Wednesday stood in Sheriff Galpin's office, hands folded neatly in front of her.
Galpin barely looked up. "Addams, if you're here to see your classmate, he's in a holding cell—not my office."
"No," Wednesday said evenly. "I'm here to show you evidence that the monster I saw is real."
She placed the painting on his desk.
Galpin picked it up, studying the image in silence. His jaw tightened slightly as his eyes traced the details.
"Who drew this?" he asked.
"I can't say," Wednesday replied. "But I have blood samples. One belongs to the monster. The other belongs to a suspect. I need you to run a comparison."
Galpin set the painting down and leaned back. "Do I look like I work for you, Addams? You don't get to give orders here."
"No," Wednesday said calmly. "But you do want to find the thing that's killing people. And this is your opportunity—unless you're uncomfortable that a sixteen-year-old uncovered more about the monster than you have."
Galpin's expression hardened.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Finally, he exhaled. "Fine. I'll run the test."
He pointed a finger at her. "But if they match, you give me the suspect's name. No games."
"Agreed," Wednesday said.
She placed two items on his desk: a cloth stained with blood taken from Xavier, and the glass shard holding the monster's blood.
Galpin looked down at them, then back at her. "You're awfully confident."
"I don't rely on confidence," Wednesday replied. "I rely on results."
She turned and walked out without waiting for dismissal.
Behind her, Galpin stared at the evidence a moment longer than he intended.
Then he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a photograph—crime scene documentation that hadn't been released to the public. It was a close-up, grainy but unmistakable. The monster's face, caught mid-motion by a camera.
He held the photo beside the painting.
Same contours.
Same eyes.
Same unmistakable shape.
***
Wednesday left the sheriff's office and went directly to the holding cells.
Ethan was still there, sitting behind the bars with the same relaxed posture, as if nothing of importance had changed. He looked up when she stopped in front of the cell.
She told him what she had found.
The shed.
The paintings.
The blood samples.
Xavier—her first suspect linked to the monster.
She watched his face carefully as she spoke.
When she finished, Ethan nodded once.
"Oh," he said. "Is that so."
Nothing else.
Wednesday frowned. "That's all you have to say?"
"It fits," Ethan replied calmly. "From your perspective. The evidence points toward Xavier."
He stood, stepping closer to the bars. "But sometimes the truth we believe is just a convenient lie."
Wednesday's eyes narrowed.
"You're missing something," Ethan continued. "Motive. If Xavier is connected to the monster—or is the monster—what does he gain? Have you actually followed that line of thinking?"
Silence hung between them.
Wednesday's expression shifted—not frustration, but recalibration.
"You're right," she said at last. "The motive doesn't align."
She studied him closely, searching his face for deception—and finding none.
"Then I'll take my leave," Wednesday said. "It seems I overlooked certain variables. I should revisit the evidence."
She turned without waiting for a response, already recalibrating her theory as she walked away.
Behind the bars, Ethan watched her go, his expression unreadable.
"She's getting close," he murmured to himself. "It won't be long before she figures out what a Hyde really is… and what it takes to awaken one."
It wouldn't be long before Crackstone was resurrected.
***
The next day, Ethan was escorted to the Vermont court for his trial.
He was taken there early in the morning, handcuffs secured, deputies walking him through the routine procedures without incident.
The process was orderly and uneventful—paperwork checked, names confirmed, doors opened and closed as expected.
Inside the courtroom, Ethan was seated quietly while the legal formalities began. The charge was read, the case summarized, and the evidence listed—CCTV footage taken at night, a uniform recovered at the scene, circumstantial details presented as fact.
Ethan listened without interruption.
When the prosecutor finished presenting the footage and the brief summary of evidence, a man seated beside Ethan rose calmly from his chair.
Henry.
He was composed, well-dressed, and unhurried—the kind of lawyer who didn't waste words or movements. He adjusted his cuffs once before speaking, voice steady and precise.
"Your Honor," Henry said, "I request that the court review the footage once more."
The judge looked up from the bench. "On what grounds, Mr. Henry?"
"Clarity," Henry replied. "The city's case relies heavily on this video. I believe it deserves closer examination."
The judge nodded after a brief pause. "Proceed."
The screen flickered to life again.
The footage played—grainy, dark, a figure moving through shadows. The outline was vague, the face obscured, details lost to poor lighting and distance.
Henry stepped slightly forward, hands folded behind his back.
"As the court can see," he said evenly, "the individual's face is never visible. Height and build alone are not identification. Especially not beyond reasonable doubt."
He turned just enough to address the jury.
"This could be anyone," Henry continued. "The prosecution wants you to believe similarity equals guilt. That assumption is not evidence."
He paused, then gestured toward the screen.
"And there's something else the police seem to have overlooked," he said. "This footage only shows someone leaving the house."
"It does not show anyone entering," Henry went on. "Which raises an obvious question—why? If this individual entered secretly, without appearing on any camera, why would he suddenly leave in full view?"
He let the silence work for him.
"If someone knew how to avoid the cameras while entering," Henry said evenly, "there is no logical reason they wouldn't leave the same way. Unless, of course, this person wasn't the killer at all—just someone placed there to be seen."
Henry turned slightly toward the jury.
"That gap matters," he said. "Because gaps create doubt. And doubt is not something the law allows you to ignore."
Henry straightened slightly.
"So, Your Honor," he continued, "I ask that this footage be dismissed as credible evidence. It does not establish entry, it does not establish identity, and it certainly does not establish guilt beyond a reasonable doubt."
He gave a brief, respectful nod toward the bench.
"At best, it shows a person leaving a location."
Henry didn't pause for long.
"Now, moving on to the next piece of evidence," he continued, voice steady. "My client's clothing allegedly found at the scene."
He turned slightly toward the prosecution's table.
"I have a question," Henry said. "Did the police recover anything besides my client's clothing? Fingerprints? DNA? Hair fibers? Blood traces that conclusively match my client?"
The prosecutor cleared his throat and stood.
"No," he said, after a brief pause. "We did not recover fingerprints, DNA, or any additional forensic evidence linking the defendant directly to the crime scene."
Henry nodded once, as if he'd expected nothing else.
"Thank you," he said calmly. "That answers my question."
He turned back toward the judge.
"So to be clear," Henry continued, "there is no biological evidence tying my client to the victim. No fingerprints. No DNA. No blood. Only clothing—which, as established, could have been planted."
"In light of that," he said, "the prosecution's case rests entirely on assumptions. And assumptions are not evidence."
"So, Your Honor, under American law and the principle of innocent until proven guilty, I ask this court to recognize what is plainly before it," he said. "My client is innocent."
*****
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