For a town that had held its breath for years, Ridgewood exhaled slowly.
The newspapers printed vague stories about the asylum’s history, half-truths dressed as facts. Locals whispered in corners, eyes darting at the mention of Julia, the tapes, or what had been found beneath the collapsed wing. But no one said it aloud. Not fully. The truth was a slippery thing here, visible only in the spaces between sentences.
Julia hadn’t left town.
She was still staying at the motel on Route 6, room 204, the one with the flickering porch light and peeling floral curtains. Detective Kline had told her to disappear, to start over, but something in her refused to let go. Not yet.
Every night she lay awake, staring at the motel ceiling fan as it spun in slow, creaking circles. Her thoughts looped like
