Page 63 of In the Dark of the Past

Autumn had spread files, maps, photos, and three unopened bottles of whiskey across the long table like she was prepping for war. Myra and Eryn looked like they’d been awake for forty-eight hours straight and would gladly stay awake another forty-eight if it meant tearing those responsible apart with their bare hands. Everybody else was in small groups, talking quietly.

And in the center of it all now stood River. Her arms were crossed, weight braced, jaw set. What had happened today had taken something from her. It had also given something back.

She looked up when she felt me watching.

The room faded.

The day plus I’d been awake pressed in at the edges, but none of it mattered, because she was looking at me like I was something steady in a world coming apart at the seams.

Those out in the bar proper filed into the room, and we all just kind of stood there for a beat before Autumn clapped her hands once, sharp enough to snap the spell. “Okay,” she said. “We can get emotional later. Right now? We need to talk about the seven.”

The table went still.

Rand blew out a breath. “Seven families. Seven problems. Seven…victims?”

“Not necessarily all dead,” Eryn said carefully. “But if the Watchers used that quota system for a decade, it’s possible⁠—”

“No,” River said quickly. “Not possible. I won’t let us think like that yet.” Her voice cracked at the end. Barely. But I heard it.

I stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on her back. She didn’t pull away.

Libby started pacing. “Okay, so. We know Eleanor was the last one in the prior cycle. We know the Watchers escalated from intimidation to homicide when someone posed a threat to the Fund.” She tapped a list on the table. “But if Darren’s telling the truth, then the Watchers operate in tiers. Entry-level favors. Mid-level visibility. And upper-level complicity.”

Myra cracked her knuckles. “We’re going to need subpoenas. Financial records. City hall access logs. Pull every permit the Fund rubber-stamped.”

“We need to be smart about this,” I said. “We can’t rush in swinging at city hall without hard evidence or we’ll lose the case before we start.”

“No,” Andra agreed. “But we also can’t wait. If there are seven names⁠—”

“There are,” River whispered, the sadness in her voice hanging like a shroud in the room.

I turned to her. “Hey. We’ll find them.”

Her eyes lifted to mine, the look in them haunted and burning. “Finn,” she said softly, “you don’t understand. Darren said seven each cycle. Seven families helped. Seven problems solved. But what if that wasn’t the number of victims?”

“Then what was it?” Atlas asked.

“The Watchers themselves.” She said it quietly, like she was still deciding whether she wanted to be right. “Groups like this don’t pick arbitrary numbers. Seven is a threshold. Small enough to maintain absolute loyalty, large enough to distribute culpability so no single person can walk away clean. Everyone holds a piece. Everyone’s hands are dirty. That’s not a victim count. Or at least not just. That’s a structure.”

My blood went cold. “Seven active members. At least.”

A silence dropped over the table like a sheet.

“Seven,” Rand said. “Aren’t we lucky?”

There was a collective groan.

Then Myra said what we were all thinking. “Jesus Christ,” she breathed. “It’s an ongoing organized ring, and they’re active right now. What the hell have we gotten ourselves into here?”

I looked around the room, the entire Murder of the Month Club gathered in a space suddenly too small for what we’d stepped into.

“The hunt is on,” Atlas said.

The weight of that settled like dust.

We weren’t done. Not even close. The Watchers were exposed, awake.

And they were watching.