Chapter 2

"Think about it," Silas locked eyes with me. "Elise spent her entire life in Black Creek. If the killer went after her legs like that, it couldn't have been spontaneous. He must've watched her for a long time."

"And she was already the second girl killed at that camp. Nobody but a local would know the area and everyone's patterns that well."

"What about the flea market?" I cut in. "Elise sold those repaired dolls at the town square every weekend. Could a passing trucker have spotted her there?"

"We ran that lead into the ground."

Silas grimaced. "Fifteen years ago, we spent months swabbing every man in town—and every worker at the factories nearby."

"And?"

"Nothing. Not even a maybe."

"If we can't pin it on someone local, he's gotta be passing through, right?"

"But that makes even less sense!

"Black Creek's so damn small, a stranger sticks out like a sore thumb. Yet this bastard operated right under our noses, killed two girls back-to-back, without leaving a single witness.

"So the odds of an outsider? Basically zero."

My blood ran cold as it hit me. "That's the first wall—he's definitely local, but we swabbed the whole town and didn't get a single goddamn match."

"Exactly. That fucking catch-22 nearly broke us." Silas rubbed the bridge of his nose, but his eyes stayed hard with frustration, his words coming faster:

"Couldn't find a local match, so we were stuck looking at outsiders.

"But that makes even less sense! Some outsiders couldn't possibly navigate those godawful backroads around the trailer park!

"What, he just happened to be wandering through a blizzard at three a.m. carrying a hacksaw? Just happened to run into Elise? And his sick fetish just happened to kick in right then and there?

"That's horseshit! Two perfectly executed kills, back-to-back, zero witnesses—that's not luck!"

"Yeah...it's impossible..." My skin crawled.

An outsider couldn't pull it off that clean. But no local was in the system. We were stuck.

And Silas said this was only the first wall.

"What happened after that?" I broke the silence urgently. "You're telling me nothing turned up in fifteen years?"

"There was something." Silas suddenly jerked his chair forward, his body nearly pressed against the table. "And that's the real reason I tracked you down."

"Everything I'm about to tell you doesn't leave this room."

My whole body tensed. I nodded hard, my palms clammy.

"Back then, the state police task force sent us this old detective named Frank Vance.

"Stubborn old bastard. Wouldn't let go of what the victims were doing before they died, obsessed with tracking their last days.

"At first I hated his approach."

"You know how it is—these girls were just poor and vulnerable. Any piece of shit could target them. Digging through their private lives felt like victim-blaming.

"Until one day, Frank actually found something that didn't add up.

"And that's the second wall I need to tell you about—those broken dolls Elise sold at the market."

"Dolls?"

The word hit me like an ice pick to the skull.

Bloody images flooded back:

—Fifteen years ago, my mother covered in mud, clawing at the ground beside Elise's severed body.

—Years later, in the psychiatric ward, Mom clutching my wrist as she died, rasping out that question.

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing down the bile rising in my throat.

"...You alright?"

Silas paused for only a second. Without waiting for an answer, he pushed on:

"I know dredging this up is brutal. But back then, you were the only one who could tell us about Elise's last days."

He exhaled roughly. "Your mother lost it, your stepfather was drunk off his ass. Making an eleven-year-old kid endure questioning was shitty, but you were our only lead."

"I get it." I took a deep breath, fighting the tremor in my voice. "Police cars rolled through the camp every day. Even as a kid, I knew..."

"In that godforsaken place, all we had was each other."

Silas didn't waste a second on sentiment. He flipped open a yellowed notebook and cut straight to it:

"So you said back then that every time Elise went to the flea market, she'd leave alone before dawn in the snow, right?"

"Right." My throat tightened. "I wanted to go with her, but it was so early... I just couldn't wake up..."

"Meaning you had no idea who she actually met at that market."

Silas's voice dropped lower. "But you told us she always sold out—every doll. And she'd bring you snacks with the money, still had enough to stash in that tin box under her bed."

"Yeah, because Elise was talented."

My voice softened: "Those dirty dolls from the trash—arms missing, legs broken off—she'd patch them up with plaster and repaint them. They'd come out prettier than store-bought. She always sold out..."

"That's why after she died, I never touched toys again."

Silas slammed the notebook shut, cutting me off.

"That's the second wall."