how big of a red flag that is?”
“Yes—and that’s exactly why I wanna keep doing it,” Ariella said firmly. “Do you know how many comments we’ve gotten about him? Do you know how many people are talking about coming to Gates Mill and hunting this guy down? We have thousands of people learning about this guy, and all of them wanna get him caught. That’s awesome .”
“But it’s still—”
“Jax made us a subreddit for the podcast, too—and now we have a bunch of redditers trying to solve the mystery on the forums. We have people posting timelines, and missing persons, and unsolved murders from around the area—”
“Ari, that’s good, but I don’t want him coming after you ,” Vance stated flatly. “If Cutthroat learns about all this internet buzz you’ve started, then he will definitely want to shut it all down. That risks you and all of your friends. Is that what you want?”
“Dad—I wanna do what you do,” Ariella disclosed. “Do I really have to spell that out for you? I thought you’d be proud.”
Vance gave her a long, painful stare.
“I am,” he said roughly, his fingernails digging into the rolling chair. “But I’m worried.”
Ariella smirked. “You used to call me Demonslayer when I was little. You remember why…?”
Vance let out a weak laugh, nodding and flashing a half-smile. “Because you had nightmares constantly… until you started fighting in your dreams and slaying your demons.”
“You told me to do that,” Ariella reminded him. “You told me… next time it happens, wake up in your dream, realize you’re dreaming, and take control. All that bullshit went away because you taught me to fight back.”
“I know,” Vance mumbled. “I just didn’t expect you to fight back this hard.”
“I have to,” Ariella told him. “I’ve never, ever felt this good before in my life. I finally feel like I’m good enough to… do … something.”
There was a deep, calming silence between the two of them, Vance and Ariella sharing a profound stare for nearly a full minute.
Then, Vance straightened up and sighed heavily.
“Okay… but I have some conditions,” he informed. “One, you’re gonna take my revolver and put it in the glove box of Arkus’s truck along with a couple of speedloaders. Two, you’re gonna delete the podcast episode that contains Brunelli’s name. And three, you’re gonna tell me everything that’s going on with your little podcast from now on. I don’t wanna be left out of the loop anymore. You need to have something for protection, you need to keep me informed, and you need to stay with your friends at all times. You hear?”
“Yeah,” Ariella agreed. “But why do I have to delete that podcast episode?”
“Because Brunelli was just killed today,” Vance said seriously. “If the police find that podcast and learn that you and your friends magically predicted his death somehow, then the cops might wanna add you to the list of suspects. We don’t need that happening.”
“Oh…”
Ariella quickly pulled out her phone, typing a text to Jaxson and asking him to remove episode 2 from the website, typing out a brief explanation as to why. Once she finished, she stuffed her phone away and gave her father a questioning squint.
“Does this mean you’re okay with the podcast?” Ariella asked.
Vance stared intently at her. “No. It means I’m gonna tolerate the podcast, but only if you meet all those conditions. I know you need to do this… but that doesn’t mean you can take any risks while doing so.”
Ariella smiled and scooted forward, yanking the rolling chair closer and trapping her father in a hug. The two of them embraced for a moment, and then, she leaned back, a curious thought occurring to her.
“You really don’t care that we basically got Brunelli killed?” she uttered.
Vance’s expression hardened. “Not in the slightest.”
Ariella gulped, her visage darkening. “Neither do I.”
They both paused again.
“Does that make…” Ariella muttered. “Does that make us bad people?”
Vance took back, opening his mouth to reply, then scoffing and smirking. He stood from the chair, pushed it aside, and gave her a confident sort of look.
“No,” he told her. “That just means we know the difference between good and bad people.”
Ariella nodded quietly at her lap.
“Ari,” Vance said, sliding his hands into his pockets. “You and I have seen more than most people. Namely death. We had our priorities set in stone for us a long time ago, which means we’re not gonna mourn everyone who dies, especially not any pedophiles or child-abusers. It’s not a bad thing. It’s just how we are… and how we stay sane.”
“I know,” Ariella murmured grimly, thinking of Eliza. “I know…”
“Now… I’m gonna go talk to your boyfriend, and then I’m going to bed.”
“He’s not my—”
“ Guy friend, whatever.”
“Night, Dad. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
They exchanged another hug, and Ariella lay on her bed, Vance marching out of the room and quietly closing the door. When he returned to the living room, Lumis was still at the kitchen table, but Arkus was nowhere to be seen.
Vance stared at the detective. “Where’d he go?”
“He left,” Lumis replied. “He thought you were severely pissed off at him, so… he said he wanted to leave. He also asked me to apologize for him.”
“For what?”
“For coming here unannounced all the time and occasionally spending the night without asking. He said he didn’t mean to disrespect your home.”
Vance sighed frustratedly, glaring at the front door and gnawing his bottom lip.
Lumis stood, staring down at his phone and heading toward the door. “You can talk to him another time, I’m sure. He’s a fairly respectable kid…”
“He doesn’t need to be sleeping in his truck,” Vance grumbled. “Especially not if there’s any possibility that Cutthroat might actually target Ari or any of her friends…”
“I know,” Lumis yawned. “But, like I said… you can talk to him next time he’s here. Have Ari bring him back by, if you have to.”
“Yeah… all right. Well, I’m ready to sleep. You need a ride home?”
“Nah. I just called an Uber.”
“All right. See you tomorrow.”
“Night.”
Lumis opened the front door, and Vance spun around, preparing to head down the hall—but just before he passed by Ariella’s room, a thought struck him. He whipped around and approached Lumis again.
“Hold on,” Vance said, stopping Lumis as he was halfway through the doorway. “There’s something interesting you might wanna look into.”
“Yeah?” Lumis asked.
“Yeah—the podcast stuff,” Vance explained. “Do you have any idea what a subreddit is?”
Lumis’s mouth curled into a small half-smile. “I do.”
“Okay… apparently, Ariella’s podcast has a lot of traction now,” Vance informed him. “And people online are sharing all the information they’re able to gather. I know it’s not quite on par with the information that’s available to the cops, but it’s still probably worth a look.”
“All right. Have Ari text me the link to the podcasts, and I’ll do some digging.”
“Good. Goodnight, now.”
“Night, Vance.”
Vance waved him off, watching as the detective stepped out of the house. He retired to his bedroom, glaring up at the ceiling as his mind worked up a storm—and Ariella lay in her own bed, her tiredness now creeping up on her.
Time passed as the night carried on, the Callaghan home silent and peaceful, though the father and daughter were both having a difficult time trying to rest now.
Eventually, Ariella managed to fade into a light sleep.
And, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she was reliving a dream she hadn’t endured in many years. Contrary to all her nightmares about the tragedy of the Grant home—this dream had no relation to Eliza, Eddie, or the horrors witnessed in their home.
For years before Ariella ever lived in the Grant household, she experienced one recurring dream that never made sense to her—a dark, vague delusion she couldn’t recall clearly in her waking life, no matter how hard she ever tried.
In the dream, Ariella’s hands were outstretched, grabbing ahold of something, staring outward as a dark figure approached her. The figure seemed to engulf her, moving to the side, and Ariella glanced over, observing the scene in passing for a brief, tiny moment—two legs lying on the floor, reaching out from the kitchen area, just barely in her eyeshot—dim lighting in the kitchen to the left, front door standing open on the right, something lying in the doorway and propping the front door partially open. A faint sound met her ears as the figure carried her into a pitch-black hallway.
As the darkness overtook her senses, Ariella blinked herself awake, gazing up at her ceiling and feeling the strangest sense of Deja-vu.
So many years had passed since the last time she had this dream. In fact, she remembered talking to Vance about it when she was much younger—and she even spoke to Eddie about this dream during her time in the Grant home.
After sparing the bizarre dream a moment of thought, her eyes drifted shut, and Ariella slipped into a deeper, cozier slumber.