Eden and Lila stepped out of the car, deep in the bayou woods where the Sutton barn loomed like a forgotten chapel. Inside, music throbbed like a heartbeat. The first party of the summer — where curfews didn't matter, and neither did the watchful eyes of Saint Lillian. Fairy lights clung to rusted beams, casting a flickering glow through the humid dark. The beer was warm, the air was sticky with sweat and perfume, and every teenager in town was either dancing, drinking, or praying not to be noticed.
Eden Rae Harrow stood on the outskirts of it all, her white dress glowing under the dim lights, an untouched cup in her hand. She wasn't sure why she'd come — maybe to keep Lila from doing something reckless. The floorboards creaked beneath the weight of the dancing crowd, like a ritual summoning something old and restless. Cigarette smoke tangled with the rafters, giving the barn the feel of a haunted house in early October.
She tugged at the hem of her vintage prairie dress. The pearl buttons led to a delicate lace collar that pressed against her throat. Her scuffed ankle boots tapped quietly on the warped wood. Her soft, loose curls were half-pulled back with an enamel clip, and she discreetly tucked her rosary into her blouse, the cold metal resting against her chest like an anchor.
Lila couldn't have looked more different. She was chaos in cherry red — a halter dress hugging her hips, muddy cowgirl boots hitting just below her knees. Her hair was braided into a messy crown, a silk scarf threaded through like ribbon on a maypole. She looked like a Southern belle soaked in gasoline, smiling like a lit match.
She wrapped a firm hand around Eden's elbow. "Don't mind them," she murmured, nodding toward a cluster of girls near the barn doors.
The white sundress crowd. Church girls with glossed lips and gold hoops, who clutched their Bibles while hiding flasks under the straps. They watched Eden pass with tight smiles, as if afraid her holiness might rub off — or worse, stain them.
Lila peeled off to fill another cup from the keg. Eden's remained empty, though no one was fooled — the holiest girl in Saint Lillian could never be caught dead drinking.
It was a strange thing, really. That they hadn't canceled the party, not after what happened to Caroline Duval. Her disappearance still hung in the air, unspoken but heavy.
Eden spun suddenly at a tap on her shoulder. Her breath caught.
Micah Sutton.
Of course he was here — it was his party, after all. He stood in a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark jeans, and spotless sneakers. His blond hair was neatly styled, his smile polished. A golden boy dipped in varnish.
"I'm glad you came," he said, trying to be heard over the music.
Eden smiled shyly. "Me too."
Lila saw the moment between them and melted into the crowd, knowing better than to interrupt. Eden's heart fluttered. Micah looked even more handsome than he had Sunday morning — and that was saying something. He gently placed a hand on her shoulder and smiled before slipping off to play host again.
She exhaled, playing with a strand of hair as a warm blush crept to her cheeks. She turned toward the hallway, away from the heat of the crowd—until someone else caught her eye.
Rowan Thorne.
He was slouched in the shadows near the barn's back wall, half-drunk, a cracked beer bottle dangling from one hand and the other clenched tight at his side. His jaw was bruised. His shirt hung half-unbuttoned. Black jeans, scuffed boots, dog tags he never spoke about. He looked like he'd either just buried someone—or was about to.
Rowan scanned the party like a hunter in a clearing. His grin soured when he saw her.
"She'd show up to her own funeral in silk and expect an angel to pull her out of the dirt," he muttered to himself.
Eden's eyes locked with his. He didn't look away.
Neither did she.
She tried to brush past him, weaving through the hallway toward the kitchen, but he stumbled forward, blocking her path with the sway of someone who'd forgotten how to walk straight.
"Lost, Harrow? Or finally sick of being holy?" he slurred.
"Still less lost than you," she said coldly.
He looked her up and down with a crooked smile. "You come here hoping someone'll save you—or damn you? Either way, wrong party."
"Drunk suits you, Rowan. You talk more, lie better, bleed louder."
Their anger burned like twin torches. Two broken halves from opposite ends of the same cursed town. He leaned in, his breath hot with whiskey and fury.
"You think your sermons and doe eyes keep you safe? You think you're above what's coming for this town?"
"No," Eden said, voice steady. "But I know what's already here."
There was something in his face that made her stomach twist. Fear crept in like smoke.
"Maybe you're not just Saint Lillian's lost cause. Maybe you're the one killing us. One girl at a time."
The air turned cold.
Rowan's eyes went flat and burning.
"Say that again," he said, deadly quiet.
Eden didn't flinch.
"I think you're the one doing it. I think you like watching people fall apart."
He laughed — bitter and broken.
"You want me to be the killer so bad?" His voice rose. "Maybe I should've started with you."
She didn't even think—her hand cracked across his face, hard.
He stumbled back, stunned, a bloom of red rising on his cheek. But the pain in his eyes wasn't from the slap. It was from her words.
Micah appeared behind Eden like judgment itself, jaw tight, eyes burning.
"Touch her again, and I'll bury you."
Rowan turned, lip bleeding.
"Protect her all you want. Won't change what she is."
Eden stepped forward, breath sharp. "And what am I, Rowan?"
He spat blood, laughing. "A liar in lace."
Micah shoved him hard. "Get the hell out of my barn."
Rowan slunk into the dark, hair damp with sweat, dog tags clinking faintly as he disappeared into the heat and night.
None of them knew it yet, but Rowan Thorne's evening was only just beginning.
Eden turned back to Micah, face in her hands.
"He's such a jerk," she muttered.
"He's damned," Micah said. "Walks like the devil himself."
He reached out and brushed a hand over her head. She looked up, and their faces were close. Too close.
Maybe this was the moment she'd waited for.
She leaned in, breath hitching—until—
A scream.
Shrill. Ragged. Real.
It tore through the barn like a gunshot.
Eden jerked back, eyes wide. Micah grabbed her hand.
They ran.
Down the dirt path, through the pine-hemmed woods, the laughter and music fading behind them. Toward the sound. Toward the church.
They found him near the old crypt.
A teenage boy, no older than eighteen, dressed in the acolyte uniform of Saint Lillian — crisp white shirt, dark slacks. His face was bruised, and strange symbols were smeared in charcoal across his arms and throat. His body lay half-buried beneath broken gravestones, like something meant to stay hidden. White lilies danced around his body, like the light in the darkness.
One hand clutched a torn Bible page.
Scrawled across it, in thick black ink:
JUDGMENT
PURGE
Eden screamed.
Micah caught her just as she collapsed.
The nightmare wasn't beginning.
It was already here.
_____________________________________________________________
Rowan dragged his boots along the dirt road, hands shoved deep in his pockets, blood dripping onto his shirt.
The harsh glare of flashing police lights caught his eyes, and he raised a hand to shield them. Sheriff's cruiser.
The door creaked open. Out stepped Deputy Harlan Gray, face lined with exhaustion, his hand resting on the worn leather of his belt holster. He looked at Rowan like he'd seen this story play out a hundred times before.
"Get in the car, Thorne," he muttered.
Rowan didn't fight. He was too tired to resist, too used to being dragged through the motions. He wore the cuffs like a crown of thorns, silent in the backseat as the cruiser rumbled toward the Saint Lillian Sheriff's Department.
The station office was cramped and hot, despite the struggling hum of the A/C.
The walls were stained yellow with time, lined with faded photos of fishing tournaments and one crooked frame of the mayor shaking hands with the pastor. Everything smelled like burnt coffee and paper rot.
Rowan slouched in a metal chair, one boot hooked lazily on the edge of the desk. His hands were cuffed in front of him—more for form than necessity. His knuckles were scabbed. Dried blood crusted the collar of his shirt. One eye blackened, lip split.
He looked like a warning.
Deputy Gray sat across from him, squinting over his reading glasses, a legal pad in hand.
"You want to explain what you were doing out by the bayou at 1:45 in the morning?" he asked, pen poised like a scalpel.
Rowan gave a half-shrug.
"Thought I'd go for a swim. Real wholesome stuff. Maybe even baptize myself."
Gray didn't take the bait. He rubbed his temples, glanced at his notes.
"You were seen with Eden Harrow earlier that night."
Rowan kept his gaze fixed, casual.
"Guess we're both going to hell now."
Gray leaned forward slightly.
"And after that? Witnesses say you disappeared for two hours. No alibi. You come back bleeding. Eyes full of God-knows-what."
"God never knows what to do with me," Rowan muttered, eyes flicking toward the stained ceiling. "Ask Him."
"You think this is funny?" Gray snapped, voice tightening, pen clenched in his fist.
"No. I think it's pathetic. You think you're gonna pin this on the town freak 'cause you can't keep track of your own damn shadows." Rowan tilted his head, voice low. "Maybe check the pastor's golden boy. Or what's left of him."
That made Gray shift. Not much—but Rowan saw it. He always noticed the flinches. It was how he survived.
Gray sighed, softening his tone like slipping a knife back into its sheath.
"We're not accusing you. Yet. Just asking questions."
Rowan leaned back and smirked.
"Then let me help you, Deputy. I didn't kill her. I don't know who did. But if you're gonna waste my time pretending I'm some monster in the trees, at least give me a cigarette first."
"You're seventeen, Thorne."
Rowan's smirk deepened.
"Yeah? So's the girl who's dead."
Silence settled like smoke.
Gray exhaled sharply and scribbled something down. Rowan watched the pen drag across the paper like a blade across his skin.
"You're playing with fire, Thorne."
Rowan's voice was quiet, steady.
"Good. Maybe it'll burn the whole goddamn town down."