- Aria's POV -

I stare at the pictures, hating myself for not being able to tear my gaze away. When I looked around earlier for any other presence that wasn't Miles, I found none. I was both relieved and angry. How could someone disappear so quickly? It's ridiculous.

The photographs bring back terrible flashes of memories of that dreadful day. I can never escape those memories, they'll always be there in the back of my mind to haunt me for the rest of my life. I almost throw up. The lights flicker multiple times, and I worry they'll go out again. I don't need that right now.

Miles peers over my shoulder to get a good look at the images. I turn my face slightly so I can see his expression, and it's just what I expected: confused and a bit frightened.

"Miles," I say, goosebumps covering my skin. "We have to get out of here."

"Yeah, no shit. There's no way I'm staying down here after what just happened—which I'm still confused about, by the way." He snorts and turns his focus back onto the photos again. "Are those pictures of a crime scene? See, this is why I don't like basements. Weird shit goes on down here. I read online somewhere that one guy got his eyebrows ripped off by a dude with a chicken's head in a basement. I really didn't think the Headless Chickenman existed."

I have to roll my eyes at this. His imagination is quite . . . interesting. I mean, seriously? Headless Chickenman? And where the heck would he have heard something like that? Miles really must be drowning in fake news. But, I have to admit, that wild imagination of his is kind of cute. Especially whenever he was scared shitless, it brought down that whole bad boy persona.

"Yeah, these are pictures of a crime scene. More specifically, the photos of my parents' crime scene." I answer flatly and take a deep breath, trying to ignore the lump in my throat.

Miles' brows knit together as he looks at me. "That's so messed up."

I sigh, fighting back tears. "Life's messed up."

"Shortcake? Are you okay?" He asks carefully.

What a dumb question. I just saw what I never wanted to see again.

"I'm fine," I say, my voice cracking. I pray Miles doesn't notice.

But, much to my disappointment, he does. "It's okay to not be okay, you know."

Stop being sweet when we both know you'll pull a mean prank on me the second we get out of here.

"Yeah, I probably will." He says.

Wait, what?

"Shit, did I say that out loud?"

Miles chuckles. "Yup. You most definitely did."

Lovely.

I look back at the photos, my breath hitching. Miles looks like he's about to barf. I hope it's on his shoes, and not me.

"Is this the same person who wrote that note?" He asks.

I shrug. "It might be."

What I really want to know is why they're after me now. It's been three years! After hiding in the dark for so long, and getting away with it, why now?

"Maybe they left something else. Search the other side." Miles orders, strolling to inspect an old couch.

I do as I'm told, my eyes scanning the pool table. I don't find anything, so I crouch down and look under it.

Aha!

I reach for the piece of cloth and identify the material. It's cotton, and the colour of it is a deep red. When I slip out from under the table, my head hits the roof of it. I wince and silently curse the pool table.

I go back to studying the cloth in my hands. It looks as if it had been ripped off a larger piece of fabric. Clothing, perhaps. Turning it over, I almost miss the faded name that is printed in white right in the middle. Mike. I don't know anyone with the name. Or at least, I don't think I know anyone with the name.

I'm about to tell Miles about my discovery, but instead, he tells me about his own.

"Hey, Shortcake? I think I found something."

"What is it?" I ask, stuffing the cloth into my back pocket.

"Uh, it's a piece of paper with a time and date. October sixteenth, seven fifty-five PM. It doesn't say the year, though."

I take it from him and flip it over, but find nothing. "We'll give that to the police. I got s—"

The lights start flickering again, but it startles Miles so much that he jumps and yelps, almost slamming into me.

And then, the lights go out again.

"Oh, man. Not again. See, I didn't even find my shoes yet! I'm not dying until I find them. The Headless Chickenman will rip my eyebrows out, and then I'll be eyebrowless! It's—"

"God, Miles. Shut up, will you? Your precious babies are in some closet down here. Stop overreacting so much." I flick his forehead.

He gapes at me. "You put my shoes in a closet? The closet with the hole in a wall? Don't you know that's where the demons live?"

Sighing, I grab his hand and lead him through the darkness towards where the closet door is. Of course, I manage to stumble and almost fall while walking. I swing it open and step inside, Miles stepping inside with me. He looks at the shelf right in front of him in awe, squinting his eyes to see if all his shoes are there. The dark doesn't help with that.

"Happy now?" I ask.

"Very." He responds. "But I can barely see them, how do I know they're all here?"

"That's your problem," I say.

What we both don't expect, is for the closet door to slam shut. The sound makes us jump and my face collides with Miles' chest, yet again. Miles curses under his breath and his hands rest at my waist for a few seconds before I take them off and step away from him. When I try to get the door to open, it doesn't budge. I spin around and look at Miles with my hands on my hips.

"Don't tell me . . ."

"Yup, " I reply, tucking a few wisps of my hair behind my ear. "We're locked in a closet of a locked basement."

"You forgot to add demonic in front of 'closet'."

I ignore his comment. "How did the door even lock, or close for that matter?"

"I think the person was still there, watching us. They're probably right outside this door right now." Miles says in a lowered voice.

Thank God he didn't say it was the Headless Chickenman.

"You don't have your phone on you, right?" He digs his hands into his pockets.

"If I had my phone with me, Miles, we would not be stuck here right now," I say.

"Oh, right."

I suddenly remember the cloth in my pocket, so I eagerly pull it out and hand it to him.

"I found this under the pool table." I explain, biting my lip.

His eyes twinkle in the darkness as he struggles to get a good look at it. Still, after about thirty seconds, he gasps.

"What? What is it? Do you know something? Do you know who Mike is?" I bombard him with questions, trying to keep my voice down just in case the person is still here. I don't want them to know I found something.

Or maybe they already know. I mean, they were in the same room, hiding as we searched for clues. I don't know.

Miles hesitates before answering. "Yeah," he says, "I do know a Mike. And I know who that cloth belongs to."

What he says next sends a shiver down my spine.

"My brother."