Fractured Alliances
601 Words
Marcus Hale’s office at the Eldridge Bay PD was a clutter of cold cases and coffee stains. He stared at the autopsy report on Sarah Kline: death by exsanguination, no defensive wounds. Tox screen showed sedatives—enough to explain the lack of fight. But the knife? Wiped clean, no prints.
His phone rang. “Hale.”
“Detective, it’s Dr. Voss. I need to see you. Now.”
Twenty minutes later, she burst into the station, envelope in hand. “This was left for me last night. And this morning, I found a knife in my house.”
Marcus examined the photo and message. “Society? Mean anything to you?”
Elena’s face paled. “My parents… there were rumors. Some kind of elite club in town, back in the ’90s. Philanthropy front, but whispers of rituals, mind control experiments. I thought it was nonsense.”
Marcus leaned back. “The Eldridge Circle. Old case file. Disbanded after a scandal—members died in suspicious accidents. Your folks included.”
Elena swallowed. “You think it’s connected?”
“Could be. Or someone’s using it to mess with you.” He paused. “Doc, level with me. These blackouts—could you have…?”
“No!” she snapped. “I’m not the killer.”
But doubt flickered in her eyes. Marcus saw it. “Alright. I’ll dig into the Circle. You stay put—”
His radio crackled: “All units, homicide at 47 Wharf Street. Victim ID: Harlan Crowe.”
Elena gasped. “That’s my mentor. Dr. Crowe.”
They raced to the scene. Crowe’s upscale apartment overlooked the bay, now a bloodbath. The elderly psychologist lay sprawled, throat slashed identically to Sarah’s. Mirrors in the room shattered, walls scrawled with Echo sees all.
Forensics buzzed around as Marcus questioned Elena. “When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Yesterday afternoon. Consultation on a patient.” Her voice shook. Crowe had been evasive, mentioning “old debts” before hanging up.
A tech approached. “Detective, found this on the body.” A note: Ask Voss about the ritual. The mirror breaks tonight.
Marcus turned to Elena. “What ritual?”
“I don’t know!” But flashes hit her: childhood memories of her parents in a candlelit room, chanting before a massive mirror. Blackout fragments.
As they left, Elena’s phone buzzed again. Echo’s voice: “Crowe knew too much. You’re next unless you remember. Meet me at the old lighthouse. Midnight. Come alone.”
Marcus overheard. “You’re not going.”
“I have to. It’s the only lead.”
He sighed. “Fine. But I’m tailing you.”
Midnight approached, fog thick as secrets. Elena climbed the lighthouse steps, wind howling. At the top, a figure waited in the shadows.
“Echo?” she called.
The figure stepped forward—a man in his 30s, face scarred. “Not Echo. But I know who is. And they’re closer than you think.”
Before he could say more, a shot rang out. The man crumpled, blood spraying. Elena whirled—Marcus stood below, gun drawn? No, he was rushing up.
The shooter vanished into the fog. Elena knelt by the dying man. “Who? Tell me!”
He gasped: “Your sister… Lila. She’s—”
His eyes glazed over. Dead.
Below, Marcus shouted: “Voss! Get down!”
But as Elena descended, she spotted a reflection in a puddle: her own face, smirking back—impossibly, independently.
The blackout struck again. When she awoke, she was holding the gun, smoke curling from the barrel.
- Writer
