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𝙑𝙊𝙇𝙐𝙈𝙀 𝑰.  ──────────  RUIN!

❛ a child weaned on poison      considers harm a comfort. . . ❜
─── chapter three! ❫

003.  ╱    ❝ i looked around in a 𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉-
𝖘𝖔𝖆𝖐𝖊𝖉 𝖌𝖔𝖜𝖓, and i saw something
they can't 𝖙𝖆𝖐𝖊 𝖆𝖜𝖆𝖞. . . ❞

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TW / please read below :
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discussions + depictions of child abuse
implied religious abuse                 heavy
references   to   religion   +   christianity
depictions      of      murder    +    blood
graphic     descriptions     of     violence.

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﹙ 𝕱RIDAY ━ 𝕹OVEMBER 2ND, 1984 ﹚

     THE LINGERING SCENT OF STALE CIGARETTE SMOKE STUCK TO EVERY INCH OF ROOM 237 AT THE WEST LINN GRAND HOTEL. Heavy faded floral curtains covered the windows with slivers of sunlight peeking through, casting long shadows across the worn carpet. The room seemed frozen in time with its dated decor and color scheme—a relic of the hotel's grander days, which fit the name.

     F.B.I. Field Agents Jason Gideon and David Rossi sat at a small, circular table near the window, its veneer chipped and scarred from years of use. The table was cluttered with case files, crime scene photos, and a collection of empty coffee cups. A pair of reading glasses perched precariously on the edge of a manila folder, threatening to slip off at any moment.

     The twin beds, still unmade, bore the evidence of restless sleep—sheets tangled and pillows askew. Rossi's go-bag lay open on one bed, a pressed shirt hanging from the closet door in preparation for the day ahead. Gideon's belongings were more neatly arranged on the dresser, including a well-worn book of bird species native to the Pacific Northwest.

     The room's dated wallpaper, a faded pattern of muted gold and green, peeled at the corners. Underneath were several layers of past wallpaper patterns. A single painting hung crookedly on the wall—a generic landscape that'd likely witnessed countless investigations and troubled nights.

     In the corner, a small coffee maker gurgled as it struggled to produce another pot of the bitter, lukewarm liquid that'd sustained the agents through the night. The aroma of fresh coffee was helping keep them awake, too, but barely.

     The air conditioner hummed inefficiently, occasionally sputtering and rattling, protesting its continued service. Despite its efforts, the air in the room felt thick and heavy, laden with the weight of unresolved mysteries and unspoken theories.

     Gideon leaned back in his chair, the aged wood creaking. He rubbed his temples, his usually kind eyes clouded with frustration. The faint lines on his face seemed deeper in the harsh light of the hotel room.

     "Something's not adding up, Dave," he said, breaking the room's stuffy stillness. "I can't put my finger on it, but there's a piece missing."

     Rossi nodded, his growing goatee catching the dim light at his movement. He reached into his weathered leather briefcase, propped against the leg of the table. He pulled out a thick manila folder. "Maybe this will help. The lead detective let me borrow it last night. It's the twins' hospital records."

     Gideon's eyebrows raised slightly, and he took the file. "Hospital records? Why didn't we get these earlier?"

     "Small city bureaucracy," Rossi shrugged, his words tinged with understanding and irritation. "You know how it is."

     As Gideon began to read, his expression darkened. "Wait. Dave, look at this," he said, his voice tight with concern. "Over the last four years, both Carson and Malcolm have been to the hospital multiple times with various injuries."

     Immediately, Rossi leaned in and his chair groaned under his shift in weight. His eyes scanned the documents. "What are we looking at?"

     Tracing the lines of text, Gideon's brows furrowed deeper with each detail. He squinted at the paper. "For Carson: bruised ribs on multiple occasions, second-degree burns on her arms and back, a twisted ankle, swollen wrists, and a litany of bruises in various stages of healing."

     "Jesus," Rossi muttered, his jaw clenching.

     "It gets worse," Gideon continued, flipping to the next page. The paper crinkled loudly in the quiet room. His usually steady hands trembled slightly, betraying his growing distress. Oh, God. "Malcolm's records show a broken arm, sprained ankle, burns similar to Carson's, numerous cuts, and bruises." He paused, his finger hovering over a particular notation. "And here's something interesting—the twins had matching scars on their left palms."

    Carson's bandage yesterday...

     Rossi's attention honed in on the file. "Matching scars? That's unusual. Could be some sort of ritual or punishment specific to their abuser. Does the file say what the scars look like?"

     Silence.

     "Jason... What is it?"

     Gideon sighed, running a hand over his exhausted countenance. "Uh, yeah. It does. On both of their left palms was a carving of a cross. According to the hospital, the scars are in the early stages of healing. Can't be more than a few days old."

     "Cross-shaped scars? That's not just unusual, it's deliberate."

     More silence. A heavy tension settled between the pair for a few seconds.

     Leaning back in his chair, Gideon's eyes were distant. He absently ran a hand through his curly brown hair, leaving it disheveled. "The question is, who carved crosses into these children's hands? And why?"

     Rossi stroked his goatee thoughtfully. His dark eyes were focused intensely on the middle distance like he could see the answers floating in the air before him. "It's precise, intentional. Not the kind of injury you'd get from an accident or typical abuse."

     "No," his partner agreed, volume low. He clenched his fist unconsciously, feeling a phantom pain in his own palm. "We're looking at someone who believed they had the right to mark these children permanently with a religious symbol."

     Rossi's chair scraped against the floor as he stood up abruptly, unable to contain his restless energy. He paced the small room, his steps muffled by the worn carpet. "The parents?" he suggested, though his tone indicated he wasn't entirely convinced. His hand gestures became more animated, a sign of his emerging stress. "We know they were deeply religious and the house was decorated with religious paraphernalia."

     Gideon shook his head slowly, his gaze following Rossi's movements. The muscles in his jaw worked as he ground his teeth, a rare display of overt frustration. "Possibly. But why just the palms? And why matching cross scars? It's more than just symbolic... it's almost sacramental."

     Pausing in his pacing, Rossi's back was to Gideon. "Like a twisted form of stigmata," he mused, his Catholic upbringing coloring his perspective. He turned to face Gideon, his expression a combination of disgust and determination. "Could be part of some extreme religious practice we're not aware of yet."

     "Or it could be someone else entirely," Gideon added, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. His hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles turned white. "Someone who had access to both children, someone they trusted, someone with a warped sense of religious duty."

     The two agents fell silent for a moment, the implications hanging heavy. The only sound was the irregular hum of the old air conditioner and their measured breathing.

     "We need to find out more about those cross scars," Rossi said finally. "Their exact shape and depth. It might give us insight into who did this and why."

     Gideon nodded, his attitude grim. "And we need to talk to Carson. As traumatized as she is, she's the only one who can tell us the truth about these cross markings."

     "If she's willing to talk about it," his partner added softly.

     "If she's able to," Gideon corrected, tilting his head with a frown. "Whatever the story behind those cross scars, it's clear it's central to understanding what happened to this family." His eyes drifted back to the records and landed on a note. Immediately, his eyebrows furrowed. "Wait... Listen to this. According to these notes, many of Carson and Malcolm's injuries were at different stages of healing when they came in. The hospital staff noted their concerns multiple times."

     That meant...

     "That's textbook child abuse, Jason," Rossi said, pointing out what they both knew but hadn't communicated. His comment was filled with anger and frustration. "How did no one at the hospital catch that?!"

     "They did," Gideon pointed to a notation. "Family Services was called at one point, but the twins denied any abuse and the case was closed." Suddenly, his hand slammed on the table and caused the empty coffee cups to rattle. "Damn it! Those children were obviously being abused. The pattern is clear as day. Burns, bruises, broken bones—classic signs of long-term physical abuse. And those recent matching scars... How could the system fail them like this?"

     Inhaling deeply, Rossi decided to mention what Detective Reeves told him last night when she handed over the hospital records. She hadn't wanted to say it in front of Mayor Hart. "It gets worse," he sighed, placing a hand on his hip. "Reeves and the Police Captain knew about the abuse suspicions, but with Family Services closing the case, their hands were tied."

     "So what are we looking at here?" Gideon asked, his voice low and intense. "The parents or one of them was abusing the children or someone found out about the extent of this abuse and decided to take matters into their own hands?"

     Rossi nodded slowly. "Both are a possibility, but that doesn't explain why Carson was left alive and Malcolm wasn't."

     "And the open windows," Gideon mentioned, rubbing his eyes tiredly. A headache was headed his way; too much coffee, no sleep, and no food. "That coincides with the Willamette Wraith mythology. What do you make of that, Dave?"

     Making his way to the table, Rossi sat back in his chair. His eyes narrowed in thought and he reached for his lukewarm coffee. He took a slow sip and grimaced at the taste. "Maybe our UnSub wanted Carson to see them," he said, setting the mug down with a soft clink. "Scare her into believing it was the Willamette Wraith, especially if they knew she and Malcolm did the chant. It's a clever way to muddy the waters of the investigation."

     "A ghost story as a cover for murder. It's almost... theatrical."

     "Exactly," he agreed, picking up his ballpoint pen and clicking it twice. "Our UnSub isn't just a killer. They're a storyteller."

── 𐀔 ──

     TWO HOURS FILLED WITH THE TURNING OF OFF-WHITE PAPER IN THE STUFFY ROOM AND EIGHT COFFEE CUPS LATER, A BREAKTHROUGH WAS MADE. A police report was on the table in front of Rossi and his hand was frozen mid-turn of a page. Eyes widening, he glanced at his partner sitting on the edge of his bed and scribbling in a notebook.

     "Jason," he called, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. "Look at this. A report from three years ago, February 7th."

     Gideon crossed the room in two quick strides, taking the proffered paper. His eyes scanned the document, widening as he absorbed its contents. "Carson was in a car accident... with the mayor's husband and daughter?"

     "Avery and Cadence Hart," he confirmed, his jaw set in a hard line. "They were driving home from a ballet in the city. Rainstorm, broken windshield wiper, a deer in the road. The car crashed into a tree."

     "And Carson was the only survivor," Gideon finished, sinking into the chair opposite Rossi, the paper trembling in his hand.

     The two agents locked eyes, a quiet understanding passing between them. This didn't look good.

     "We need to talk to Mayor Hart," Rossi said, resting his elbows on the table and several stacks of papers. "This changes everything. She might have a motive we hadn't considered before."

     Gideon nodded, already reaching for his coat. The leather creaked as he shrugged it on, a sound that seemed unnaturally loud. "If she blames Carson for the accident that took her family..."

     "She might want Carson to experience the same loss," Rossi finished, pushing back from the table. The legs of his chair scraped harshly against the hardwood floor.

     "It's a hell of a leap, Dave," Gideon said, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. He'd already made his way to the hotel room door. "From grieving widow to calculated killer?"

     Shaking his head, Rossi gathered the scattered files into his briefcase and tucked his miniature notepad into his blazer pocket. "Grief can twist people, Jason. You know that better than anyone."

     The weight of past cases and personal losses landed on Gideon's shoulders and they slagged. "I do," he admitted. Then, squaring his shoulders, he added, "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. We need to approach this carefully. Mayor Hart is still a respected figure in this community."

     "Agreed," Rossi nodded, snapping his briefcase shut. "We'll see her after we finish up at the Crest house. We're still meeting Detective Reeves there. When we talk to her, we'll start with some casual questions, gauge her reactions. If she's involved, she'll slip up eventually. They always do."

     Opening the door, Gideon paused again and turned around in the doorway. "Dave," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "If we're right about this..."

     Rossi placed a reassuring hand on his friend and partner's shoulder. "I know, Jason. I know. But we'll handle it. We always do."

     With a nod, Gideon stepped into the hallway. The door shut behind them, leaving the room in silence with the scattered files they couldn't fit into the briefcase. As they walked down the corridor, Rossi spoke grimly.

     "You know, the real tragedy here is Carson. No matter how this plays out, that little girl's life will never be the same."

     Gideon nodded, fixed on the path ahead. "Then it's up to us to make sure she gets the justice and protection she deserves. Whatever it takes."

── 𐀔 ──

     THE GRAVEL CRUNCHED UNDER THE TIRES OF THE BUREAU-ISSUED SEDAN AS ROSSI AND GIDEON PULLED UP TO THE CREST RESIDENCE. A thick blanket of mist hung low over the woods. The two-story house stood foreboding at the end of a long, winding path, shrouded by the dense Oregon forest. The towering Douglas firs and Western red cedar trees loomed overhead, the branches were gnarled fingers intertwined, blocking out sunlight.

     Stepping out of the vehicle, the agents were met with the scent of damp earth and pine, punctuated by the distant call of a Steller's jay. A cool breeze danced through the driveway, carrying river water and decay. It seeped through their coats, soundlessly reminding them of what awaited ahead. Decaying leaves crunched underfoot, releasing a musty scent that added to the earthy aroma.

     Gideon's keen and tired eyes diligently surveyed the Crest residence, taking in its daunting presence. The house was painted navy blue with dark grey accents. Its windows were tinted, dark, and lifeless, like the hollow eyes of a corpse. The paint, pristine once upon a time, seemed to peel away under the weight of the tragedy that'd unfolded within its walls.

     Beside him, Rossi emerged, his typical confident stride tempered by the somber atmosphere. His dark, expressive eyes darted across the property, his growing goatee failing to hide the tightness in his jaw. "Hell of a place for a family home," he muttered, his Italian-American accent more pronounced in his discomfort. In the cold air, his breath was visible. His line of sight bounced to the edges of the property where the manicured lawn gave way to the wild tangle of the forest. "Isolated. Easy to hide things out here or to hide from things."

     Nodding with his lips pressed into a thin line, Gideon's gaze fixed on the house. "The isolation... it's not just geographic. This family was cut off in more ways than one."

     Detective Sara Reeves was waiting for them at the end of the driveway with a grim, weathered face. "Agents," she nodded in greeting, offering a polite smile. "Thank you for coming. Ready for the walk-through?" Her auburn hair, usually sleek and professional, was pulled into a messy ponytail, wisps escaping to frame her face. Dark circles under her brown eyes betrayed another sleepless night. The badge on her belt caught the weak sunlight. And despite her exhaustion, a determined and fierce intelligence burned in her gaze.

     Gideon scanned the treeline, a mild furrow in his brow. "Before we start, Detective, what can you tell us about the Willamette Wraith? How does it fit into all this and where did Carson and Malcolm do the chant?"

     Scratching the skin under her right eye, Reeves stifled a sigh. "The legend of the Willamette Wraith has been a part of West Linn folklore for generations. The history of its origins is long forgotten and now misconstrued. Children have embellished it more than anyone else. There are two predominant versions. The first is the one children know of and believe. In the woods, where the Willamette and Tualatin rivers meet, a shadowy creature lives there, waiting to be summoned. Those who perform this ritualistic chant will be visited at night by the Willamette Wraith. It sneaks into their homes via a window and leaves it open.

     "The second version that the teens and adults know of is allegedly closer to the original story. Supposedly, the Willamette Wraith is the ghost of one of the first college students at Willamette University in 1842. The story goes that this student was heavily bullied in college and suffering from some form of mental illness. He went into the woods where his family lived by the meeting point of the Willamette and Tualatin rivers, and drowned himself. Now, he haunts these woods, seeking vengeance on anyone who gets near his gravesite."

     Gideon raised a brow, a little speechless. "And people actually believe either iteration?"

     "You'd be surprised," Reeves shrugged, gesturing to the woodland surrounding them. Another breeze swept by and her hair blew behind her. "Children and teens around here have claimed to see it for years. A shadowy figure in the mist, always near the river. The older generation say it can possess people, make them do terrible things."

     "Convenient scapegoat for a killer," Rossi scoffed, sharing a look with his partner.

     Reeves hummed in agreement, brows flicking upward. "As for where Carson and Malcolm did the chant, I don't know. Carson hasn't said and there aren't any physical indicators outside that point to where."

     Rossi shifted his footing. "Did Carson say they performed the chant outside?"

     "No, but the family's routine points to that," the detective replied. "Mary picked them up from school every day at two-thirty and took them to the soup kitchen to volunteer. After, they went to the church to pray and got home around six-thirty. Mary made dinner and Cyrus returned at seven for them to all sit down and eat. Then, they go to the family's prayer room to say their thanks. Then, homework and in bed by no later than eight-thirty.

     "Carson managed to tell us at the hospital that she and Malcolm were at home when they did it. I'm assuming before dinner and outside so Mary couldn't hear them. Given the family's religious fervor, the twins participating in the lore of the Willamette Wraith would be frowned upon, and they'd want to be secretive about it."

     Makes sense.

     "Are we ready to go inside?"

     "Lead the way."

     The group of three trod down the driveway and to the front door. As they approached the house, yellow crime scene tape fluttered, a jarring synthetic intrusion in the natural setting. Ducking under the tape one by one, they continued. The wooden porch steps groaned beneath their feet like a mournful cry.

     "The house has been untouched since the night of the murders," Reeves announced, leading the men up the porch steps. Digging through her coat pocket, she pulled out three sets of latex gloves and passed two to the agents. Then, she passed them shoe coverings. It was standard procedure before they could enter the crime scene. Rossi passed Gideon a copy of the crime scene photographs from his briefcase.

     Once everyone was ready to go, Reeves swung the door open with an ominous creak. She led them into the foyer, her movements efficient but cautious, as if she feared disturbing the lingering spirits of the dead.

     The first sighting and smell of the Crest home instantly painted the picture of how horrific these murders were. The house smelled of copper and decomposition, undercut by the cloying sweetness of religious incense. In the center of the foyer, there was a large, ornate rug dominating the space. Once a rich crimson, it was now stained an even darker shade, the intricate patterns lost beneath Malcolm's dried blood. Off to the left and from around a corner were skid marks from someone running marked in dried blood.

     "This is where Malcolm Crest was found," Reeves said, breaking the air and pointing at the rug. Her voice was barely above a whisper after she shut the door and turned on the lights. "His limbs were bent in various ankles with nearly every bone in his arms and legs broken. Ultimately, he died from a single stab wound to the heart."

     Gideon crouched down, studying the floor. "The amount of blood suggests he was killed here," he noted, glancing at the crime scene photograph in his hand. "But the body positioning... it's almost deliberate like he was arranged after death. And the blood spatter... it's not consistent with just a frenzied attack. There's purpose here. Almost ceremonial."

     "Ritualistic," Rossi murmured, thinking back to the cross-shaped scars on the twins' palms. He looked around the relatively empty foyer. The walls were painted a light grey, not a spec of blood on them. Next to the front door was a navy blue table with candles decorating it. In the middle was a framed photo. It showed the Crest family—Cyrus, Mary, Carson, and Malcolm—the children's smiles were forced, eyes holding a hint of fear while the parents were genuinely elated. On the wall above the table was a Bible verse, Hebrews 3:4: "For every house is built by someone, but God is the builder of everything."

     "Any signs of forced entry?"

     Reeves shook her head. "None. All doors and windows were locked from the inside, except..." She trailed off, gesturing at the long, rectangular window to the left of the table next to the door and the ceiling where the second floor was.

     "The Willamette Wraith," he said, voicing what they all noticed. Pieces of the local city legend were beginning to appear.

     "Like I said, according to local legend, it enters through windows and leaves them open," she sighed, scratching the skin under her right eye again. "We found that window and the window in the twin's bedroom open."

     Gideon's brow furrowed, his skin creasing. "An elaborate staging, or a genuine belief in the myth?"

     "Or a convenient cover," Rossi said, reflecting on their earlier speculation about a killer using the ghost story to muddy the waters. It was beginning to feel more and more like a possibility.

     "We should start from the beginning," Reeves suggested, resting a hand comfortably on top of her badge. "Follow me and watch your step. I'll take you upstairs."

     The three went to the right and entered the living room connected to the den. To the left of the living room was a set of wooden stairs leading to the second floor. Gideon and Rossi did a once-over of the room but didn't catch any particular details yet as they climbed upstairs.

     The floorboards creaked beneath them, echoing. Shortly, they reached a single hallway. Further down and on the left were two opened doorways, and directly across was a single one. An open door leading to the twins' bathroom was at the end of the hallway. In the master bedroom, Cyrus and Mary had a separate bathroom of their own.

     Gideon's fingers had been trailing along the wall on the left when the three began their ascent and kept going as they approached a bedroom. Unexpectedly, his latex glove caught on something and he paused. It wasn't until Reeves flipped a light switch and illuminated the space that he could see what he'd found.

     "Psalm 23:4," he read aloud, his voice soft but carrying. "'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.'"

     Rossi's brows shot up. "Quite the nighttime reading for a child," he remarked, pulling out his small notepad and pen.

     Neither Gideon nor Reeves responded.

     As the trio approached the twins' shared bedroom, the atmosphere shifted. The air felt heavier and colder. Detective Reeves' pace slowed and her hand hesitated on the doorknob.

     "This is where it all started," she said, letting out an audible sigh. "Carson and Malcolm's room."

     The door screeched open, the sound unnaturally loud in the suffocating silence of the house. Gideon entered first, his shoulders tense, eyes alert. The room was awash in the afternoon light, yet it felt cold and hollow. Rossi followed.

     Two small beds stood on either side of a window with a nightstand between them. Crucifixes hung above each bed, their shadows long and distorted. Gideon went to the center of the room, examining every detail.

     "The window," Rossi said, approaching it. He pushed it open with ease and a chill breeze immediately floated in. "This is what woke her up that night."

     Reeves nodded, swallowing hard. She stood in the doorway with her hand on the doorframe. "According to Carson's statement, more so what she was able to tell us, she woke up because of a cold breeze. The window was open, but when she and Malcolm went to bed, it'd been closed."

     "In autumn?" Gideon questioned, a little puzzled.

     "Mm-hmm," she confirmed, swallowing again. "It was unusual. Carson said the room smelled of decaying leaves and something else she couldn't identify."

     Narrowing his eyes, Rossi slightly angled his body toward her. His nostrils flared a bit as if trying to catch that elusive scent. "Overpowering the usual lavender scent of the house?"

     A look of surprise flashed over the detective's features. "Yes, that's right. How did you know that?"

     "Just a hunch," he replied, exchanging a glance with his partner.

     Gideon moved to analyze the walls covered in pictures of the cherubic faces of angels. In the afternoon light filtered through the curtains, their faces twisted into unsettling expressions. His hand, usually steady, trembled when he touched one of the frames. "These must have been terrifying for a child to wake up to in the dark..." he muttered, almost grimacing.

     "Carson sort of mentioned that in her statement, too," Reeves added, entering the bedroom. "Said the room was scary at night."

     Rossi approached Malcolm's empty bed and noted how the bed sheets were pushed back. He pointed at it with the tip of his pen. "And this is where she noticed her brother was missing?"

     "Yes," she confirmed, face pale. "His stuffed rabbit, Mr. Flopsy, was gone, along with the glass of water from their bedside table."

     Gideon's eyes wandered to the bedroom door and he squinted. "Was the door ajar that night?"

     "I assume so," Reeves answered, sounding quite unsure of herself. The two men locked eyes. "Carson hasn't said anything about it. We were only able to get so much from her at the hospital. There aren't overt signs pointing to it being closed."

     The three stood silent for a moment, absorbing the heavy ambiance of the room. The weight of the tragedy was pressing down on them more than ever. This bedroom, once a sanctuary for two innocent children, now felt like a tomb.

     "So..." Rossi broke the tension, his voice rough with emotion. "Carson wakes up to an open window, a cold breeze, and her brother's empty bed. She gets up, puts on her slippers, heads out into the hallway, and goes downstairs."

     Gideon nodded, his stare distant and haunted. "Into a nightmare she never could have imagined."

     Back downstairs, the three re-entered the living room and turned on the lights. The air felt thick and choking.

     The walls were painted the same light grey as the foyer. Another ornate rug took up most of the floor, but it was free of blood. In the center of the rectangular space, the family Bible lay on a black mahogany coffee table. Its pages were still ruffled as if caught in an invisible breeze. Gideon approached it cautiously, his brows forming a jagged line.

     "The blood stains..." he murmured to himself. He studied the faint outline of blood on the leather cover, his countenance a mask of controlled horror. "It's as if the book itself is bleeding. Detective, do we know whose blood this is?"

     Detective Reeves shook her head. "Lab couldn't say for certain. Could be any of them, or a mix."

     "So, Carson walks into the living room and doesn't see Malcolm..." Gideon started.

     Meanwhile, a few feet away, Rossi stood frozen in the doorway of the den. His irises were wide and sweeping over the looming bookshelves. Religious texts and family photo albums stood side by side, an eerie juxtaposition of faith and memory. His gaze settled on a cross-stitched Bible verse above the black leather couch, faded and yellowing with age.

     Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.

     "Heavy on the religious imagery," he mumbled, running a hand through his hair. "It's fucking suffocating."

     And for a heart-stopping moment, Rossi could have sworn the words shifted, rearranging themselves into a sinister message. He blinked hard, and they were static once more.

     "And she goes into the den, doesn't see Malcolm again, and wanders down the hall to the kitchen," Reeves finished, walking toward the den with Gideon in tow.

     "That verse," Rossi called to the other two, motioning to the tapestry, "did it always say that?"

     Detective Reeves looked confused, her auburn eyebrows knitting together. "Say what? It's always been Proverbs 3:5-6."

     A blend of confusion and concern painted Gideon's features and he glanced at his partner. Quickly, he saw the uncharacteristic pallor of his face. "Dave?"

     Rossi blinked, shaking his head to clear it. "Never mind. Must be the light playing tricks." But his hand was shaking when it reached his side.

     Since there was nothing left to see in the living room, they moved on.

     Upon entering the kitchen, Reeves pointed to a spot on the hardwood near the sink. "This is where the broken glass was found. Carson mentioned it in her statement."

     Gideon crouched, his knees popping loudly. He examined the floor closely, trying to pick up details others might miss. "The first sign something was amiss," he mused heavily. "The glass... was it analyzed?"

     "Yes," Reeves replied, catching Rossi staring at the bloodied footprints off to the left side of the kitchen. "Just water. No foreign substances."

     "And these footprints," Rossi gestured to the faint traces with his pen. "They lead where?"

     Her voice dropped and she gulped. "From here to the dining room, a hallway, and the foyer. They're from Carson. After finding Malcolm, she ran back in here to call 911. We're getting ahead of ourselves."

     Standing up, Gideon kept his line of sight on the floor. Then, he shifted through the crime scene photographs until he found the ones taken in there.

     Rossi nodded, scribbling something into his notepad. "Right. Carson comes in here looking for Malcolm and finds the broken glass. She probably calls for him and doesn't get an answer. Then, she goes to search the dining room."

     The dining room was next and connected to the kitchen. It was a tableau of interrupted normalcy that sent chills down the agents' spines. Chairs stood at odd angles as if their occupants had left in a terrified hurry. Half-empty wine glasses sat on the table, the burgundy liquid now a congealed, almost black mass at the bottom.

     The two men split up, each taking a different side of the table—Rossi, on the left, and Gideon, on the right.

     Rossi leaned forward and picked up one of the wine glasses, sniffing it cautiously. His nose wrinkled in distaste. "This wine... it's turned."

     "Been sitting there since that night," Reeves confirmed, her eyes darting nervously around the room. A bead of sweat formed on her brow despite the chill. "We didn't want to disturb anything unnecessarily."

     Rossi raised a brow and exchanged a quick glance with Gideon. "Seems an odd detail to preserve, Detective," he commented, turning to her. "Most crime scenes are fully processed within days. Sure, it's only been three, but to keep the wine?"

     Shifting uncomfortably, she avoided his piercing gaze. "Mayor's orders," she said, low and strained. "She wanted everything left as is, as long as possible."

     Gideon's head snapped up at this. "The mayor? That's an unusual level of involvement for a local official, isn't it?"

     Reeves nodded, a flicker of something—fear? uncertainty?—passing across her face. She took a deep breath before explaining, "Mayor Hart's been very invested in this case. Mary Crest was her childhood friend and their children grew up together for a few years." Her tone eased up, tinged with sympathy. "She's been protective of how this case is handled and protective of Carson."

     Rossi and Gideon exchanged a significant look, their expressions a mixture of understanding and caution. Earlier, they immediately jumped to the mayor being involved more deeply and darkly instead of taking into consideration the history between her and the Crest family, and how difficult this time was for, not only Carson but the mayor as well. It possibly drudged up the tragic events of what happened to her own family. However, that didn't alter what their gut was telling them.

     "After she met you two yesterday, she said it was important to preserve everything for when you both examined the house. She wants this murderer caught."

     Gideon nodded slowly, processing this information. "I see. I remember her mentioning that yesterday."

     "That explains her level of involvement, but it also raises some questions," Rossi mentioned, scanning the room as if he were seeing it in a different light.

     "Questions?" Reeves asked, a touch of defensiveness present.

     Stepping in, Gideon maintained a gentle yet firm tone. "Detective, in cases like this, personal connections can be both a help and a hindrance. Mayor Hart's insight into the family could be valuable, but her emotional involvement..."

     "Could cloud judgment," Rossi finished, his expression grave.

     Reeves' shoulders tensed. "Mayor Hart is a professional. She wouldn't let her personal feelings interfere with the investigation."

     "We're not suggesting impropriety, Detective," Gideon said, holding up a placating hand. "But we do need to consider all angles. The mayor's relationship with the Crests, her interactions with Carson, her directives about the crime scene—these are all relevant to the investigation."

     Rossi nodded in agreement. "We'll need to speak with Mayor Hart again." This worked as a fitting cover for why they wanted to speak to the mayor in the first place. "Get a clearer picture of her relationship with the Crests and her involvement in the case so far."

     At the clarification, the detective appeared to relax. A sliver of worry lingered for a few seconds. "Of course. I'm sure she'll be more than willing to help. Like I said, she wants this solved as much as anyone."

     Gideon's gaze swept the room once more, taking in the scene with new understanding. "And we appreciate her foresight in preserving the crime scene. It could prove crucial. Let's continue the walk-through. Every detail matters now more than ever."

     "Yes," Reeves breathed, beginning to walk across the room. "Carson comes from the kitchen into the dining room. She sees that her parents' chairs are oddly pushed back, looks at the prayer closet, and goes to see if they or Malcolm are in there." She stood in front of the closed prayer closet connected to the other end of the dining room. A dried pool of blood was soaked into the hardwood, coming from the other room. "When she gets to it, she sees that it's already cracked open and tugs on the handle. The doors swing open and she finds her parents dead. And I should warn you... even slightly cleaned up, it's... intense."

     The agents glanced at each other, readying themselves for what they were about to witness. Crime scene photographs never measured up or captured the horror behind heinous crimes. They were only photographs until someone was on the scene.

     The navy double doors swung open with a low, mournful creak, revealing the horrific scene within. Immediately, their senses were assaulted by the scent. Despite thorough cleaning, dark stains still marred the once-white walls, like accusatory fingers pointing at unseen monstrosities. The metallic smell of blood lingered, mixed with the cloying sweetness of decay. The carpeted floor of the prayer room was dark red, not an inch left clean. The overbearing silence that followed was broken only by a sharp intake of breath.

     Rossi, usually the picture of composure, felt his professional mask slip for a moment. His face paled visibly, and his jaw clenched so tight a muscle twitched visibly along his cheek. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the image from his mind, but the atrocity before him remained unchanged.

     Gideon's reaction was more visceral. He took an involuntary step back and his hand flew to his mouth to keep it shut. The color drained from his face, leaving him ashen. For a brief moment, his eyes closed tightly.

     Detective Reeves, despite having seen the scene countless times, wasn't immune to its impact. She leaned heavily against the doorframe, her eyes shut, too. The lines on her face deepened, etching a map of sorrow and disbelief. Oftentimes, crime scenes didn't phase her but this was different. This was the house of a family she once knew and spoke to regularly. She'd also been over a few times throughout the years.

     Rossi was the first to recover. He took a deep, steadying breath. When he spoke, his voice was low and controlled, but barely contained a harshy leashed emotion. "Talk us through it, Detective."

     Gideon, still visibly shaken, nodded in agreement. His hand, which had unconsciously moved from his mouth to his gun was now balled into a fist. His other hand tightly clutched onto the photographs. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus on the details rather than the horror.

     "Mr. and Mrs. Crest's bodies were positioned opposite each other, leaning against the walls," she began hoarsely; the very act of describing the scene was almost physically painful. Pointing to the walls on the three's left and right. "Multiple stab wounds, defensive cuts on the arms along with long, deep lines. Each holding a Bible. Died from a stab to the heart like Malcolm."

     "And the knife?" Gideon pressed, his stare sharp and focused. He managed to shake off the shock enough to focus on the case. They needed to solve this for Carson.

     "In Mrs. Crest's right hand. Forensics confirmed it matched the... the cross-shaped cuts on the twin's palms," Reeves' voice broke on the last words, and she rapidly pushed back tears.

     Gideon's eyes flashed, a display of raw emotion crossing his usually composed features. "The same knife used on the twins' hands?"

     "Lab confirmed it. Carson didn't say anything; she only nodded a tiny bit when we asked if Mary did it."

     The news hit Rossi like a physical blow. He turned away abruptly, his hands clenching into fists at his sides again. When he spoke, it was with bubbling rage. "You're telling me that woman... their mother... used that knife to mutilate her children?"

     A muscle twitched under Gideon's left eye and his glare burned with disgust and suppressed anger. "What kind of monster does that to their own children?" he spat out. "To carve a religious symbol into their flesh..."

     Detective Reeves watched the two agents, her countenance a cover of sorrow and regret. "I've seen a lot in my years on the force," she said quietly, "but that... this entire case... had shaken me to my core."

     "Rightfully so," Gideon muttered, tempted to take off the latex gloves and run his hands through his hair.

     "And the stuffed rabbit?" Rossi prompted, clearing his throat. It was time to direct the conversation before one of them broke. "Carson mentioned a Mr. Flopsy."

     Reeves pointed to a spot between where the bodies had been, her hand visibly shaking. "Right there. Soaked through with blood. Lab said it was a combination of all three family members—Cyrus, Mary, and Malcolm. According to the evidence here and what Carson could tell us, she backed away from the closet, stepping in her parents' blood." Pointing at small, bloodied footprints on the hardwood, the detective continued. "She screamed for her brother and ran to the front of the house."

     From there, she led the men out of the dining room and to a hallway leading to the foyer. Upon re-entering, they all came to a stop in front of the entrance to the house.

     "There, at the corner," Reeves motioned at the corner the trio just came around, "are the skid marks from Carson's slippers. She was running around the corner and almost fell. She found Malcolm and..." She inhaled sharply and shoved down the lump in her throat. Tears glistened in her eyes; one broke free and she wiped it away. "Carson said she turned around and saw the Willamette Wraith through that window." The window to the left of the front door was shut. "Then, she ran to the kitchen and got the landline, calling 911. When we got here, her nightgown was soaked in blood and she was crying, holding Malcolm on the carpet. She was physically unharmed aside from injuries she sustained prior to the murders."

     And that concluded the walk-through.

     An oppressive silence descended upon the group. They stood in the foyer, the weight of what they witnessed pressing on them like a physical force. The horror of the crime scene lingered in their minds, a kaleidoscope of blood-stained images and grotesque details that refused to fade.

     Reeves' eyes were haunted, her shoulders slumped with the misery of a woman who'd seen far too much. Rossi's jaw was set in a grim line, his hands curled at his sides as if trying to grasp onto some semblance of understanding in this sea of senseless violence. Gideon's gaze was distant, his brows drawn in while he grappled with the mystery that seemed to thicken with each revelation.

     "We're missing something here," Rossi spoke up, tucking his notepad out of sight. He headed for the door and the other two followed. "What happened here isn't just a murder. It's... it's a tableau. A message."

     "But for who? And why involve the twins and leave only one of them?" Reeves pointed out, scratching the skin under her right eye.

     Rossi stepped onto the porch and begrudgingly welcomed the autumn breeze. "That's what we need to find out," he replied, regaining confidence. "For Carson's sake, if nothing else."

     Gideon paused at the threshold, his hand on the doorframe. He was the last to leave. "Detective," he said softly, grabbing the woman's attention, "we're going to need every scrap of information you have on the Crests' religious practices. And we need to talk to Mayor Hart and Carson separately."

     All he received in return was a solemn nod. The conversation came to an end, and they all exited the house. The dark, navy blue front door closed with a finality that echoed through the empty house and front yard.

     The Crest family home still felt alive with secrets, its walls holding the echoes of screams and the whispers of hidden truths. In that moment, surrounded by the remnants of a shattered family and faced with the depths of human depravity, a flicker of hopelessness threatened to engulf them.

     The case contained a darkness that stretched endlessly, a puzzle with pieces that didn't quite fit, and solutions that only bred more questions. Yet beneath the despair, a quiet determination burned—a shared, unspoken vow to unravel this mystery, no matter the cost to their own peace of mind. They owed solving it to Carson Crest, who'd already been let down countless times by those around her.

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╱ 𝕬UTHOR'S 𝕹OTE. . .

⁰¹ 𝕽𝖀𝕴𝕹. . . RUIN !
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written by CARDIIAC © 2024.
破滅 . ݃♱ .

     the horrors persist and so does the investigation...

     we are officially one chapter away from Volume One concluding! woohoo!! i hope you are as excited as i am.

     RANDOM: writing jason gideon's character is simultaneously so hard yet so easy. i lowkey wish we had more of him in the show purely for writing inspiration. (gideon... you will always be famous for the right and wrong reasons xoxo mwah <3)

     i hope you enjoyed chapter three! and i hope you have a beautiful day!

     thank you for reading <3

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˒⠀𝑹𝑬𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑫𝑬𝑹. . . ▬⠀⤸

Thank you all for taking the time out of your day to comment on this story. It means a lot and helps the story be spread to a broader audience &&& allows me to grow as an author. All I ask is that people vote on each chapter, please. As a creator, it takes time to write and develop stories. So please, vote on every chapter. It means a lot more than I could ever express.

Don't forget to vote & comment!

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˒⠀𝑪𝑶𝑷𝒀𝑹𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻. . . ▬⠀⤸

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