Ashes of Truth

The precinct was too quiet that morning.

Ashgrove always had its shadows, but now it felt as though the entire town was holding its breath. Rain streaked the windows in thin silver lines, the storm’s weight still pressing down even after the thunder had rolled past. Detective Mara Quinn sat at her desk, the faint hum of the overhead lights buzzing against the silence.

The evidence bag lay in front of her. Inside: the feather, its edges blackened, the ribbon a deep red that looked almost wet in the dim light. Beside it sat the Polaroid from the chamber, her seventeen-year-old face staring back at her from a time she could barely remember.

She couldn’t stop looking at it.

That night the fire, the screams, the smoke choking her lungs had always come to her in fragments. But now, with this photograph, it felt less like memory and more like accusation. Someone had been there. Someone had watched her. And they wanted her to know it.

Chief Lorraine Hale’s office door opened with a creak, breaking Mara from her thoughts. Hale’s presence filled the room like it always did—commanding, but brittle at the edges, as though she was one word away from cracking.

“You look like hell,” Hale said.

“Good morning to you too,” Mara muttered, sliding the Polaroid back into the folder.

Hale walked over, her heels sharp against the linoleum, and tapped the evidence bag. “Still staring at feathers won’t get us closer to the killer.”

Mara’s jaw tightened. “This one was left in a basement that shouldn’t exist. A basement with carvings that match the bodies. Someone planned that fire to hide it, Hale. They wanted this to stay buried.”

For a moment, Hale’s expression flickered something Mara almost missed. Guilt? Fear? But just as quickly, the chief’s walls were back in place.

“We’re not going down that road,” Hale said firmly. “The fire was an accident. End of discussion.”

Mara stood, anger rising in her chest. “With all due respect, Chief, don’t do that. Don’t pretend you don’t see the same connections I do. The fire, the symbols, the victims—they’re tied together. And you know it.”

Hale’s voice hardened. “What I know is that you’re letting your past cloud your judgment. We can’t afford that. Not on this case.”

Mara’s hand curled into a fist against the desk, nails biting into her palm. “Or maybe you just don’t want me digging too deep.”

The words hung between them like smoke. Hale didn’t answer immediately just stared at her with those sharp, tired eyes. Then she turned on her heel and walked back into her office, shutting the door behind her.

The slam echoed through the room.

Mara sank back into her chair, chest tight. She had worked under Hale long enough to recognize evasion. The chief was hiding something—and Mara was done pretending otherwise.

A shadow moved across her desk. She looked up to see Dr. Elias Ward standing there, holding a thin folder of his own. His shirt sleeves were rolled, his watch catching the fluorescent light. Calm. Observant. Too calm.

“You enjoy baiting your boss?” he asked lightly, though his eyes were steady, watchful.

Mara ignored the jab. “What do you want, Ward?”

He slid the folder toward her. Inside were sketches—spirals, geometric shapes, symbols that twisted into unfamiliar language. Her stomach knotted.

“The markings from the chamber,” Ward explained. “I compared them to cases the Bureau has on cult activity. Most are fragmented, half-myths, half-folklore. But this spiral—it shows up more often than coincidence allows. Dozens of towns. Always tied to fires.”

Mara’s breath caught. “And the feathers?”

He nodded slowly. “There are reports of a group The Embers. Obscure, scattered. They worship fire as rebirth. Every ritual leaves behind ash and feathers. The species is rare, found in specific regions of the state.”

She shoved the folder back toward him. “Why does it feel like you knew this before we started?”

Ward didn’t flinch. “Because I did.”

Mara froze.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Years ago, I treated a patient tied to them. He called himself a Watcher. Said fire was the purest form of memory. He disappeared not long after your family’s fire. His case file was sealed.”

Mara’s chest tightened. “And you didn’t think to mention this sooner?”

Ward’s jaw flexed. “I wanted confirmation before I threw ghosts on the table. You deserve facts, not shadows.”

She searched his face for a crack, for anything that would betray whether he was lying. But Ward was unreadable, his composure a mask she couldn’t pierce.

Her phone buzzed, jolting them both.

Unknown number. Again.

She answered sharply. “Quinn.”

A pause. Static. Then a familiar voice, rough, angry, and trembling beneath the surface.

“Mara.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. “…Jonah?”

Ward’s head snapped up at the name.

The voice on the line was her brother’s. Older now, darker. But still him. “You shouldn’t have come back.”

Mara gripped the phone tighter. “Where the hell are you? Do you have any idea what’s happening here?”

“You don’t understand,” Jonah hissed. “You never did. They’re not after me. They’re after you.”

Her throat went dry. “Who?”

“The Circle,” he whispered. “The fire was never meant to kill you. You were supposed to—” He cut himself off, breathing ragged. Then his tone shifted, colder. “Stop looking for me. If you find me, you’ll regret it.”

The line went dead.

Mara sat frozen, the silence loud in her ears. Her pulse hammered, her grip so tight on the phone her knuckles ached.

Ward’s voice was calm but edged with steel. “Your brother’s alive.”

She nodded numbly, her mind racing. Jonah. The boy who’d glared at her through smoke and flames the last night she saw him. The boy who blamed her for running when he stayed. The man whose fingerprints were found at a crime scene.

Now he was back. And warning her off.

Ward studied her closely. “You believe he’s involved.”

“I believe he’s scared,” Mara muttered, shoving the phone into her pocket. “And if Jonah’s scared, then we should all be.”

Before Ward could respond, something sharp interrupted the air—an acrid scent, faint but distinct. Mara’s gaze snapped to the evidence bag on her desk.

Smoke.

Her stomach dropped. The feather inside the bag was smoldering. Slowly, impossibly, a thin line of smoke curled upward, filling the space with the bitter sting of ash.

Mara grabbed the bag, but the plastic melted in her hands, the feather collapsing into black dust before her eyes. Within seconds, it was gone.

Ward stepped forward, disbelief breaking through his calm mask. “That’s… impossible.”

Mara’s hands trembled as she stared at the ash staining her desk. Her brother’s voice rang in her ears.

The fire was never meant to kill you.

She forced herself to breathe, the sting of smoke burning her throat. “No,” she whispered, her voice trembling but firm. “Not impossible. A message.”

She looked at the ash, her reflection fractured in the dark smear.

“They wanted me to see it burn.”