Ava hid behind the soda bar until nightfall. Then she lit a fire in the alley—small at first, then roaring high against the wall. When the sheriff’s men ran to put it out, she slipped into their office.

The weapon locker wasn’t even locked properly. She took a 10mm pistol and a suppressor. They’d trained her in school; she could handle it.

She crossed the bridge into the darkness and entered the old school.

The air was thick with dust and rot. Six scorched lurched through the halls; she shot them one by one, quietly and clean. In the archive room, she found what she was looking for: rows of photos, each marked by year. 2255. 2256. 2257.

Thirty-six in total. Each one showed a perfect Harper’s Ferry, smiling crowds, peaceful streets. Beneath every photo, a name written in red marker.

Thirty-six names.

Six new photos hung in the new school.

Forty-two in total.

Forty-two years. Forty-two people.

Forty-two disappearances.

“What happened forty-two years ago?” she whispered.

When she returned to town, the fire was out. The streets were empty.

Through the apothecary window, she saw Clara counting caps. As she bent to retrieve something under the counter, her pant leg lifted slightly.

Ava froze.

A small tattoo glimmered on her ankle—a smiley face wearing a little hat.