That night, in the rectory kitchen, Eden's father stood looming by the sink, sleeves rolled up, his hands submerged in soapy water. The overhead light flickered once, then steadied. The power had been doing that lately—twitching like nerves.
The air was thick with heat, with silence, with everything unsaid.
Eden leaned against the doorframe, her skin sticky with sweat and nerves.
She'd spent the day buried in Saint Lillian's past, flipping through old records, articles, whispers. She was trying to make sense of the killings, to stitch together whatever broken pieces the town had tried to bury. But what she found had only sharpened her dread.
Before Ezekiel Thorne became a whispered name in Saint Lillian—a ghost more than a man—he ran a fringe chapel just past the swamp's edge.
The Church of the Burning Mercy.
The sermons were fire and brimstone. His doctrine was obsession. His followers were the outcasts, the desperate, the devout. They called him a prophet. Others called him dangerous.
Eden's father—young and idealistic—had once guest-preached there.
He'd stood beneath warped stained glass and spoke on redemption through suffering. But Ezekiel twisted that idea, repeated it until it turned into something far darker. Then came the girl.
Mae Delphine.
Sixteen. Pale. Quiet. Ezekiel's favorite.
He called her The Chosen Vessel.
Rumor had it Ezekiel believed she was the one God required—a "pure flame" to cleanse the town's sin. Young. Untouched. Willing.
She vanished the night of the fire.
Some say she ran. Some say she was inside when the chapel burned. Others—older folks who drink too much and remember too well—swear they saw her walk barefoot into the chapel, dressed in white, and never come back out.
Her body was never found.
The chapel burned two days after Eden's father preached there.
No cause was ever determined. Some said lightning. Others divine wrath. A few whispered arson—to erase the evidence of what Ezekiel was preparing to do.
Her father never went back to that part of the swamp. Never spoke of it again. Ezekiel disappeared shortly after.
Saint Lillian chose to forget.
Just a strange little church.
Just a missing girl.
Just a fire.
But Eden knew—her father had known something.
Maybe he saw it coming and did nothing. Maybe Mae had come to him for help, and he'd told her to pray harder. Now, every time he looked at Eden—blonde, devout, curious—he saw the ghost of the girl he couldn't save.
Eden's voice broke the silence.
"Daddy, did you know Ezekiel Thorne?"
He didn't look up.
"You preached at his chapel once, didn't you?"
A long pause.
"That was before the fire," she added. "Before the girl."
Her father still said nothing. Only dried his hands with the dish towel and turned slightly, his face cast in half-shadow.
"Some sins," he said quietly, "are buried for a reason."
A beat.
"Rowan isn't your cross to carry."
Eden swallowed, too disturbed to respond. She turned, left the kitchen, and drifted toward her bedroom like a ghost. She stared at the ceiling for a long time, her thoughts loud in the dark.
She no longer knew what her father was hiding.
It felt more like he was protecting something.
Later that night...
Eden's sneakers kicked up dirt as she crept through the back garden, having slipped out her window to clear her head. Her pale hair gleamed under the moonlight, clinging to her damp temples. The air outside was thick with mist and crickets.
She didn't know why she came to the old quarry. Maybe to think. Maybe because she needed quiet.
Maybe because she knew he'd be there.
Rowan was already in the water.
His bare shoulders rose from the surface, silvered by moonlight. Steam curled from the lake around him like smoke.
"You following me now?" he called, a smirk in his voice. "Didn't think the preacher's daughter liked to skinny dip."
Eden rolled her eyes. She shouldn't have come. She knew that the second she saw him.
"I shouldn't even be alone with you," she muttered. "I'm a sitting duck."
She kicked a rock into the water.
She wanted to throw it at his face.
Rowan's eyes locked on her. Water beaded across his skin, trailing down his chest. His dark curls clung to his forehead. He moved slowly, cutting through the water toward her.
Eden crouched by the edge, her hair nearly touching the lake. Her eyes were wild, her jaw clenched. His face was deadly serious.
"You think I killed those girls?" he asked, his voice low. "I wouldn't have touched them. You know why?"
He was closer now.
"Because none of them were you."
Eden's breath hitched.
Their faces hovered inches apart, the air tense and electric.
Then she slapped the water, splashing him hard across the face.
He blinked, water dripping down, and gave a slow, wry shake of his head—like a dog fresh out of the river.
She stood, brushing her damp hair from her face, stepping back—her eyes still fixed on his.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," she called, her voice soft but sharp. "Killer on the loose. But I'm sure you already knew that."
And just like that, her white dress vanished into the rising fog of Saint Lillian—
like a ghost slipping back into the dark.