Velvety night tossed and turned with plutonian darkness. Thunder deepened, heavy wind slid. Figures cast by the light were languid, yet fled with every new slash of infected yellow. Gloomy shadows gathered among the derelict houses. Out of the streams a chill breathed into mist, which crawled among the trailers. The meek flutter of leaves rustled like tattered skin draped over wood. Whispers, desperate exhalations, lingered on the edges. All who prowled on the streets bled sweet that rolled down hot skin. Drug ravaged bodies bathed in the wet breath of Owl Sticks.

Mutters and murmurs battered Tim's truck as they cruised. People shuffled about, aimless, yet they drew closer to the flash of lights. Skeletal faces leered. Clothes hung from emaciated bodies. Some laughed in bitter tones of miserable glee. Others moved in silence, listened to the song of the summer night. Word of a Van Lear involvement had spread.

The truck was parked far from Mulberry Vineyard. A glorified trailer park, the houses of the circle was a step above hovels. Only one still had occupants. Deputy cruisers were lined around the road, Sheriff's sedan in front of a double wide. The County Coroner was on his way, and the local law enforcement kept the crowd back.

Marie watched shadows, mind upon her family's tome, and shook her head to dispel the low whispers. She slipped into the night among a group of people. Tim hesitated at first but followed. People spoke to each other in low tones. Marie lingered near, and held a finger to Tim's lips, when he opened his mouth. It was time to listen.

One abhorrent trait ubiquitous among people, she learned, was the preoccupation with death. They fear it. They dwell on the darkness that awaited all. Death was a pool to the La Voison women, which depths was mired in dark glass.

The junkies scratched, bounced, and twitched as they traded information. With the violence of the deaths, words held dim glee. Some said a Van Lear was involved. One was certain that they had heard a gunshot. Another had heard two sets of gunshots. All were certain that two men were dead, the girl was unharmed. Marie mimicked their tones, jittered, and scratched. She fed their information back to them, pried at their stories, yet no more information surfaced. All stopped at the line of cruisers and deputies.

"Tim," a man said, blinked, "what are you doing here?"

He glanced at her, "I—"

"Tim is here to help," Marie smiled, "it looks like you guys have drawn a large crowd."

"We could use your help," the deputy breathed out, but his face crumpled when he drew in the rancid air. "They're getting worked up."

"What has them so riled?" she smiled at the deputy.

He looked at Tim, "Well…the incident is…pretty bad." The deputy looked at the Sheriff, who had walked away. They kept him separate from the scene.

Marie's green eyes, flecked with gold, followed his gaze. Rutger McWhorter glared in fury, until his eyes fell upon the yard. The man stretched out on the grass, eyes wide, and blood dried under his nose. Although young, hard features softer, his face was a mirror to the Sheriff. Somewhere, the wail of a woman rose then fell. Rutger turned, but forced his gaze away.

"Oh my," she looked at the deputy, "we'll help keep people away."

"Ma'am, I don't—"

"I KNOW THAT weasel is somewhere!" Rutger charged, but four deputies threw themselves against him.

"Come on, Tim," the Deputy gestured at him, but eyes slid past Marie.

She pasted the barrier, and followed Tim to the end of the line. "Tim is that Jesse the Sheriff's son?" she glanced back.

"Yes," he breathed, and his eyes filled. The flash of light turned tears into brilliant prisms.

"He tried so hard, I mean, his daddy never suffered foolishness. Jesse ran some boys off, who were harassing me," she blinked. All the investigations she conducted had always felt like an intellectual exercise. There were pieces of a puzzle that only needed to be found and connected. Memory of Jesse cut a phantom flame across her chest, but she shook away the pain. It was another truth to be unveiled, she swore, but the thought soured on the tongue.

They stood behind the barricade, less of the crowd had gathered here. Marie surveyed the rest of the yard to see the other dead man. She'd seen enough murder scenes to know he'd died fleeing. With all of the trailers there should be witnesses, but all appeared empty to her. Plenty of windows faced the yard. A tall wall blocked the other side of the home.

"Who is the other guy?" she felt a tickle at the back of her mind.

"Seth Gregory," he looked at the man sprawled in the yard, shook his head, "he was well-liked."

"Why would anyone want to harm Jesse and Seth?" she nibbled her lip. "Thought Rutger's boy would follow in his footsteps."

"He did," he ran a hand over strawberry blonde hair.

"Oh," she blinked, "someone killed a deputy!" Marie looked at the double wide trailer. It was dangerous to kill a cop, but the country was another matter. Hemlock Hurst had never had a member of its law enforcement murdered.

"I don't know about this, Inky," he shuffled, but held his ground. Clover-green eyes sparked, but the blush deepened to a dangerous shade of red.

"Feels a little scummy," she took his hand, which was strong, rough, "but I'm good at finding the truth."

"It's just kind of ghoulish," he squeezed her hand, and felt the dark veil of gloom lift. It had settled over him, enveloped his life like a shroud, which drained all light and life.

She blinked at his choice of words. For some of Hemlock Hurst had accused Bethany of being such, Marie recalled, but meant something else. Whispers rose at the thought, as if they prayed to be heard, avenged. The book, though still in the truck, seemed to burn in the night. She turned towards it, and she could still feel its leather. "The dead have the right to justice," Marie whispered, but her mother's words echoed in her ears.

Tim nodded, though hairs raised on the back of his neck. Bethany had said those exact words. "Okay, Inky, maybe you can help," he sighed.

"I know there is a story here," she heard the flutter of wings, and shadows moved at the edges. "There is something to find, because I can feel it," Marie knew you had to live in the story, until it's done.

Tim frowned, "I kind of feel like I'm at your mercy."

"Wow, way to let your curiosity get the better of you," she let go of his hand, gazed about. "When it comes to powerful families, the police often fail to deliver."

"I don't think Sheriff Rutger is going to let his son's murderer go free. Even if a Van Lear is involved," he leaned closer to her, "the McWhorters and Van Lears hate each other."

She nodded, and knew it was another bit of information to be investigated, "I'll come back to that, but I need to look about."

"Why do you need to do this?"

"People in power hide their misdeeds, and I mean to expose it," she said, though understood that she needed money.

Inside the trailer, the cries of the woman were nearly lost. A man stepped forward, hard eyes surveyed it all. The man's eyes were hidden under the trilby hat. Marie wondered how he could endure a three piece suit in this misery. Shadows gathered to him, and whispers rose in fury. Unbothered, he stared at the Sheriff.

Finally, Rutger saw him amongst the crowd. His hard eyes widened, "YOU get out of here! Tell that harpy, I'll catch him!" The well-dressed man was the only one, who stood his ground under the Sheriff's anger. He grinned. Rutger charged forward, as a hand went to his gun. Deputies rushed to him, before the weapon could leave its holster. At that moment, seeing an opportunity, the onlookers pushed forward to get a better look. Marie slipped back.