It was already night when Ethan headed to the sheriff's office. He had promised to help Siobhan and Emmett with the serial killer case, but something was bothering him: no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember who the culprit was. Not the face, not the details of the case… nothing. It was as if his memory had been deliberately erased. Maybe, he thought, going through the case file with them might help him piece together what was missing.
In the parking lot, the lights of a patrol car flickered faintly in front of the building. Ethan stepped out of his car carrying bags of Chinese takeout he'd picked up on the way —Siobhan's favorite. They probably hadn't had time for dinner.
Things between them were still a little tense after their last conversation. They had agreed to remain just friends, aware that for now, there was no future for them. And although they had ended things in a mature way, a trace of awkwardness still lingered… but they were both adult enough to let it go.
As he approached, Ethan saw the lights on in the lobby and the silhouettes of the deputies working behind the windows. He knocked calmly on the glass door, and a few seconds later, Siobhan appeared on the other side.
—Hey —Ethan greeted, lifting one of the bags—. I brought your favorite. I hope you still like it.
—Perfect, you're our savior. —she replied with a tired smile—. With all the chaos today, we haven't eaten a thing.
They went inside. In the conference room, Siobhan placed the bag on the table and unpacked the boxes, the smell of ginger and soy sauce filling the air. Emmett showed up shortly after, taking off his coat and grabbing one of the boxes without saying a word.
For all his tough exterior, Emmett was always sensitive to cases like these.
Ethan sat across from them, opened one of the case folders, and began reviewing the forensic reports. The photos weren't easy to look at, but none of it shocked him anymore. So far, the leading theory pointed to a series of ritualistic murders.
—By the way, where's Brock? I thought he'd be here —Ethan asked, flipping through one of the reports.
—Oh, right —Siobhan replied, looking up—. The mayor called him to city hall. He wanted him to make a statement to the press… apparently, the case has already gone public. I think he's about to hold a conference.
Emmett grabbed the remote and turned on the TV in the room.
He flipped through several channels until he landed on the local broadcast. On-screen, the Storm News 5 logo appeared over the image of Brock standing in front of the city hall doors, surrounded by microphones. The camera lights blinded him, but he kept a firm expression, shoulders tense.
The reporter spoke with an urgent tone:
—Sheriff Lotus, Banshee is gripped by fear and shock after the discovery of the serial killer's third victim. What is your office doing to stop this murderer?
The camera zoomed in on Sheriff Brock. He took a deep breath before speaking; his voice was steady, though heavy with fatigue.
—The deaths of these three young women have shaken our community —Brock began, his voice tight with emotion he tried to hide—. It's something none of us should ever have to witness.
He paused briefly, looking down before continuing with a firmer tone:
—The person responsible is nothing but a coward, someone who feeds on fear and the suffering of the innocent.
Visibly upset, Brock leaned slightly toward the microphones, staring straight into the camera lens.
—I want you all to know we will not stop —Brock said, his voice firm but weary—. Every member of the Banshee Sheriff's Office and the FBI is working day and night. We will not rest until we catch him.
The flashes lit up his face as a murmur spread through the reporters in front of him. Brock pressed his lips together, holding back frustration, and went on:
—For now, we're asking everyone to avoid going out alone, especially at night. Stay alert. Watch out for each other.
His voice dropped a tone, lower, almost like a vow.
—I promise you, we'll catch this killer, no matter the cost. And when we do, those girls' families will finally have justice.
Brock nodded and handed back the microphone.
The broadcast shifted as the anchor began summarizing the case. Siobhan switched off the TV, her face showing irritation.
—I'm not sure provoking the killer is a good idea —Ethan said, popping the last piece of sweet-and-sour chicken into his mouth.
—We don't have another choice. There are no more leads —Siobhan replied, taking a sip of iced tea—. We need the killer to make a mistake. Agent Phillips thinks it's a better strategy than waiting for another body.
Ethan watched her finish her meal and picked up the folder beside him.
—It's too risky. This kind of provocation could increase the body count.
Inside the folder were records from two previous cases. Ethan examined the detailed photos of the injuries and noticed they were almost identical to those he'd seen today. The files focused mainly on the victims' personal circumstances.
Forensic reports confirmed the victims hadn't been sexually assaulted in either of the previous cases.
The bodies had been carefully prepared —no evidence left behind.
He looked at Siobhan.
—Didn't you conclude before that this was some kind of ritual sacrifice by a cult? What did you find?
—Do you have any idea how many cults there are in the country? —Siobhan clenched her jaw—. There are countless rituals like this. Special Agent Phillips said he already sent the photos and data to the FBI database for comparison, along with some samples to the Jeffersonian Institute.
—Right. —Siobhan paused, stood up, and went to grab her coat.
She pulled a piece of paper from the pocket and handed it to Ethan.
—We talked to a witness today —she said, flipping through some documents—. A five-year-old boy. But he's too traumatized to tell us much. His guardian didn't let us question him too much.
She slid a sheet of paper across the table.
—But he's been drawing. Maybe this says more than his words.
Ethan took the folded paper and carefully opened it.
In the middle of the white page was a red circle, drawn roughly and outlined several times. Inside it, a large blank space with two red triangles. Outside the circle, two more lines jutted out.
A simple, yet deeply unsettling drawing.
Ethan turned the paper over several times, unable to figure out what it was.
—And you say he draws the same thing over and over? Maybe it's just trauma.
He handed the paper back to Siobhan, frustrated.
—Can you tell what it is?
Siobhan shook her head.
—It doesn't look like anything I've seen before. But it has to mean something.
Ethan stared at the drawing in silence for several seconds. They were just childish scribbles —but there was a pattern. Something that didn't fit with the imagination of a five-year-old.
He frowned, laying the paper flat on the table.
—Look closely. These aren't random doodles —he said calmly—. He's trying to tell us something… something he saw.
He leaned back in his chair, thoughtful, his fingers tapping lightly on the table. Then he looked at Siobhan.
—What if we find someone who can interpret it? —he suggested, a sharp glint in his eyes—. A child psychologist or a forensic criminologist, someone who can read between the lines.
—A child, maybe? —Siobhan exclaimed, her eyes lighting up—. Maybe another kid could help us understand what he saw. Do you remember Mrs. Isabella, my old high school teacher?
—Not really —Ethan replied, tossing the empty takeout box into the trash.
—Her granddaughter, Katie —Siobhan said, adjusting her jacket—. The little girl who fell into the well.
Ethan looked at her, vaguely remembering the story.
—Right… the one rescued from the backyard. —he nodded thoughtfully—. What about her?
Siobhan smiled faintly, keys already in hand.
—Katie might help us interpret that drawing.
—I'll drive —Ethan said, getting up.
Sometimes adults see things differently than children. Maybe having a child look at it could reveal something they hadn't noticed.
They both left the station, leaving Emmett sitting there, completely ignored. They hadn't even given him a chance to speak.
—They just don't get it… —Emmett muttered, watching Ethan and Siobhan walk out of the office laughing together.
He sighed, grabbed the last fortune cookie, and cracked it open without much enthusiasm.
—Let's see what nonsense I get this time —he mumbled, unfolding the slip.
He read it under his breath, a faint ironic smile curling on his lips:
—"Your luck will change when you least expect it."
He gave a short, tired laugh and set the paper down.
—Yeah… sure.
Siobhan buckled her seatbelt while Ethan started the Challenger's engine. The town lights faded as they drove down the dark road lined with oaks. Inside the car, only the hum of the engine and the soft tapping of the rain could be heard.
When they reached the small wooden house at the end of the road, Siobhan carefully took the folded drawing. She stepped out, crossed the wet lawn, and climbed the porch steps. The porch light flickered as she knocked.
Ethan stayed in the car, leaning back in his seat. He lit a cigarette and watched through the rearview mirror as the door opened and an older woman with a shawl greeted Siobhan warmly.
The smoke mixed with the fog on the windows as he waited, lost in thought. The rain was falling harder now, drumming steadily on the car roof.
Before Ethan could finish his cigarette, the door burst open. Siobhan rushed out, visibly excited, still holding the drawing, her eyes bright.
—Ethan, Katie says it's a person —she said breathlessly as she climbed into the car—. These two triangles are eyes.
Ethan bit down on the cigarette and pointed at the two lines sticking out from the red circle.
—And these? Horns?
—Yeah —Siobhan nodded—. It's a person with horns on their head.
Ethan took a deep drag and flicked the cigarette away.
—Does this person have a tail?
—Huh? —Siobhan asked, puzzled.
—Where the hell am I supposed to find someone with horns?
—Well, I know a place here in Banshee —she said—. Now drive.
—Siobhan motioned for Ethan to follow her outside.
—Where are we going? —Ethan asked, fastening his seatbelt.
Siobhan had an idea, and her eyes lit up with excitement.
—Have you ever heard of human body modification?
—You mean people who actually get horns implanted on their heads? —Ethan asked, incredulous.
—Fake breasts, fake butts, fake abs… —she replied with a shrug—. Some people even have fake faces. So why not a couple of horns on their heads?
Ethan nodded slowly.
—You've got a point. So, where are we heading now?
—There's a bar on the outskirts of town that most people don't know about —Siobhan said, keeping her hands on the wheel—. It caters to… let's say, more peculiar types. Maybe we'll find some information about someone with horns there.
—You're quite the detective. —Ethan smiled.
If they studied whoever performed those operations, they could narrow down the suspects quickly. After all, the features were far too distinctive.
—And why have I never been there? —Ethan asked, glancing around curiously.
Siobhan smirked.
—Because you only liked going to the Savoy to watch girls. I didn't know you were interested in other places too…
Ethan coughed awkwardly, his cheeks tinged with red.
—How did you know?
—Oh, please. Don't tell me you actually think that's a secret —Siobhan said, pointing at her eyes with a teasing wink—. The whole town knows you and Brock had VIP passes. I've got a very reliable source. Any comment on that?
Ethan raised his hands in defeat.
—None at all, ma'am.
—That's what I thought. —Siobhan nodded—. Besides, the Savoy closed down not long after you left. You know how those places are. Since Proctor's death, there's been a lot of trouble.
With Proctor gone, even Borden's combat skills were useless. That kind of business relied heavily on negotiation and influence. Thinking of Rebecca, Ethan realized he hadn't thought of her in a while. He hoped she wouldn't follow in her uncle's footsteps—that she'd find a different path.
The car soon pulled up in front of a run-down building. Outside, a crowd of parked cars covered in strange stickers filled the lot. There were also plenty of motorcycles, and the people going in and out wore unusual clothing—mostly black, mostly leather. Job would've loved this place.
Ethan wore jeans, a black T-shirt, and a gray jacket. Siobhan still had her service uniform on. Even so, both of them stood out among the crowd entering and leaving the bar.
Ethan eyed the bouncers at the door.
—How do you even know this place?
—I came here once to arrest a fugitive. Quite the show. —Siobhan replied, unclipping her duty belt and keeping only her badge and Glock.
—Just stay behind me and let me do the talking… You're not a cop anymore. Just watch my back, okay?
—You're the boss.
Ethan opened the car door and followed her toward the entrance. Their outfits drew plenty of odd stares in just a few dozen steps. Here, they were the ones who didn't fit in.
The place pulsed with soft, throbbing music. A dim blue glow washed over the interior. Ethan sidestepped a woman walking by—she wore nothing but a black leather vest.
After passing her, he couldn't help but glance back.
Her bare back was lined with more than twenty rings, two rows laced together with red cords, forming something disturbingly beautiful.
Ethan rubbed his face; this was definitely a new experience.
Everyone inside wore mostly black leather. Some had their skin pierced, others were completely topless. Piercings in noses, mouths, tongues, nipples… nothing new to him.
As for style, Job's goth boyfriend was a pale imitation compared to this crowd.
Still, Ethan didn't spot anyone with horns.
The two made their way to the bar. The bartender noticed Siobhan and muttered a curse under his breath. He set down his glass and gestured to the side.
—Your guy's in the back.
They both turned toward a small doorway in the corner, covered by a curtain of beads. A red light flickered from within, designed to look like a demon's gaze.
They exchanged a look and, ignoring the bartender, headed straight for the corner. As they pushed the curtain aside, they discovered the bar's true nature.
Swip!
The crack of a whip echoed down the narrow corridor.
Seeing Ethan hesitate, Siobhan grabbed his arm.
—Don't be a coward.
Perplexed, Ethan stepped into the brick-lined hallway.
The back area, made up of several semi-open rooms, looked like a prison. The scenes inside were clearly visible, with moans echoing every few seconds.
Red bulbs bathed everything in a bloody glow. Bricks, chains, and fences everywhere gave the place the look of a sex dungeon.
Further ahead, in one of the rooms, several naked men and women were bound and hanging from ropes.
"Bondage."
Another sharp crack rang out as a naked woman, a toy within reach, swung her whip at the men.
—Don't you think that guy needs help? —Ethan asked, staring at the man's reddened back.
—Don't look —Siobhan replied, shaking her head—. We can't interfere with other people's roleplay.
—Well, I can officially say I've seen it all.
—Most of the people here are into these kinds of harmless fetishes. It may look strange, but it's just their thing.
Still, she wondered who those "associates" the bartender had mentioned were. Did Brock and the others come here too?
Before Ethan could say anything, furious shouts erupted up ahead. A man in a black suit flew out of a room and hit the floor hard, groaning in pain. Ethan's eyes widened.
—Damn, that's Phillips!
He sprinted forward and peered into the room. Inside, several men in black leather jackets were beating Hank mercilessly.
Two against eight. No chance. Ethan had to act fast. He shoved through a few of them, deflecting punches with precise movements.
One blow landed square on his chest, forcing him back a step, but he kept his footing.
Ethan twisted quickly, dodging an attacker and raising his arms to block a hit coming from behind.
—Hey! —he roared, charging forward.
One of them raised a baton, but Ethan ducked and spun smoothly. His right hand found the man's throat—a sharp, precise strike that made him stumble back, coughing, eyes wide in shock.
—Without stopping, Ethan spun on his heels, blocking a punch from another attacker. An elbow here, a shove there—his movements were fluid and seamless, each strike landing exactly where it needed to. The music seemed to speed up with every impact, keeping perfect time with his rhythm.
He hit one man in the collarbone, redirected another with a shoulder twist, and spun fast to deliver a clean punch to a third man's jaw without losing composure. Every opponent who tried to close in was swiftly neutralized—a shoulder, a throat, a gut.
—Until they were all sprawled on the floor, gasping and dazed. Ethan grabbed one of them by the head, ready to deliver another blow when a shout cut through the air.
—Stop! —one of them cried, his voice trembling, pleading for mercy.
Ethan froze instantly, his eyes scanning each attacker to make sure none of them dared to move. In barely ten seconds, the eight men who had tried to attack Phillips and Hank lay defeated before him, unable to stand.
Breathing steadily, Ethan tightened his grip on the last man's head, glancing around the room to assess the situation. The low hum of music still pulsed in the air.
Next to a large erotic chair stood a blonde woman in a hollow-cut leather outfit, two crossed belts barely covering what needed covering. She was attractive, with long legs, and looked to be in her early twenties.
The woman held a dagger with both hands; her arms trembled uncontrollably, the tip of the blade shaking as it pointed toward Ethan. A liquid trickled down her thighs, the sharp scent of urine mixing with the tension in the room.
Ethan shook his head.
—Go home, kid —he said firmly but calmly.
The woman nodded shakily, dropped the dagger, and bolted for the exit, her footsteps echoing across the floor as the dripping sound followed her.
Ethan stepped forward, extending a hand to Hank.
—You okay?
—Not really —Hank grunted, gripping Ethan's hand to pull himself up and stretch—. But I'll live… damn, that was embarrassing.
He'd protected his vital spots and was about to draw his weapon, but Ethan had already taken down all the thugs in seconds.
Siobhan helped Phillips to his feet, and the three of them stepped inside together. She didn't look the least bit surprised—hadn't even drawn her gun.
—Why is it that every time I see you… —Ethan murmured, smirking as he tapped the baton—. You're always in some kind of mess?
—Shit —Phillips muttered, brushing off his jacket, clearly irritated—. I didn't even get the chance to identify myself before those bastards jumped me.
—How'd you find this place? —Ethan asked.
—From something that kid we saw today drew —Siobhan explained, pulling a piece of paper from her pocket and waving it—. This is the only spot in Banshee where you'll find people with body modifications.
—But I suppose you already knew that, Agent Phillips?
Phillips smiled, clasping Ethan's forearm.
—I got the update this afternoon. These cases match a series of sacrificial murders in the FBI database—all linked to a cult. Many of the victims had body modifications, and this is the only known location tied to them.
He finished speaking and looked down at one of the attackers.
The man lay face-down on the floor, his bare back lined with sharp steel horns embedded along his spine.
—Hey, asshole —Phillips growled, kicking him in the rear—. Where'd you get that crap on your back?
The dark-haired man struggled to sit up, his face drenched in sweat. Clutching his broken arm, he stayed silent, glaring resentfully at Ethan.
Bang!
Ethan kicked him again without a word, then pressed his boot down hard on the man's arm.
—Fuck you, let go! —the man screamed.
—You've got two options —Ethan said, bringing the baton dangerously close to the man's groin—. You can keep your mouth shut… and your arm won't be the only thing you can't move.
—I'll talk… I'll talk! —the man stammered, horrified.
—Good. Now answer the agent's question. —Ethan lowered the baton—. Where did you get those things on your back, and who put them there?
—The guy's name is Quick, everyone calls him Dr. Quick —the man said, trembling—. He works out of the back room of a dry cleaner's on Maple Street, downtown. People come from all over to get work done by him.
—Thanks for your cooperation —Ethan said, straightening up and tossing the baton to Phillips—. See? Easy.
Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a few hundred dollars, and tossed the bills at the man.
—For the medical bills. We good? If we find out you lied or tipped anyone off, a broken arm will be the least of your problems.
—Yeah —the man muttered bitterly, staring at the cash—. I… I won't say anything.
Hank stood in a corner, watching the whole exchange. He opened and closed his hands behind his back, then clenched them tightly. Getting beaten up was never fun.
They didn't stay in the bar long. Ethan hated that kind of place—it only stirred the violence inside him.
Once outside, he pulled out a cigarette, and Hank took one too. Ethan lit his with a Dupont lighter and exhaled a long puff of smoke.
Seeing Hank patting his pockets, he tossed the lighter to him without much thought.
Hank examined it before sparking his cigarette.
—Your name's Siobhan, right? —Phillips asked, glancing at her while pocketing the lighter—. I'll check out Dr. Quick tomorrow and let you know if I find anything.
—Until then, I need you at the station, keeping things steady. Got it?
Siobhan nodded. As long as the case was moving forward, she didn't care how. A large-scale police action would only tip off the killer.
—I'll report the situation to the sheriff —she said.
—Good work. I didn't expect you to reach the same conclusion I did with your limited resources. Well done, Deputy Kelly. —Phillips replied, lighting his cigarette and giving a casual salute.
He handed the lighter back to Ethan with a small smile.
—Thanks.
—Don't mention it —Ethan said.
He knew the gratitude wasn't for the cigarette—it was the second time he'd saved Phillips's life.
—It's getting late —Phillips added—. You want to come with me to the dry cleaner tomorrow? I could use an extra pair of eyes. What do you say?
He pocketed the lighter, walked toward the vehicles, and raised the hand holding his cigarette in a lazy wave.
—Just text me. I'll be there.
As they watched him leave, Hank frowned and spoke in a hoarse, incredulous tone:
—Didn't you say his father used to be the town's sheriff? —he asked, pointing to the lighter Ethan had just pocketed—. A Dupont like that isn't cheap… is he dirty?
Phillips lit another cigarette, the flame flickering in the dark before a cloud of smoke escaped his lips.
—No, not as far as I know —he said evenly—. Remember that reservation we were at this morning? There's a Native casino nearby.
—Yeah, sure —Hank grunted, following him toward the parking lot—. What about it?
Phillips jingled his keys and opened the car door before replying:
—According to the latest info, Ethan Morgan became a minority partner in that casino a couple of months ago. —He exhaled slowly, his tone turning wry—. So, at least for now, he's not short on cash… and honestly, he doesn't strike me as someone who can be bought.
Hank let out a dry laugh.
—Or pushed around. You saw how he dropped those guys in seconds. Now I get why you want to recruit him… I really like his style.
Phillips shut the car door and took one last look in the direction Ethan had gone. The Chevrolet truck rolled off slowly, disappearing down the road.