Chapter 3 The Nightmare (Evelyn's POV)

I looked at Jonas, saw the conflict in his dark eyes; the boy who'd once loved me warring with the sheriff who suspected me.

"It's fine," I said. "I have nothing to hide."

But even as I said it, I wondered if that was true.

Daniel was already walking toward his SUV. "Ten minutes, Ms. Cross. Don't make me come looking for you."

As he drove away, the crowd began to disperse, their whispers following them like a poison breeze. Jonas lingered, his eyes searching my face for something I couldn't give him.

"Evie," he said, using the nickname he'd called me since we were kids. "Tell me he's wrong. Tell me you had nothing to do with this."

I wanted to. God, how I wanted to give him that reassurance. But as I looked at Sarah Kellerman's body still hanging from the tree, at the fresh blood marking her forehead with my family's curse, I wasn't sure I could.

"I don't know," I whispered. "I honestly don't know."

The hurt that flashed across Jonas's face was worse than any accusation.

"Then God help us all," he said, and walked away.

That night, I returned to my childhood home; a Victorian monstrosity on Elm Street that had belonged to the Cross family for five generations. Every room held memories I'd spent a decade trying to forget. My parents' bedroom, where my father had died alone. The kitchen, where my mother had stopped eating in those final weeks. The living room, where we'd once been happy.

I'd planned to stay at the inn, but something drew me back here. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was stubbornness. Or maybe it was the need to face my demons in the place where they'd been born.

The house was exactly as my father had left it. Dust motes danced in the afternoon light, and the air smelled of old books and regret. I climbed the stairs to my old bedroom, my footsteps echoing in the empty hallway.

The room was a shrine to my teenage years. Posters of bands I'd forgotten, books I'd never finished, photographs of friends who now looked at me like I was poison. On the nightstand sat a framed picture of Jonas and me at prom, both of us young and stupid and in love with possibilities.

I picked up the frame, studying our faces. He'd been so handsome in his rented tux, and I'd felt like a princess in my blue dress. We'd talked about the future that night—college, marriage, the life we'd build together in Hollow's End.

Instead, I'd run. And he'd stayed, and grown bitter, and learned to hate me.

Exhaustion finally claimed me. I collapsed onto my old bed still wearing my funeral dress, too tired to change, too numb to care. Sleep came quickly, bringing with it dreams I'd hoped never to have again.

I was standing in the cemetery, but it was different. The headstones were cracked and moss-covered, and the trees grew so thick they blocked out the sun. In the distance, I could hear sobbing.

I followed the sound through the maze of graves until I reached the old oak tree. But instead of Sarah Kellerman hanging there, it was my mother. Margaret Cross swayed in the wind, her neck bent at an impossible angle, her eyes open and accusing.

"Evelyn," she whispered, though her lips didn't move. "You were supposed to save me."

I tried to run, but my feet were rooted to the ground. Tried to speak, but my voice was gone. All I could do was watch as my mother's dead eyes fixed on mine.

"You were supposed to save me," she said again, her voice growing louder, more insistent. "Why didn't you save me?"

The dream shifted, and suddenly I was seven years old again, standing in the doorway of the barn behind our house. My mother knelt in the hay, a rope in her hands, tears streaming down her face.

"Mommy?" Little me called out.

But dream-Margaret didn't turn. Instead, she began to tie the rope into a noose, her movements precise and deliberate.

"You were supposed to save me," she repeated, and this time the voice came from all around me, echoing from the walls, the hay, the very air itself.

I woke with a gasp, my heart hammering against my ribs. Sweat soaked my funeral dress, and my hands shook as I reached for the bedside lamp. The clock read 3:17 AM—the hour of nightmares and regrets.

Something was wrong.

I sat up slowly, my eyes adjusting to the darkness.

The mirror above my dresser caught the moonlight, and I could see my reflection—pale, wild-haired, haunted. But there was something else. Something written across the glass in what looked like fresh blood.

My breath caught in my throat as I read the words scratched into the mirror's surface:

You were supposed to save me.

The same words from my dream. The same words my dead mother had whispered in the darkness of sleep.

But I was awake now. Wide awake and alone in a house that should have been empty.

Someone or something had been in my room while I slept.