Black Cedar

After a violent warning forces them back onto the road, Mags and Amy follow the clues into one of the county’s quietest institutions — and uncover a trail of missing records, buried names, and secrets that were never meant to be found. As the past presses closer, the girls begin to realize Dylan wasn’t just uncovering old stories… he was tracing a pattern that’s still very much alive.

Transcript

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Murder Girls is created, written and produced by Eternal Teenager. Content Warning This episode contains discussion of murder and violent death, physical assault, masked attackers and chase sequences, panic attacks and anxiety, references to childhood trauma, mental health facilities and historical psychiatric abuse, including ableism and inadequate care, particularly toward women, seizure disorder, grief and loss, ongoing themes related to the deaths of family members, breaking and entering, misuse of a fire alarm in a care facility, cannabis and substance use references, family conflict and dysfunction, surveillance and stalking, corporate malfeasance, missing persons, and profanity throughout. Listener discretion is advised.

Previously on Murder Girls.

If you want to know everything, then we can arrange to meet at the old ruined cabin.

The cabin is both exactly as I remember and completely wrong.

What is that?

There's a hatch. Recently disturbed. Someone's been here.

Dylan.

He found this. Whatever he was looking for, it's down there. There, in the corner.

Sculptures. Bronze, I think.

Two figures. A man and a woman.

Oh, hey, there's something carved underneath.

Says Dorothy Calhoun.

Okay, Danielle Chase. Here's the headline. She's boring.

So really all there is is that weird file tag is what you're telling us.

Right, Danielle has the file tag, and so do her kids.

Danielle's ex-husband, though? No file tag.

So the tag's following her side of the family.

Her mom died about 15 years ago. Cancer. Her dad is 78, currently parked at Black Cedar Residence, an assisted living facility in Cedar Brook.

His name is Anson. Anson Calhoun.

Calhoun.

Holy shit.

Is that good holy shit or disaster holy shit?

Black Cedar Residence, a premier senior living community.

It's run by the Threshold Group.

Who?

The originals. Threshold is one of their shell empires. We need to go to Cedar Brook.

Agreed.

You're going to talk to him, Anson?

If they let us. Wow.

This isn't a storage unit. It's a hideout. Someone knocked down the interior walls between three units. Outside, it still looks like three doors. Inside, it's one open room. There's a bed in the corner, a desk drowning in papers and folders, a cork board with photos and notes and red string, like a conspiracy cliche that got too real, boxes stacked along the walls, Dylan's handwriting on the sides. This is where he was living, or hiding, or both. We move fast. Art folders, the Polaroids, the business card, into Mags Tote, shove, shove, shove. We don't have time to understand it. We just have to get it somewhere that isn't here. That's when the back of my neck goes cold. Mags, we need to go now. What? We turn away from the door, and they're already there. They're sliding out from between the rows of units. Eight, nine, maybe more. Cedar Brook High Letterman jackets, Cedar Brook High Wolves mascot masks. Those masks, the same ones from when we were kids, the ones that chased us through the woods, the ones that haunt my nightmares. They don't run, they stroll, slow, deliberate, like this is inevitable, not urgent. That's when I noticed they're all carrying some kind of leather straps. Belts hit the car, doors, hood, trunk again and again. Each strike a gunshot made of leather and steel.

Mags, on three.

No.

One. Fuck. Two.

Murder Girls, episode 12, Black Cedar.

How long have we been hiding here? I don't know, like 10 minutes, three hours, who can say?

Do you think they saw us come in here?

I don't know, I don't think so. Oh God, oh God, I think they're still out there.

Shh, hey, hey, come on, just stand here with me.

Amy, I can't, I can't breathe.

Hey, hey buddy, hey, look at me. I have something that will help, okay?

What is it?

Emergency supplies, dude. Is that a Three Muska Tears bar? Yep, and I have like seven more. I'm not hungry right now. Trust me, sugar helps. It's like science.

This is the worst science ever.

Fine, I'll eat them all myself.

Impossible.

Improbable. And bet. Isn't that what the slogan is about? Three Muska Tears. All for one and one for all, and also like Nougat or whatever. It means just eat all of them. All of the ones you have. You're so weird. Yeah, but you're stuck with me. We're gonna be okay. How do you know?

I don't know, man.

Probably cause... Oh, because we're the main characters. And main characters don't die in creepy cabins under a pile of garbage and forest barf. Right? That's just the weakest of sauces, my good lady. Uh, yeah, I think main characters can die of insulin shock though. Like, how many of those have you eaten, dude? This is number six. Personal best.

You know what?

I think they're gone. Are you sure?

Yeah.

Yeah, I think so. When we're out of this, I'm buying you a box of those. Dude, I'm gonna yack. I never want to eat another one of those again. Okay. On three?

Okay.

One, two, three!

Go, go, go!

Hold on! For about five seconds, I think we're going to die. And then nothing.

Are they...

Are they following us?

I don't... No, no, they're not. They didn't even move.

They just watched us go, like a figure in a nightmare that doesn't need to chase you because it's already won. They weren't chasing us. They weren't trying to get in. They just wanted us scared, like before. Like the universe hit repeat on our worst nightmare. That was... That was just a warning.

Yeah. Message fucking received.

The adrenaline doesn't stop. It just sits there, in my chest, in my hands, vibrating under my skin like I've been electrocuted. Amy's grip on the steering wheel is so tight her knuckles have gone white. I can see her hands shaking. Ames? Hey, hey, you okay?

Yeah, I'm...

Yeah, totally.

Just got terrorized by masked psychopaths with belts, which I am choosing to describe as a weird Thursday.

Amy.

Doing great. Crushing it. I'm fine.

She's not fine. Hey, we should stop, you know, just for a minute. What do you say?

We need to keep moving. Got to get to Black Cedar.

We need to stop, Amy. Pull over.

I just need... I just need a second.

Amy.

I'm good. I'm good. Just... Just need some air.

You're shaking.

I'm not. I'm okay.

Amy, look at me.

Fuck.

Fuck, I'm sorry.

Hey, come here.

I just... I can't... I keep seeing that video and you getting hurt, and it's my fault. It's always my fault, and now they're back, and we're doing this again, and I can't... Hey.

Hey, no.

I brought you back here. I put you in danger again. And you just keep following me, and I don't know how to...

Stop.

Look, you are spiraling so hard right now, I'm legally obligated to remind you that the last time this happened, you tried to eat like 203 musketeers in a row and almost died. Right? Remember? Remember that?

I only barfed a little.

Still, I wasn't a doctor then, and I'm still only almost one now. But I think we can agree we need to come up with better defense mechanisms for this kind of thing. And look, you didn't die either time, so statistically speaking, you're good. But the Terrorized by Wolf Mascots Support Group only has two members in this part of the country, and that's you and me. So breathe with me, okay?

Okay.

There you go. Besides, do you think those wolves would risk fighting us if they knew how feral you get with nougat? They'd unionize with demands, and a very specific nougat clause.

Oh my god, shut up.

I'm serious. I'm picturing like collective bargaining. Dental, PTO, a safety addendum about hostile nougat environments. Honestly, you're a workplace violation.

You're the worst.

Yeah, but I learned from the best. There you go. That's better. Listen, we're not done with this, you know, like what just happened, the wolves, the belts, but also, and of course the video. We're going to have to talk about this at some point, when you're ready, and when I'm ready too.

Yeah, I know.

Right, but not here, not now. Right now, we just keep moving, even if we're barely standing.

Story of our lives, huh?

Yes, yeah, pretty much.

Mags, how did they know? The wolves at the storage unit, how did they know we were there?

I don't know, we only told the weirdos where we were going, but I mean, those crazy kids, they are a lot of things, but duplicitous double agents is not one of those things on that long strange list of the things that they are.

Agreed, so how did the wolves know?

What, you think we're being followed?

I do, maybe for days.

Dee Dee's camera at the storage unit.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, it might have caught them on the way in or out.

Maybe we can see who they are, or at least how they're tracking us.

Let's try to spot a tail while we're at it.

In the meantime, an old man who has no idea who we are or what we want, but will definitely be happy to take those CBD gummies off our hands is waiting for us at Black Cedar.

Alright, let's book, Chica.

There's something almost comforting about it. Realizing we're making people in power nervous, that what we're doing actually matters enough to scare them. Maybe that makes us idiots. But right now, it makes us feel like we're winning.

We should probably grab some food first. I'm still kind of high.

There's a convenience store up the road.

Convenient? Hey, Mags?

Hey, Amethyst?

Can you grab me a Three Musketeers?

Yeah, yeah, I can do that. All for one.

The first thing I notice is how quiet it is. Not peaceful quiet, curated quiet, the kind of quiet wealthy small towns used to hide their history. Landscaping instead of answers. Manicured lawns instead of truth. Black Cedar residence is middle middle class, not luxury, not a dump, just pleasant, beige, safe, which is exactly why it feels wrong. Is it weird that this place feels creepier than the cabin and even secure store?

We literally just got attacked by masked psychopaths with belts, so yes, Amy, yes, that's weird.

And yet.

And yet.

Inside, it's all cozy furniture and muted colors. There's a TV in the corner playing what looks like food network with the sound off. A couple of residents drift through the common area like ghosts on a very slow schedule. And then I see the photos. Look.

Board members.

A wall of framed portraits. The usual suspects. A few verans. Some names I don't recognize. And then Amber Holt listed under Wellness Initiative.

Does she come around much? Amber Holt?

We are such fans.

Oh, yup. Big time Amber Holt fans. You know, stans even.

I get it.

She was actually here last week. Thank you, Kelly.

That's enough. The junior nurse goes quiet. The senior nurse gives her a look that could freeze water. And then I see the other portrait. Dylan Holt, junior board member. His photo is still up. No memorial plaque, no black ribbon, no acknowledgment that he's dead. As if he's alive. As if no one here deals with messy public scandal. As if the staff were told not to acknowledge it.

Anyway, we're here to see Anson Calhoun. I spoke with his daughter, Danielle. Oh. Oh, you're the girls Danielle called about. He'll be happy.

He doesn't get many visitors. Wait, you called Danielle? Yeah.

I mean, probably a good idea to get consent to this visit from his legal guardian, right?

Sure, sure. And when did you call her? What did you even say?

When you were stress eating at the gas station, I just told her the truth. We're looking into something that happened to someone we know, and Anson might be able to help. We won't take up too much of his time, and it's nothing upsetting.

And she's just cool with this?

Yeah. I'm a little surprised by how convenient and easy this is for us, but I'm just going to go with it, okay? She seems nice and she's worried he's lonely. So, yeah.

Okay, then. Guess you over function when you're scared.

You were overwhelmed and I didn't know how to help. So, I did this instead.

Hey, you did help. Great.

And if you'll just sign the visitor log?

I glanced down at the log as I signed. Most of the names are perfectly normal. But every few lines, there's a name that's been scratched out heavily, like someone took a pen and just obliterated it. I don't ask why. At first, everything seems normal, as normal as an assisted living center can be anyway. And then we start noticing oddities. A hallway to an entire wing, taped off with caution tape and a simple handwritten sign remodeling. Except there's no sounds of construction, no smell of paint or drywall, no workers.

That's a lot of space to just close off.

For real. Whoa, sorry.

Oh, I'm not supposed to be near here.

It's okay. You're all right.

Uh, why aren't you supposed to be here?

I forget.

You're fine. Do you want help getting back to the main area?

Oh, yes. Yes, please.

Okay, friend. Come on. Let's get you back. It's right through there.

Uh, thank you. That was weird, right?

Super weird guy. We don't talk about it. But we're both thinking the same thing. Something's being hidden here. Come in. Anson Calhoun is not what I expected. He's frail. You can see it in the way he sits, the way his hands shake slightly when he moves. But he's not gone. His eyes are sharp, curious.

You must be the detectives.

We prefer concerned citizens.

I like that better, too. Less official.

And speaking of sticking it to the man, we brought you something.

Oh, my. Are these?

Cannabis gummies from Fogline Botanica.

The good kind.

Danielle never lets me have the fun kind anymore.

Well, we won't tell if you don't. Oh, just gonna take all three of them. Okay. Yeah.

Mr. Calhoun.

Anson, please. Now, what did you want to talk about?

Anson. We're looking into something that happened in Avalon Falls, something old. Your family's name came up.

It always does.

Danielle told me you worked at a lumber mill, right?

As a younger man, yeah. Not the one in your neck of the woods, though. Not the Holtz one. The one up in Bearview. The Bergmans. Then got into sales after that. Did okay. Raised a family. Lost my wife about 15 years ago. Cancer. That changed things. Put a hole in me.

I'm sorry to hear that.

Yeah.

The Holtz. Did you know them?

I knew of them. Everyone did. Victor Holtz, we're about the same age. His father, Edward, his grandfather, Charles. My dad always said to stay clear of Avalon Falls, and the Holtz specifically.

Why would he say that specifically?

The Holtz don't forgive. They don't forget. And they don't let you live to regret.

That's not how the saying usually goes?

Not anymore.

No.

But that's how my dad said it back in the day. My family avoided the originals. We didn't talk about them. Didn't mention them. It was an unspoken rule. You saw them walking toward you on the sidewalk. You moved to the other side of the street. They bought buildings in your neighborhood. You moved to the other side of the county.

Might be a little before your time, but did you ever hear about Dorothy and Nathan Calhoun?

Cousins. Well, second cousins. A generation back. They died before I was born. My father talked about the time before, like when we were living was post-apocalyptic, very before and after. But he never gave specifics. Just the bootlegger story everyone knew about. I remember once, though, my dad took me out into the woods. We found this remnant, a chimney, some stone and brick scattered in the pines. I realized later that was probably what was left of the old Calhoun Manor.

Do you remember where?

Not anymore. It's been 70 years.

What about the Driftwood School? The artists? You ever heard of them?

What?

It was an artist collective in the 1960s and 70s, connected to the originals.

The girl with the red ribbon.

What?

Wasn't she a painter?

Who do you mean?

I don't... I can't remember. Someone mentioned her. Or maybe I dreamt it.

The gummies are starting to hit. You can see it in the way his eyes soften, the way his shoulders relax. What about Amber Holt? Did she ever come by?

Dude, you ask questions like you're conducting an interrogation. No offense, babes.

Some offense.

Uh, okay. That was pretty good, dude.

Yeah. Oh, it's you. You came back.

Uh, me?

No, not you. Her. You look like her. You're a little taller, though.

Who does she look like?

The woman. She asked about the old house. She, she warned me not to trust them. The doctors.

Who warned you?

Dee Dee. Her name was Dee Dee.

What?

She was nice, intense, but nice. She said, she said.

He's falling asleep. All that CBD, the gummies pulling him under.

Visiting hours will end in 10 minutes. Please make your way to the exits. Thank you.

We should go.

Yeah. Hey, Anson, Mr. Calhoun. Yeah, he's gone. Sleepy, sleepy bear. Back into the hallway. The air is electric between us with Revelation. Dee Dee was here.

Dee Dee knew.

We're halfway to the exit when we pass it again. The closed wing, the remodeling that isn't happening. We're doing this, right? Like we can stop pretending we're not doing it, and we're just doing it?

Oh yeah, we are absolutely doing this. The first thing I notice is how quiet it is. Not renovation quiet, abandoned quiet.

Okay, so where are the workers?

The hallway stretches ahead of us, empty rooms on either side, plastic covered boxes stacked against walls, equipment, paint cans, ladders, tarps, scattered around like props on a stage. But not enough, not nearly enough for a renovation this size.

This place doesn't look cooked enough for renovations.

Yeah, seems less than 10 to 15 years old, which makes the whole under construction thing feel fake. There's evidence of activity though, footprints in the dust, a half full coffee cup on a window sill, doors opened recently. You can tell by the scuff marks on the floor.

Empty, empty, also empty.

Okay, what even are we looking for?

No idea, know it when we see it kind of stuff.

Ah, love that stuff.

Remember when we broke into town hall?

Oh my God, do not.

We needed the map of the old cannery and-

And almost got caught by that security guard.

Who turned out to be a fake security guard, let's remember.

Who was actually one of the drug dealers in a weirdly tight uniform.

And we found the real guard tied up in his underwear in a broom closet. I forgot about the underwear until now, actually.

How do you forget the underwear? That was the trauma centerpiece.

Oh man, we were 12. We had to untie him and invent a reason for why we were there.

I'm not sure history project is what I would have went with.

Hey, it worked.

It absolutely did not work. He just felt too sorry for us to call our parents.

We were good at this, though, breaking into places.

We were good at a lot of things.

Yeah.

Well, we should keep— Right, yeah.

Mags, look.

A room placard, number 14, circled in red ink. Dylan.

Yeah. Looks like he used his board membership privileges to snoop around. Nice.

The room is full of boxes. Old filing boxes, cardboard gone soft with age, labels typed, handwritten, faded. Some of them look pre-1960s. Whoa, there are medical records, employment records, and just straight up trash.

Where's all this stuff from?

Different places, all over the county. Oakmont Sanitarium, Riverside Asylum, Clearwater Rest Home, others.

Those all sound actively bad and tragically cursed.

Yes. Yeah, they're shuttered, all of them. Mostly mental health facilities like 1940s through the 80s.

Why keep them here?

Why does Threshold keep anything?

This is dark.

Yep.

Like the history of mental health care is basically just-

Torture. Yeah, especially for women.

And they hid all of it in a memory care facility.

Owned by Threshold. Oh, oh, what the fuck? What, what is it?

Scissors.

Um, okay.

The only unlocked drawer in this filing cabinet is just scissors, like over a hundred pairs of them. Identical. This feels like a threat.

This feels like a tax write-off.

Dude, don't even get me started on the keys. There's a bunch of keys on hooks over there. Also hundreds. Some are labeled, most aren't.

Amy, over here. Look at that box.

Dylan, mark this one.

And two others. Those there.

What's the first one say?

Tilakwa Regional Medical Center. Employee files. There.

More red ink on that file.

Uh, okay. Who do we have here? Mavis Beals. Hospital Social Services Intake Coordinator. 1959 to 1975.

What's in the file?

Standard employment stuff. Performance reviews, payroll records.

That is super analog.

From the time before HR.

Take pictures. Box number two. This one's light. And Rattly. Ooh, okay. What's inside? What's inside? Uh, lanyards?

What?

Yeah. Just random employee IDs. Pine Ridge, Oakmont, Riverside. All mental health facilities. 1960s through early 80s.

Oh man.

They cycled through a lot of different styles and fonts and even different plastics. Is that Cooper Black? Hilarious.

Dude, maybe try to fucking focus right now. Holy shit. Why would Dylan care about-

Wait, wait, wait. This one's got a red mark. Vernon Crocker, Night Shift Charge Aid, Pine Ridge Psychiatric Center. The lanyard was for 1972 to 73.

Took a pic of it.

Last box. Oh, okay. Pine Ridge Psychiatric Center. Same place our lanyard friend worked. These are patient files. The files are heartbreaking. That's the first thing. Handwritten notes. Diagnoses that wouldn't exist today. Treatments that would be considered torture now. This is really bad.

Fucking understatement, but yeah. Huh.

No red marks.

Maybe the bottom?

Wait, he didn't mark it because it's gone. What? Look, the files are all in order. File 1582, 1583, then 1585.

Dylan took it.

Because it was too important to leave behind.

Do you hear that?

Please tell me that's you.

I did not bring a haunted television into a restricted wing, friend.

I guess let's, you know, check it out?

Sure, sure.

We're already here. What's the worst that could happen?

You did not just say that.

It's a small dayroom nook. We must have walked right past it before. There's an old CRT TV on a rolling cart. It's on, playing some ancient sitcom and standing in front of it, an elderly woman. She's wrapped in a cardigan, standing too close to the screen.

Oh, hi. I think you're not supposed to be.

They said I could keep it if I behaved.

Oh, okay, cool. Yes, yeah, that tracks, I guess.

You mean the television?

No. My name.

Okay.

Mrs. Harlow?

Shit, shit, we need to go. We need to go.

Where, Mags? Where? There, there.

Exit sign. Go. It's an emergency exit. It's locked. So?

Dude, we cannot pull the fire alarm.

Dude, why not? Because it's a crime. All of this is a crime, Amy. Trespassing is explainable. The alarm is just escalation. The alarm is anarchy. The alarm is punk rock.

Okay, okay, I'm pulling it.

I'm pulling it.

Sorry, I forgot my brand for a second. That's on me.

Attention. This is a fire alarm. All staff, please follow evacuation protocols. All residents, please remain calm and proceed to designated safety zones in an orderly fashion.

Go, go, go!

We just pulled a fire alarm in a memory care facility.

Correction. You did that.

Yeah, feels bad, man.

Come on, buddy. We survived and created a teachable moment. There's Anson. He's standing near the front entrance, obviously drowsy from the gummies. His eyes are unfocused, distant. He doesn't seem to recognize us. I'm not even sure he can see us from here.

We should go before someone realizes we're the reason for all this.

Agreed. As we drive away, I can still see the residents in the rear view mirror, standing in neat little groups on the lawn, staff members checking clipboards, everything orderly, everything controlled, everything hiding something.

So Mavis Beals, Vernon Crocker, and a missing patient file probably taken by Dylan.

And Dee Dee talked to Anson about the Calhoun Manor and probably other things. We need to figure out what connects all of this. Behind us, Black Cedar fades into the distance. But the questions don't.

The adrenaline crash hits about 10 minutes into the drive. One second, we're replaying everything. The wolves, Anson, the files, the fire alarm. The next, we're just quiet, like our brains hit a wall and decided to lie down. Are you seriously rolling a joint right now?

We're not gonna smoke it, I just need something to do with my hands.

Based, honestly. So the wolves, that wasn't about stopping us.

It was a reminder, they can reach us anytime.

They knew where we were.

Which means they're watching, or tracking, or all of the above.

What did we even get from Anson? Besides confirmation that everything is deeply fucked and generational.

I mean, we were already operating under that assumption. The files at Black Cedar, though.

Oh yeah, the files hidden in the extremely chill annex full of extremely chill Gothic fucking institutional horrors.

Dude, sometimes a filing cabinet full of scissors is a fucking filing cabinet full of scissors. Get over it.

Yeah, still reads like a threat to me. And by that, I mean to me personally.

Moving on, I keep thinking about the files.

Which ones?

All of them. In that room, probably other rooms, probably other threshold buildings, the fact that everything else was so carefully kept, organized, preserved. Nothing was lost, everything was hidden.

What are you doing?

Looking at the photos I took of Mavis Beal's file. The hospital social worker? Yeah. Oh, oh wow.

What is it?

Her medical file reference number has that extra numerical tag, that same local subsystem the weirdos clocked. Same as Danielle's, same as Anson's.

No way.

So Dylan marked the file, but she's not in the same age range as those files from the wellness initiative, right?

Right. Which means, I mean, I don't know what it means.

It's definitely a whole lot of something.

Okay. Joint complete onto the Polaroids.

Yeah. Take a closer look at those. Definitely.

Oh, hey, it's Lula Reyes. Oh, she's the cutest. Look at that smile. He wrote under her photo, clean, but has she seen anything?

I mean, good instincts. Lula has front row seats to a lot of what goes down in town.

Okay. Up next, Marion Caldwell. Oh, wow. She did not want this picture taken. Look at Marion McGrowchie face right here.

Hey, buddy, stay on the rails. What did Dylan write underneath?

Oh, yeah, yeah. Sorry. He wrote, local history, more cryptic. This one is of Evan Parker. It says art thief. Does he have something on mom?

Okay. Okay. Less cryptic and more just a threat. Um, Mags, who's next?

It's, it's Dee Dee.

Holy shit. What?

Yeah, it's Dee Dee from maybe a month or two before she died. She looks tired. Not well, but she's smiling. Mid-sentence, like he caught her off guard.

And what, what did he write?

She was already looking.

We thought we were catching up to Dylan, but he was catching up to her. That's when it hits. We're not late. We're next. Okay, we go through everything we have. The files, the Polaroids, the machine.

We connect Mavis Beals and Vernon Crocker.

Figure out what Dylan took.

And what Dee Dee was looking for.

And that's when we see her, standing on the doorstep of loose ends. Minerva fucking Maddox.

Took you long enough. I was beginning to worry I'd have to check every sad, haunted thrift store in the county. And I'm deathly allergic to moth dander.

Minerva, what are you doing here, again?

Admiring the ambiance. Very Carnival as Circle of Hell meets Decomposing Hoarder's Attic. It's a choice.

Again, why are you here?

I need to talk to you.

We're not doing an interview.

It's not about the podcast. Which is fine, by the way. Postponing a launch is responsible. Tim Ferriss does it all the time.

Okay, okay, okay.

Then what's this all about?

It's about my daughter.

Oh, wow. Oh boy.

Okay. So many questions.

You have a daughter?

Yes.

Obviously.

How is that obviously? You know what? You know what? Never mind. Never mind. Please continue.

She didn't come home last night. She left with her drone gear after dinner yesterday. Said she was meeting someone, helping with something. She stopped answering texts as of 8 PM last night. Staying out overnight. It happens, but radio silence is not our thing.

What was the last thing she sent you?

She texted me that she was working on something important. That she'd be home late.

And you have no idea where she was going?

None. No. She never tells me anything. But she always comes home. And before you ask, no, I have not called the police yet. Because I'm not that parent. And because...

Minerva. What's her name?

Well, she's going by pipes now. I meant to respect that. But her name is Piper.

My neighbors, could you see everything we kept in there?

As a person, as a person.

They say your name.

And so it must be true.

Hello, Mags Park here, just wanted to reach out and say, Avalon Falls thrives on secrets, podcasts do not.

So if you're enjoying Murder Girls, please leave a review.

Or tell a friend.

Or an enemy, especially an enemy.

Uh, why?

Because nothing haunts like a recommendation from someone you hate.

That is a fundamentally flawed perspective.

Yay, you said the thing.