The rain fell in sheets as Clara Voss stepped off the creaking bus, her boots sinking into the mud of Cedar Hollow’s main road. The town had not changed—a patchwork of sagging porches, rusted fences, and the acrid tang of diesel from the gas station across from the diner. But Clara had changed. The weight of her badge, now tucked into a worn leather jacket, felt foreign against her ribs. She hadn’t set foot here in ten years, not since the night the river took her brother. Now, the sheriff’s call had pulled her back: another body found in the woods, same as before.
The diner’s neon sign flickered, casting a sickly glow on the parking lot. Clara pushed through the door, the bell jingling like a taunt. The air inside was thick with coffee and grease, but she caught something else—smoke, maybe, or the faintest trace of lavender. She scanned the room until her eyes landed on Sheriff Hayes, hunched over a cup of black coffee at the far end. His face was a map of scars, each line etched deeper than the last.
“You’re late,” he said without looking up.
“Traffic,” Clara replied, sliding into the booth across from him. The vinyl seat groaned under her weight.
Hayes finally met her gaze, his eyes the color of storm clouds. “The body’s in the same spot. Same position. Same… everything.” His voice dropped, barely audible over the clatter of dishes. “They found a note, though. Written in blood.”
Clara’s pulse quickened. “What did it say?”
Hayes leaned in, his breath reeking of bourbon and regret. “‘You’ll never find her.’”
The word ‘her’ hung in the air, sharp as a blade. Clara had heard that phrase before, whispered by the river’s edge on the night her brother disappeared. She pushed back from the table, her chair screeching against the floor. “Where’s the body?”
Hayes stood, his movements slow, deliberate. “I’ll show you.”
The woods beyond the diner reeked of damp earth and decay. Clara’s flashlight cut through the gloom, revealing a figure slumped against the base of an oak tree. The man’s throat had been slit, his eyes wide open, staring at nothing. A single red rose lay across his chest, its petals curled inward like a fist.
Clara crouched, her gloved fingers brushing the flower. It felt real, too fresh to have been placed there hours ago. She glanced at Hayes, who was already radioing for the coroner. “This isn’t the same,” she muttered.
“What do you mean?”
“The rose. It’s… different.” She pointed to the petals. “This isn’t the same variety as the last one.”
Hayes frowned. “You’re sure?”
Clara nodded, her mind racing. The first victim had been a local bar owner, his body found with a single daisy. Now this man, a transient, carried a rose. The shift was deliberate, almost theatrical.
As they returned to town, Clara’s thoughts spiraled. The sheriff’s note, the flowers, the way the river had swallowed her brother without a trace—everything felt like a puzzle missing its final piece. She needed answers, and she knew where to start: the old Voss house, now a crumbling relic at the edge of town.
The porch creaked as she stepped inside, the air thick with dust and memories. Her mother’s voice echoed in her head, sharp and brittle: “You don’t belong here, Clara.” But the house had always been a prison, its walls closing in with each passing year.
In the attic, she found it—a box tucked beneath a loose floorboard. Inside were letters, yellowed and fragile, addressed to her mother. The handwriting was familiar, though she’d never seen it before. Each note ended with the same phrase: “The river remembers.”
A knock at the door shattered the silence. Clara froze, her hand hovering over the box. The sound came again, louder this time, followed by a voice she hadn’t heard in a decade.
“Clara?”
She turned, heart hammering. The man standing in the doorway was older, his face lined with years of hard living, but his eyes—those dark, searching eyes—were unchanged. “I didn’t think you’d come back,” he said.
“I didn’t think I would either,” Clara replied, her voice steady despite the storm inside her.
The man stepped closer, his shadow stretching across the floor. “You need to leave this town. Now.”
Clara’s grip tightened on the box. “Why? What are you hiding?”
The man’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. “Because the river doesn’t forget. And neither do I.”
Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the air heavy with the scent of wet earth and something else—something metallic, like blood. Clara knew then that the answers lay not in the town’s secrets, but in the depths of the river itself. And she was ready to dive in.
