When Jack Salmon first brought Wednesday and Aleksander home, Abigail Salmon hadn't taken the idea well. The thought of her husband entrusting their grief to a detective agency run by children sounded insane to her. In desperation, she had called Len over, hoping he could talk sense into Jack.
Jack and Detective Len Fenerman—who had been involved in Susie's murder investigation—were arguing heatedly. Len felt personally insulted that Jack had placed his trust in two children to handle something so serious, as if all his years of work and authority meant nothing.
Wednesday and Aleksander sat quietly on the sofa, watching the tension unfold. From the hallway, Aleksander noticed Lindsey and Buckley—Susie's younger sister and brother—peeking in at them with wide eyes.Abigail sat down opposite the pair, her posture stiff. "I don't know how you convinced my husband," she began, voice edged with exhaustion, "but he's not well. Please don't make this harder on him."
Aleksander leaned forward. "You see, I'm an empath. I can sense emotions—sometimes even read thoughts. That's why your husband trusts us."
Abigail's eyes narrowed in disbelief, but Aleksander didn't let the silence linger.
"I can read quite a lot from you, Mrs. Salmon. The grief over your daughter's death is obvious. But when you're near Detective Fenerman… there's something else. Guilt. A very particular kind of guilt."
Abigail froze, as though slapped. She opened her mouth to deny it, but Aleksander cut her off, his tone clinical. "I also sense that the role of perfect wife and mother has always been… a disguise. Behind it are other desires, ones that don't fit neat domestic boxes."
Wednesday's expression sharpened—she was clearly enjoying the unraveling secrets.
Abigail's face turned pale. Aleksander pressed on. "You've thought about running. Escaping all of this. In fact, you've already looked for work out of state."The words hit like a stone dropped in water. Abigail's lips trembled. "How… how do you know that?"
Aleksander gave an offhand shrug. "I told you. Empathy, telepathy. But since I've lifted the mask, let me say this: you're luckier than you think. Your husband never asked you to be the perfect wife. He would've supported you if you wanted a career. Leaving, chasing this idea of 'finding yourself'—that isn't freedom. That's running. Stay. Help him. He needs you.... After you build your family back, go take a job or find yourself."
Abigail's composure cracked. Tears welled in her eyes. Buckley, not understanding the weight of what had been said, ran into her arms and squeezed her tightly.
But Lindsey had heard enough. She stood frozen, shocked as pieces fell into place—her mother's closeness with Detective Fenerman, the talk of abandonment, the plan to disappear. Anger and sadness rippled through her, but beneath it, clarity: Abigail, just like Jack, had been swallowed whole in the abyss Susie's death left behind.
While neither Jack nor Len heard this, as they were still arguing on the other side of the room, Abigail stepped forward to stop them. She looked at Len. Even now, she felt guilty for the affair and said, "Len, let's leave this for now."
Len Fenerman frowned. "Yes. Just make him see reason."
He felt the weight of his own guilt too—having crossed the line with Abigail when she was mourning and vulnerable, a moment he could no longer justify.
Before leaving, Len gave the teens, Aleksander and Wednesday, a quick glance.
Jack ignored him. Instead, Jack went straight to his room and fetched Susie's knit cap, the one found in the cornfield. In his recent research about psychics, he had learned that sometimes they needed items belonging to the deceased to help them connect with visions.
He held it with both hands, as if afraid it would crumble.
He laid it carefully on the table in front of Wednesday and Aleksander."I've been reading… psychics sometimes need something of the person. It helps them… see."
Abigail stepped closer to Jack, her voice low.
"You really believe this can work?"
Jack's eyes were tired but determined. "I don't know what else to believe anymore." He looked at Wednesday. "If this helps you… then take it."
He returned and placed the cap on the table in front of Wednesday and Aleksander.
Abigail joined him, standing close, both nervous but faintly hopeful. While Lindsey amd Buckley looked curiously.
Suspense laced the silence. Abigail reached for Jack's arm and held it, both nervous and faintly hopeful, like she wanted to borrow his strength.
Aleksander gave Wednesday a slight smirk. "Stage is set for you. Curtain's yours."
Wednesday rolled her eyes at his phrasing.
"This isn't theater. It's a crime scene without walls."
She drew a steady breath and touched the cap. Her voice cut the silence, dry as ever:
"Show me what he thinks he buried."
Her sharp eyes narrow as she feels the vision building around her. A faint echo of a girl's panicked breathing cuts through the silence.
From her vantage point, she sees Susie Salmon—sweet‑faced, 14, bundled in an oversized coat—led toward a crouched subterranean structure in the middle of a barren field. The brickwork tunnel looks almost absurdly innocent, like a child's clubhouse—but dread coils through the air.
"Predators prefer confined spaces. They call it safety. I call it a coffin with a door."
Wednesday tilts her head slightly, her braids brushing her shoulders as she watches Susie step hesitantly forward. Her voice is dark velvet, laced with clinical detachment:
"Never take an invitation into a stranger's sanctuary. Especially when the host smiles too much."
At the threshold, Susie falters. It feels uncanny—almost like watching a moth offer itself to a flame. In the gloom beyond, the outline of a man patiently waits. His face is blurred, as if reality itself refuses to give her the detail. Still, Wednesday notes what is revealed: blond hair gleaming faintly, and a pair of golden glasses catching a glint of phantom light.
She steels herself, distant yet transfixed.
"Predator hiding in plain sight. The kind everyone thinks they know… until someone vanishes."
The vision fractures forward—what happens isn't fully shown, just glimpses in terrible, strobe‑like cuts:
Susie frozen in shock, her mouth opening but no scream escaping.
The blurred figure's movements—jerky, predator's economy.
A flash of Susie's fingers clawing at dirt.
A heavy silence where her voice should be.
Wednesday's hand curls at her side, pale knuckles taut against her black sleeve, though her face remains impassive.
She murmurs almost clinically:"Susie Salmon. Fourteen. She trusted someone she shouldn't have."
The vision shifts again—Susie's body lies still, the light fading from her as the world around her sinks into shadow. There is no blood, no detail, only the heavy weight of absence where her small frame once glowed.
The scene flickers, distorted, like a leaking reel of film. Glimpses appear in half-seconds: the blurred man's hands moving with mechanical detachment… something being lifted, something broken apart, the suggestion of limbs separated, though the image never sharpens enough to show it fully.
Only the dread makes it clear.
Then, the darkness folds into the shape of a heavy wooden safe. Its surface is plain, unremarkable, but in this vision it looms with quiet malice. The lid creaks down, shutting over whatever now rests inside.
Wednesday watches, her eyes colder than stone."He cut her down. He stored her like an object. A child reduced to pieces, hidden in a box. Still thinking no one would ever see."
The final image: the faceless man dragging something heavy into the encroaching fog. Wednesday leans in, trying to clarify the vision—but the blur intensifies, the glasses catching one last flare of dull gold, almost mocking her.
The vision dissolves. She's back in silence, her expression unreadable. Only her words linger, spoken like a verdict to the void:
"He thinks anonymity is his ally. But monsters always leave fingerprints. Even if they're invisible to anyone but me."
Wednesday pulled her hand away from Susie's cap, her tone flat and unshaken as she delivered what she saw:"Susie Salmon. Fourteen. He lured her underground. He raped her. Then he killed her… and dismembered the body to hide the evidence. He wanted to erase her, piece by piece."
The air in the room seemed to vanish.
Jack's face drained of all color. His hands shook as he gripped the table until the wood groaned beneath his fingers. His voice was hoarse, barely holding back rage:"My little girl… He did that to her? A neighbor? Someone we know?"
Abigail staggered back a step as if struck. She pressed both hands to her chest, shaking her head violently."No… no, please… don't say it like that. Not my Susie. Don't… don't…" Her voice cracked into sobs as she collapsed into the nearest chair.
Lindsey sat rigid, her eyes wide and glassy, struggling to breathe. The words cut deeper than anything she had imagined.
"He took her apart?" she whispered, her voice breaking. A beat passed, then her grief sharpened into fury. "That monster. He doesn't get to walk away from this. Not after that."
Abigail buried her face in her hands, crying quietly. Jack turned toward Lindsey and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, his own voice drowned in anger and guilt.
"I swore I'd find out what happened to her. Now I know. And I'll never stop until I find him."
All eyes went back to Wednesday. She remained still, her expression as sharp and unreadable as ever. Her final comment dropped like a cold verdict:"He thinks his crime makes him invisible. But he left me the outlines. Blond hair. Golden glasses. That's enough to begin the hunt."
The silence that followed was heavier than the vision itself. Jack froze, his jaw tightening, eyes widening with recognition. A name surfaced immediately, unbidden.
Abigail's lips parted soundlessly. She looked at Jack, then at Lindsey, her face pale, trembling."George…" she whispered.
Lindsey's voice came sharper, certainty burning through shock."George Harvey."
Jack slammed a fist against the table, the sound cracking through the room. His voice shook with restrained rage."I knew it. I knew there was something wrong with him. All this time—right next door."