They follow the tracks across Carrick, soaked and shivering, the both of them set with narrowed eyes and downturned lips. Lacey rides through the grass on the bike she "borrowed," and Gideon plunks across the railroad planks until they see the road beside them fade from asphalt to gravel and turn into the trailer park. They crunch up the weakly laid path until they come to what should be Dolly's trailer. Upon dismounting the bike, Lacey bumps her knuckles against Gideon's arm and gestures towards the windows. "Lights are on. She's definitely home."

She makes a mental note as she walks the bike up to the door that Clint's old clunker isn't there, then tosses the thing down with a loud clatter where the imprints of his tires in the dirt sit. In a couple more strides, she hauls herself up the metal steps and, teetering at the top on sore legs, gives the door a hard knock.

Lacey glances back at Gideon as they wait. A few moments pass. No answer. Sucking in an aggressive breath, she turns back, arcs her arm, and launches her fist into the door. She doesn't stop, either, until the trailer finally shakes and the warm light from inside blinds her. She blinks profusely and steps back, trying to differentiate the features on this tall, impressive silhouette.

Dolly stands there, arms crossed over her chest, donned in sweatpants cut off to be shorts and that same black hoodie from before with the hole ripped into the collar. For a moment, she almost doesn't recognize her with that mountain of hair hidden away in a towel, but the sharp curve of her nose and the hawk-like nature of her face immediately distinguishes her. "What in God's name are you doing here lookin' like that?" Those features zero in on a spot on the ground behind her, dark eyes turned to glinting beads. "I thought you said you kicked that thing off a bridge."

Lacey turns her head to the bike. Oops. "Right. I lied. But I don't think I'm the only one who's been doing that as of late." She lifts her gaze into Dolly's and stares at her unblinkingly. The woman's features remain stuck, harsh, and in all honesty, it makes her want to duck her head and crawl back home to face an entirely different beast, but she pretends it doesn't irk her.

After enough of that, Dolly finally sighs and steps aside. "Well, at least come on out of the rain. I won't be responsible for y'all gettin' pneumonia 'cause I refused to be hospitable."

Don't have to tell me twice. Lacey steps inside gladly, and Gideon follows suite. The trailer shakes a bit with their movement, but Dolly seems unbothered. To the right, there's a counter with a small stove, fridge, cabinets; she leans up against this counter and lights a cigarette. Lacey remembers Isaac doing the same thing just an hour ago, remembers this woman cleaning the blood from her forehead the morning prior. A dark sickness curdles in her gut. "I think we should sit down and have a nice, long talk," she says, grinding her teeth together.

Dolly waves her cigarette through the air and releases a bitter puff into the cramped space. "Just speed it on up. I don't plan on stayin' up all night."

"We went and talked to Isaac."

Both look to Gideon, whose cheeks have taken on a hollow look in this light. He stares at her with complete seriousness - still a look Lacey's not sure she'll ever get used to. Dolly's face is blank, but her lips work uncomfortably around the cigarette. After a while, she plucks it out and crushes the embers, flicking it down into the ceramic ashtray.

To establish that they're not leaving, Lacey scoots into a cushioned seat to the left and clasps her hands over the small table attached to the wall. Dolly sees this, licks her teeth, settles into the seat across from her. Gideon doesn't sit.

"Now why would y'all put yourselves at risk like that? I thought we talked about how-"

"Someone lied," Lacey interrupts, venom seeping between her teeth. "He said he never spoke to Stella outside of one meeting for her scholarship. We also told him it was- well, one of your clients that told us the whole spiel about Stella getting in his car all those nights. He said it was likely they were making it up to make him seem like the bad guy so he, Clint, could get Isaac out of the picture, but we didn't tell him it was Clint, but um, still." Lacey leans forward. "Is it true Isaac is one of your clients?"

The woman averts her gaze. She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, chews on it. "Yup, yeah. That's true. I just-"

"You just what? Killed Stella and now you're trying to cover it up?"

"No!" Appalled. "Those are sick, sick words! Makes me gag in my mouth. Don't go pointing the damn finger wherever the hell just 'cause you can't point it at Isaac anymore." But the harshness falls from her features with closed eyes, as does the towel from her hair as she pulls it from her head and tosses it to the linoleum with a wet smack. She combs fingers through the damp tangles. "Listen, kids, I'm just as confused as y'all. All's I know is what Clint's told me. All those people that saw it too, allegedly, he's the one who told me he went around and got the same story. I just can't fathom why he'd go and lie to anyone about that. Me, of all people."

Lacey raises a brow. I can fathom a few reasons why. However, despite the grumps working their way through her skull, her eyes, and her tired muscles, some inkling of sympathy pushes her forward, brings her hands together on the table in some gesture of negotiation. They're all confused here, all in the same boat, all trying to untangle this new fucky web. So, as Dolly struggles to untangle her fucky web of hair, Lacey throws her a bone. "Listen. If Isaac is telling the truth, then Clint lied to all of us. Do you still trust him?"

She flicks one wrist to the air, shakes her head, doesn't make eye contact. "I...can't say for sure. I really don't think he's lying. I mean, he wouldn't hurt a fly. I've known him for years. He's got nothin' to hide, and even if he does, I'm not sure he's organized enough to keep all these lies in order. It doesn't add up."

"Well," Lacey adds, irked, "do you want to help us figure it out for sure?"

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, like, keep an eye on him. See if he does or says anything suspicious. Try to catch him in other lies. I don't know. Just investigate, maybe."

Dolly curls her lip. Her tongue jams into her cheek and the bump protrudes from her face. "I really don't know. If he finds out, then that'll put a rift in our trust of one another, and trust is the main thing between us. If we ain't got trust then we ain't got nothin'."

"But if he did lie, that's a rift as is," Lacey insists. "Don't you wanna know?"

She considers this for a moment. Lacey certainly feels the tantalizing air of her own question lingering from her mouth. Then, with a heavy sigh and a flick of her wet hair to one shoulder, the woman nods. "Fine. I'll keep an eye on Clint for y'all but mostly just to see if this man's been lying to me."

There's a shuffling to the side, and the two turn to see Gideon rustling with some shit on the counter. He turns back around with a notepad and a chewed-up pen and slaps the former down on the table. He hunches over, hair falling over his eyes in a wavy mess, as he scribbles out a number. His number.

Dolly tsks. "Oh, hon, y'already-"

"Don't act like I didn't see you crumple it up and drop it when I gave it to you the first time. Here." With his index and middle finger he pushes the notepad towards her and then straightens his posture. He takes a few steps back to return to his previous place, too, but he overdoes it and stumbles into the counter a bit, disoriented.

A warmth fills the concerned creases in Dolly's face where previously there'd been a chill, and she slowly stands, eyes darting from point to point to try and deduce what's wrong. "You okay, honeybunch?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm just dizzy. It'll pass." He waves her off but she continues to roam the three cubic feet of her kitchen, first grabbing a water from the fridge and then collecting a roll of crackers from a cabinet. She places both on the table where she'd previously been sitting and points, firm and stern.

"Sit. Eat."

"Oh, no, I-"

"If you don't finish off this crap then I'm not helping either one of you."

He quickly slips into the seat with that and, though he struggles with the cap of the water, he starts taking measured sips. While he does that, Dolly dips down and collects her damp towel from the floor. She tosses it at Lacey's chest. "Wipe some of that mud off while you're here," Dolly says, moving to reorganize her counter. "Don't know what the hell y'all did over at Isaac's, but the less a damn mess y'all look going back to wherever the hell you're going, the better."

A fair point. She starts scrubbing the dried chunks from her face. The material is scratchy and rough, but it seems to get the job done well enough to give some semblance of yellow back to her shirt. For a while, there's a comfortable silence between them all as she clears away the grime and Gideon crunches on crackers and Dolly stands there to make sure they do what they ought to.

But at some point within that silence, she hears a clicking, pattering, quiet plunking, and glances up. A moth keeps slamming its frail body into the ceiling lamp. Over. And over. And over. Lacey stares at it. Right.

Without taking her eyes away, she says, "Stella went to interview a prostitute for a couple days before she went missing. I gotta ask. Was it you?"

There's an exhale. An exhale that says, "Are you kidding me?" Or, at least, that's what she thinks it says, at first. Until Dolly runs a hand over her face and, through pursed lips, says, "Yes. It was me."

When Lacey asked she hadn't genuinely been expecting affirmation. It was a shot in the dark, a question she could later say she asked, something that wasn't supposed to lead to nothing new. But now, with these words fresh out of Dolly's mouth, she turns her gaze sharply to the woman, brows knit and nose crinkled. Gideon stops mid-chew, too, and he looks at her from under unblinking lashes.

Dolly screws her face up to the side and tucks her arms under her armpits. She bounces on her heels. "Listen, all I did was talk to her. She asked me questions, I answered. That's it."

Lacey, for a split second, wants to start accusing again, and opens her mouth to do so, but at the last second before the words come out, she switches gears. They spin backwards and the contents of her chest turn to dull mush.

"How was she? What'd she ask?"

Dolly is just as struck by this method of questioning, and she nods, shrugs. "Well...she was bright. Enthused. Careful in her word choice. Delicate, y'know, but in an outward way, as in she wasn't delicate but she treated others like they were. As for questions, they were just...typical interview questions. What it was like. What my life was like. Why I still do it. Things I wish people were more aware of. The list goes on." She gestures towards the back room, where a bed and some armchairs sit. "We'd sit in those chairs over there and I'd let her make tea up here and she'd bring it back and we'd just talk. But that's all we did. I don't know what she did or where she went before or after those talks."

Then, a pang. Betrayal. It comes up as a hoarse lump in her throat. "How come you didn't just tell us that before?"

The woman rolls her eyes. "I didn't know you kids very well. I still don't. And when you're in my position, having a truth like this puts your own future at risk. It don't look good. I couldn't do it. It's horrible that sweet girl's dead, but I gotta look out for myself here, first and foremost. And darlin', even if I had told you, it wouldn't've changed anything. She came 'round here that morning and left for rehearsal. The rest is history. There's nothin' else I can offer to this story and that's the same thing I'd tell the police if they came around. I'm sorry." She ducks her head and starts fiddling with the cigarette butt in the ashes. "I promise I'll do my part by watchin' Clint. But that's all I can do."

All you can do my ass, after keeping that from us, Lacey thinks, but Gideon turns to the woman and offers a solemn smile. He seems in better spirits now that he's hydrated and somewhat fed. "Thank you. We appreciate it. I feel better having more help."

But Lacey knows this woman won't help. She said it herself: she has to look out for herself first and foremost. So Lacey looks at her hands and clears her throat. "I think it's time for us to go. My dad is probably having a stroke wondering where I've been. I haven't been home in..." Her stomach drops as the hours rack up. "Like a day and a half, almost two. Oh, fuck. He'll kill me."

She picks herself up from the seat and opens the door, letting in the chill. The rain's stopped. Without a second glance, she drums down the steps, Gideon following behind her. Dolly must stand in the doorway behind them because she says, clear, "You two take care now. I'll let y'all know if I see anything."

Bullshit. She mounts the bike without another word and the rectangle of yellow light illuminating the dirt at their feet disappears with a clatter. Good riddance. A small part of her wants to stick around - Stella had spent time here on her last day on earth - but she casts the thought out and starts pedalling.

It's a long, tedious walk back, and she has to go slow for Gideon's sake, poor guy. But eventually she starts recognizing the neighborhood. She's not eager for Jeremy's wrath, but her bed sure is enough motivation to get her through the door. Before then, though, Gideon insists on stopping at Erie's and checking on his rat. Laurel answers and he doesn't go in, simply reminds her to check on Ray, but he seems more at ease afterwards, and they carry on.

They carry on.

She wants to say something, but there's nothing to say. Or maybe there's too much to say. Too much has happened and too much has slipped out of their grasp and too much has coiled around them. So she keeps quiet, watching the street lamps buzz with activity, little bugs clinking against the glass to try and reach the light. Gideon's eyes flutter every now and then. He must be exhausted. This, this is something she can comment on, and she prepares to once they turn the corner of the street.

Once they turn the corner of the street, words flee, because a girl steals them.

She stands in the middle of the road, maybe twenty, thirty feet away, illuminated by the full glow of a streetlamp. She's child-like, but no child; nor is she old. Early teens, maybe. And maybe it's the light or the general hue of her skin, but she's pale, nearly translucent if not for how dusty she is. A dress comes down to just above her knees and it could've been white once but now hangs from her bony figure, beige with dirt. Her hair is thickly coated with clumps of similar ashen debris.

However, the most clear aspect of this girl is not the girl herself, but the plethora of moths flying around her, like moths to an unlit lamp, dozens upon dozens of them. They flap their small wings and change course sharply mid-flight, but they always keep close.

This, of course, startles Lacey at first. Her first instinct is to turn back and run because fuck, not another one, but she gives it a little more attention. There's no sour tinge to the air. Doesn't particularly smell like Benevolence, either. She's like the fates in the sense that she leans neither this way nor that way, but different in the sense that she smells...earthy. The aura pulsating from her isn't unlike a salty breeze from the ocean, crisp on the skin and fresh under the nose. It's rough and thick and juicy and it smells of it too, a blend of pine and must and fruits, a conglomeration all mashing together at once and overwhelming her sixth sense in a way that nearly gives her a migraine but still feels good to breathe and experience.

Maybe it's because her presence has the same weight as a living being, just one that isn't all there, not entirely.

Usually, Lacey would be done walking directly into danger. This? No thanks, we'll take the long route. But with her salt stores nearly through, and recalling how those moths had simply landed on the limbs of that six-armed woman and incapacitated her, well, an odd sort of self-preservataion takes hold, one that encourages the risk, and she steps closer.

"Why are you acting like that?" Gideon asks, quiet.

"Ghost," Lacey mutters. "I think she's friendly."

"Since when have they ever been friendly before?"

She ignores him. He takes note of this, shrugs, and keeps close to her side as she follows the girl, who's now turned and started up the street. There's a slight limp in her step. A few moths brush against her bare calves. A surreal sight.

They follow her around a bend where the suburbs end and the houses start to spread out more, and they follow her past the gas station where Lacey had barricaded herself a few nights prior, and they follow her past the road leading to the taped-off diner, and they follow her down the narrow street leading to the old, small warehouse and storage sheds Lacey had run from her first few nights back. Naturally, this makes her stomach curdle, seeing that flickering lamp-post again, crunching over these pebbled excuses for filled potholes, but she carries on - this spirit's aura has an undeniable peace to it, and the moment she starts to consider turning back, her chest calms and her breath comes easy.

Eventually, Moth Girl (as Lacey has decided to dub her) stops at a busted window at the start of the slim warehouse, and when Lacey raises her brows at the makeshift entrance, the gentle entity smiles and drifts through the old panelling. She nearly sets her palms directly on the sill to get in, too, before Gideon stops her and lays his sweatshirt across the sill to babyproof it. "I trust you," he says, jumping in afterwards and retrieving the fabric, "so don't lead us into more crazy stuff. I'm too tired to deal with it right now."

"You're telling me," she says, scanning the room for the girl. She's not hard to find, what with the soft sound of moths bumping into everything making it quite clear where she is. They make eye contact for only a brief moment for the Moth Girl disappears through the only doorway in the bare room and starts down a corridor.

Lacey steps foot across the threshold. It's narrow, and on either side sit windows stretching down the entire hall, the glass purposely blurred to keep insiders from looking out and outsiders from looking in. But to the left, the outside street-light casts a white, refracted glow through the hall, and upon the glass are dark hands, pressing in, moving places, smacking for entrance. Lacey yelps and pushes Gideon in her escape to the right, but hands smack the glass beside her head there, too, and an agonized moan emanates from the other side, muffled.

She settles for the center, trembling as she glances to the left, to the right. If this glass gives, she's fucked, because surely, this has to be Malevolence - but the stink of them isn't there, and the Moth Girl simply sighs. Through her lips flies another moth, one that lands on the window and seems unbothered by the various hands tapping the glass.

"Is this a trap?" Lacey whispers. Not that she thinks the girl will answer.