Chapter 5 Shadows of Doubt (Evelyn's POV)

The silence stretched between us like a taut wire, ready to snap.

Daniel's expression remained unreadable, those gray eyes studying me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. I couldn't tell if he believed me or if he was calculating how quickly he could slap handcuffs on my wrists.

"Say something," I whispered.

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his dark hair. "I don't know what to say, Evelyn. That's either the truth, or it's the most elaborate deflection I've ever heard."

"It's the truth."

"Maybe." He turned back to the mirror, examining the bloody message again with professional detachment. "But truth and guilt aren't mutually exclusive. You could be telling me the truth about your mother and still be responsible for what's happening now."

My chest tightened. "You think I'm killing people?"

"You're connected to the deaths somehow. Whether intentionally or not." He pulled out his phone, typing something quickly. "I'm calling in a forensics team to process this scene. Don't touch anything."

"This is my house."

"This is a crime scene." His tone left no room for argument. "Someone broke in here last night and left a threatening message. That makes it part of an active investigation."

I wanted to argue, to push back against his cold authority, but exhaustion weighed me down like stones. I hadn't slept properly in days, and the adrenaline that had kept me upright was finally draining away.

Daniel must have seen something in my face because his expression softened fractionally. "Have you eaten?"

The question surprised me. "Uhh, no."

He muttered something under his breath that sounded like a curse. "Go downstairs. Make coffee or tea or whatever. I need to secure the house before the team arrives."

"Secure it how?"

"Check all entry points. Windows, doors, basement access." He was already moving toward my bedroom door, his hand instinctively going to his holstered weapon. "See if whoever left that message is still here."

The thought sent ice through my veins. "You think they might still be in the house?"

"No, and that's extremely." He paused in the doorway, glancing back at me. "Stay downstairs. If you hear anything unusual, call out. Don't investigate on your own."

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

Daniel disappeared into the hallway, and I heard his footsteps moving methodically from room to room. I forced myself to move, to descend the stairs on shaking legs, each creak of the old wood making me flinch.

The kitchen looked exactly as I'd left it yesterday—sink full of unwashed dishes, yesterday's coffee cold in the pot, mail scattered across the counter. Normal. Mundane. Nothing like the horror show upstairs.

I turned on the faucet, letting water run over my hands until it scalded. The pain was grounding, real, something to focus on besides the growing dread in my chest.

You were supposed to save me.

My mother's voice, or something wearing her voice. The message had been meant to hurt, to remind me of my greatest failure. But who would know about those words? Who would know what my mother said in those final moments?

The floorboards above me groaned as Daniel moved through the second floor. I tried to map his progress by sound—the spare bedroom, the bathroom, the attic stairs.

I was filling the kettle when I heard it.

A whisper, so faint I almost missed it beneath the sound of running water.

"Run, baby girl. Run and never come back."

My mother's words from her suicide note, spoken in her voice, coming from the hallway just beyond the kitchen door.

The kettle slipped from my hands, clattering into the sink. Water splashed across the counter, soaking the scattered mail, but I barely noticed. My entire body had gone rigid, every instinct screaming at me to run, to get out of this house, to never look back.

But I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.

"But I won't let it have you."

Another whisper, closer now. Coming from the shadows where the hallway met the kitchen.

"Daniel?" My voice came out thin, strangled.

No response. His footsteps had stopped moving above me.

"The Hollow wants you next."

I backed away from the hallway, my hip colliding painfully with the counter. The shadows seemed to writhe and pulse, reaching toward me with formless fingers.

"Daniel!" Louder this time, edged with panic.

Heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs. Daniel burst into the kitchen, weapon drawn, eyes sharp and alert. "What happened?"

I pointed at the hallway with a trembling hand. "Someone's there. I heard them."

He moved past me in one fluid motion, checking the hallway, the living room beyond, the coat closet. I watched him work, professional and efficient, while my heart hammered against my ribs.

After a tense minute, he lowered his weapon. "There's no one here."

"I heard whispers. My mother's voice."

His expression shifted, concern mixing with that clinical assessment. "What did the voice say?"

I told him, the words tumbling out in a rush. As I spoke, I watched his face for any sign that he believed me, that he understood I wasn't losing my mind.

Instead, he holstered his weapon and pulled out a small notebook. "The exact words from her suicide note?"

"Yes."

"That you mentioned to me approximately ten minutes ago."

The implication hit me like cold water. "You think I'm making this up."

"Stress and sleep deprivation can cause auditory hallucinations." He was using that careful tone again, the one that made me feel like a suspect instead of a victim. "Combined with trauma and returning to a place filled with painful memories..."

"I know what I heard."

"I'm sure you think you do."

Anger flared hot in my chest, burning away the fear. "Don't patronize me, Agent Ward. I'm not some hysterical woman imagining things."

"I didn't say you were."

"You didn't have to." I crossed my arms, holding myself together through sheer stubbornness. "But if you think I'm so unstable, why are you here? Why not just arrest me and be done with it?"

Daniel studied me for a long moment, and something shifted in his expression, a crack in that professional facade. "Because I've seen enough death to know the difference between guilt and grief. And whatever else you might be, Evelyn Cross, you're grieving."

I looked away, blinking hard against the sudden sting of tears.

"The house is clear," he said quietly. "All entry points are locked from the inside. No signs of forced entry except for the front door I kicked in."

"So how did they get in to write the message?"

"That's what we need to figure out." He moved to the kitchen window, examining the lock. "Does anyone else have a key to this house?"

"Jonas might. He helped my father after my mother died, checking on the place when my father got too sick to manage alone."

Daniel's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Sheriff Hale."

"He's not a suspect."

"Everyone's a suspect until they're not." He made another note in his book. "Anyone else?"

"Maybe Mrs. Henderson, our neighbor. My father gave her a spare key years ago in case of emergencies."

"I'll need to interview them both." He closed his notebook, sliding it back into his jacket. "In the meantime, you can't stay here."

"This is my house."

"This is a crime scene," he repeated. "And potentially dangerous. Whoever wrote that message knew exactly where to find you, knew what would hurt you most. That suggests either intimate knowledge of your past or..."

"Or what?"

He met my eyes. "Or they're connected to what's happening in the woods."

Before I could respond, someone pounded on the front door—or what remained of it after Daniel's dramatic entrance.

"Evelyn!" Jonas's voice, sharp with urgency. "Evelyn, are you in there?"

Daniel and I exchanged a glance. His expression had gone carefully neutral, but I saw the way his shoulders tensed.

"In here," I called out.

Jonas appeared in the kitchen doorway seconds later, still in uniform, his hand resting on his own weapon. His dark eyes swept the room, landing first on me, then on Daniel, then back to me. Something dangerous flickered across his face.

"Mrs. Henderson called the station. Said she heard screaming from your house." His gaze shifted to Daniel, hardening. "Didn't realize you had company."

"Agent Ward was securing the scene," I said quickly, trying to defuse whatever was building between them.

"Scene?" Jonas stepped further into the kitchen, his body language aggressive. "What scene?"

"Someone broke into Ms. Cross's house last night," Daniel said, his tone professional but cold. "Left a threatening message in her bedroom."

Jonas's attention snapped back to me, and for a moment, I saw genuine concern break through his anger. "Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine."

"What kind of message?"

Daniel moved slightly, positioning himself between Jonas and the doorway, a subtle but deliberate barrier. "That's part of an ongoing federal investigation. I can't share details."

"Like hell you can't." Jonas's voice dropped to something dangerous. "This is my jurisdiction, Agent Ward. My town. If something happened to Evelyn, I have a right to know."

"Your town has become the hunting ground for a serial killer," Daniel countered. "That makes it federal jurisdiction. And Ms. Cross's safety is now part of my investigation."

"Your investigation." Jonas laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You've been here two days. I've known Evelyn since we were kids. I've protected this town for ten years. Don't walk into my home and tell me how to do my job."

The tension in the room had become suffocating. I could feel the weight of Jonas's hurt, his jealousy barely contained beneath professional courtesy. And Daniel—Daniel stood there like a wall of ice, unmoved and unyielding.

"Both of you, stop," I said, my voice cutting through their standoff. "Jonas, someone wrote 'You were supposed to save me' in blood on my bedroom mirror. Daniel is processing the scene. That's all that's happening here."

Jonas went very still. "Your mother's words."

"Yes."

"Who else knows about that?"

"No one. Just family." I hesitated. "And you."

Daniel's expression sharpened with interest, and I realized my mistake immediately.

"I didn't write it," Jonas said flatly, his eyes locked on mine. "If that's what you're suggesting."

"I'm not suggesting anything."

"But he is." Jonas jerked his chin toward Daniel. "That's what this is about, isn't it? You think I'm involved somehow. That's why you're really here, playing bodyguard."

Daniel's silence was answer enough.

Jonas's laugh was bitter, broken. "After everything we've been through, Evie. After everything I did for you, for your family. You really think I could hurt you?"

The use of my childhood nickname felt like a knife between my ribs. "Jonas..."

"Save it." He turned toward the door, then stopped, looking back at me with eyes full of wounded fury. "You left once without saying goodbye. Guess I should have expected you'd turn on me just as easily."

"That's not fair."

"Fair?" His voice cracked. "Nothing about this is fair. You left your father to die alone. Left this town to rot. And now you come back, and people start dying, and you're asking if I'm the monster?"

"I never said..."

"You didn't have to." He looked at Daniel. "You want to investigate someone? Start with her. She's the only common denominator in all of this."

Then he was gone, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor, the broken front door slamming behind him.

The silence he left behind felt heavier than his presence.

"Well," Daniel said quietly. "That was illuminating."

I couldn't speak. My throat had closed up, tears burning behind my eyes. Jonas's words had found every vulnerable place inside me and torn them open again.

Daniel moved closer, not touching me but near enough that I could feel his presence. "For what it's worth, I don't think you're responsible for the deaths."

"But you're not sure."

"I'm never sure until I have proof." He paused. "But my instincts are usually good. And my instincts say you're a victim here, not a perpetrator."

"Usually good?"

"I was wrong once. My brother died because of it." The confession came out flat, emotionless, but I heard the pain buried beneath. "So I don't trust my instincts anymore. I trust evidence."

I looked up at him, this cold, damaged man who'd kicked down my door and interrogated me about my deepest trauma. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you asked me to say something." His gray eyes held mine. "And because I think we both know what it's like to fail the people we love."

The moment stretched between us, heavy with shared pain and reluctant understanding. Then Daniel stepped back, breaking the spell.

"Pack a bag," he said. "Enough for a few days. You're not staying here until we figure out what's happening."

"Where am I supposed to go?"

"There's a bed and breakfast on the edge of town. The Rosewood Inn. I already have a room there, I'll book you one too."

"I can't afford..."

"Bureau's paying. Consider it protective custody." He pulled out his phone. "I'll call in the forensics team now. They'll process the scene, and I'll have someone watch the house until we know it's secure."

I should have argued. Should have insisted on staying in my own home, maintaining some semblance of control over my life. But exhaustion and fear had worn me down to nothing.

"Okay," I whispered.

Daniel made the call while I went upstairs to pack, carefully avoiding looking at the bloody mirror. I threw clothes into a bag without thinking, grabbed my laptop and phone charger, the basics of survival.

When I came back downstairs, Daniel was waiting by the destroyed front door, his expression unreadable.

"Ready?"

I looked around the house that had been my prison and my sanctuary, filled with ghosts and memories and fresh blood. "No. But let's go anyway."