Morning light poured through the smeared windows of the Gourmet Garage, casting long yellow streaks across the floor. The air inside hung thick with the smell of oil, stale coffee, and old meat. Grubb Heishenwood stood behind the counter, jaw working a half-dead toothpick as he rang up a sale for an old man buying sardines and turpentine.

The bell above the door jingled again just as the customer exited.

In stepped a tall man in a rain-slicked trench coat. Calm face. No smile.

“Grubb Heishenwood?”

“Yeah? Who’s asking?”

The man flipped open a badge. “Detective Roosevelt, Ashenbrook PD.”

Grubb raised an eyebrow. “What’s this about?”

“A report was filed this morning,” Roosevelt said. “A lady came into the station shortly after eight. She gave details about an alleged assault that took place here.”

Grubb's mouth went still around the toothpick.

“Here?” he echoed.

“She mentioned the back room. Said she was dragged inside. Gave details about the layout. Even the freezer placement and chain lock.”

Grubb let out a humorless scoff. “You believe every tramp that walks into your station?”

“She knew things only someone who’s been back there would know.”

“Well, maybe she’s been back there,” Grubb muttered. “Doesn’t mean anything happened.”

Roosevelt didn’t blink. “There’s no arrest today. But the details line up too well to ignore. So consider this a warning shot.”

He placed a card on the counter and turned.

As he walked to the door, he added, without looking back, “We’ll be watching.”

The bell jingled behind him.

And silence returned thicker than before.

Grubb stood frozen.

Then CRASH.

A jar shattered against the wall.

“Bitch,” he muttered under his breath. “Thinks she can crawl in here, say whatever the hell she wants, and get away with it?”

He started pacing, chest rising and falling.

“It’s her. I know it is. That red-haired freak.”

His hands balled into fists.

“She’s the only one who’d have the nerve. Always looking. Always too damn quiet. Probably whispered in someone’s ear, started this whole thing.”

He slammed a stool to the floor.

“You think you’re smart, Mavis?”

He stormed into the back room, boiling.

“You’re about to learn what smart costs.”

At Blackwood High, 

The stairwell was cold. Smelled like damp cement and rust. Her head throbbed, heavy and hot on one side. When she moved, her stomach flipped. A flickering bulb overhead lit the stairwell in jerks on, off, on like even the light didn’t know she was still alive.

She sat up slowly, dragging herself to the wall. Her coat clung to her like a wet sack. Her blouse was torn near the collar. One shoe was missing. Her hands were scraped. Her temple was sticky with dried blood.

She didn’t know how long she’d been lying there.

She blinked.

She was still in the stairwell at school.

Still alone.

Still forgotten.

She pulled herself to her feet, staggering once, gripping the rail to stay upright. Her head swam. Her jaw ached. Her knees buckled with every other step, but she kept walking. One foot, then the other.

She pushed the door open and stepped into the street.

Night had swallowed Ashenbrook. The rain hadn’t stopped. The town was soaked and empty. Streetlights buzzed above in crooked halos, and wind howled down the alleys like something hunting.

She walked.

Her body ached with every step. Her coat was soaked through. Her teeth chattered. Her eyes burned. And still, no one came.

She passed Maple Hollow, glancing toward Nana’s house.

No lights. No sound. No Mittens in the window. The curtains were drawn. The porch light was off.

Just another house pretending not to see.

She kept walking.

She turned the corner onto Main Street, heading toward the hill. A few stores still had lights glowing in their windows. One of them, unfortunately, was The Gourmet Garage.

Its sign buzzed faintly in the rain, flickering red and white. “Open All Night.”

She lowered her head and tried to walk faster.

But a voice rang out.

Loud. Mocking.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the sewer rat. Finally crawled out of whatever hole you’ve been rotting in.”

She stopped dead.

Mr. Grubb was standing just outside his store under the awning, a cigarette burning in his fingers. He looked like he’d been drinking. His shirt was wrinkled. His eyes were bloodshot. His expression curled into something sharp.

Mavis tried to step around him. “Please,” she said softly. “Just let me go.”

He dropped the cigarette and stepped into her path.

“Funny seeing you alive. I thought maybe the river swallowed you up.” He looked her up and down. “But I guess rats float.”

“I didn’t say anything,” she said quickly. “I didn’t talk to anyone”

He laughed. Loud. Bitter.

“You think I’m an idiot?” he barked. “The pigs show up asking questions. About me. My business. About girls. You think I don’t know who sent ‘em?”

“It wasn’t me.”

“You lying little bitch.” He stepped closer, and she flinched. “You and that whore tried to ruin me. You know what happens to people who try that?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t do anything. I swear.”

“Too late for that,” he muttered, grabbing her by the arm. “You want to play victim? Fine. Let’s make it real.”

“No please” she pulled, but he held tight.

“You think they care?” he spat. “Your fancy teacher? The neighbors? You think anyone’s coming?”

He dragged her toward the back of the store.

The road was empty.

The rain was loud.

She screamed.

No one came.

The door slammed behind them.

The storeroom. Cold. Dark. Smelling of oil and mildew. Boxes stacked to the ceiling. A single naked bulb buzzed above.

He shoved her to the floor.

She hit hard. Her hands scraped on concrete.

“Let me go!” she shouted.

He grabbed her by the collar and slammed her against the shelf. “Shut your mouth.”

She reached for the handle behind her, but he knocked her arm away.

“You think you’re better than me?” he growled, grabbing at her coat. “You think walking around like you’re made of glass makes you untouchable?”

He ripped her coat open.

“No stop”

Her voice broke.

He yanked at her blouse. Buttons flew. The fabric tore. She clutched it closed, but he struck her across the face.

Her head snapped sideways.

She tasted blood.

“I didn’t say anything please”

He didn’t care. He forced her back, straddled her, pressing one hand to her chest, the other fumbling at her skirt.

“You should be thankful,” he slurred. “No one else gives a damn about you.”

She screamed. Fought. Bit his arm.

He roared, grabbing her by the throat.

Her vision dimmed.

She flailed.

Found a can. Swung it at his temple.

He fell back.

She scrambled to her feet, sobbing. Her chest exposed, skirt torn, rain dripping off her hair.

She ran for the door.

He grabbed the golf club.

He was behind her before she got to the knob.

He swung.

CRACK.

The same spot (she previously injured)

Her temple split open.

Her legs gave out.

She dropped.

Hard.

Her limbs twitched once.

Twice.

Then nothing.

The blood was immediate deep and dark spreading fast under her head. Her arm was bent beneath her, face turned to the side. Her lips moved. A whisper.

“I curse this town…”

Rain rattled the roof.

“…for watching me suffer…”

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

“…for doing nothing.”

Her fingers curled.

“…for leaving me to die.”

Then she stilled.

Her body slack. Her eyes half-lidded.

Breath gone.

Silence.

Mr. Grubb stood above her, chest rising and falling. Hands shaking. Club still in his grip.

“Dumb little rat,” he muttered. “Just had to push it.”

He leaned down. Grabbed her wrist.

“Don’t act dead now.”

He pulled.

Nothing.

He shook her.

Still.

He pressed two fingers to her neck.

No pulse.

His mouth tightened.

Then,

From the alley door behind him

A soft rustle.

He turned.

A black cat sat just outside the open door.

Soaked. Silent.

Its yellow eyes glowed in the dark, Watching.

Grubb stared at it.

Then back at Mavis, Her skin looked too pale.

Her mouth still slightly open.

He reached for her again.

Helpless her body layed.

Something was wrong.