That night, Wednesday and Enid slipped out of Nevermore and made their way to the edge of Jericho, stopping in front of the victim's house.
Yellow police tape stretched across the front door, fluttering faintly in the wind—a warning meant to be obeyed, not questioned.
Enid shifted beside her, pulling her jacket tighter. "Wednesday… are you sure we should be doing this?" she whispered, eyes darting toward the dark windows. "I mean, there's police tape. That usually means don't."
Wednesday didn't answer.
She was already kneeling at the door, lock-picking tools in hand, working calmly at the mechanism as if unlocking it were routine. The faint click of metal was the only response Enid received.
The door opened.
Wednesday rose and stepped inside without hesitation.
"Yes," she said flatly. "I have doubts."
Enid blinked and hurried after her. "Doubts about what?"
"About the evidence," Wednesday replied, scanning the interior. "About the timing. And about why Ethan was framed so neatly."
They stepped into the hall.
The scene before them was brutal. A white outline marked where the victim had fallen, stark against the floor. Blood spattered the walls and pooled across the tiles; furniture lay overturned, and the air carried a heavy metallic scent that lingered long after the violence had ended.
Enid froze.
Her face went pale as she took it in, one hand flying to her mouth. "Oh my god…" she whispered, swallowing hard. "I—I think I'm going to throw up."
Wednesday barely reacted. Her eyes moved methodically over the room, tracing patterns in the blood, noting what had been disturbed—and what hadn't.
"Hmmm," she murmured. "This is one of the messiest crime scenes I've ever seen."
Enid forced herself to look away from a dark smear near the wall. "So… do you think Ethan did this?" she asked quietly.
She didn't think Ethan could do such a thing.
Wednesday didn't hesitate.
"No," she said flatly.
She stepped closer to the center of the room, crouching slightly. "If Ethan had committed a murder, there wouldn't be this much chaos. There wouldn't be anything left to examine."
Enid blinked. "That's… not reassuring."
"It's logical," Wednesday replied. "With his strength, it would have ended instantly. A snapped neck. Minimal struggle. Minimal blood."
She gestured to the walls. "This was excessive. Deliberate. Performed for effect."
Enid processed that, her shoulders relaxing just a little.
"So…" she said softly, a hopeful smile breaking through, "he's innocent?"
"Yes," Wednesday said. "But someone wanted him to look guilty."
The questions followed immediately.
Why?
What would anyone gain by putting Ethan in prison? And why now, of all times?
Her mind replayed recent events with cold precision—Ethan fighting off the monster, interfering repeatedly, helping her investigate the old meeting house.
The pattern clicked into place.
The timing fits, she thought. The monster couldn't face him directly.
So they removed him another way.
If you can't overpower a threat, neutralize it.
Which meant this crime had been committed either by the monster itself—or by someone working with it.
And if that were true, then something here had been overlooked.
Something the police had missed.
Wednesday turned sharply. "Enid, search for anything that feels out of place."
Enid flinched. "Anything… out of place?" she repeated, glancing at the bloodstains, the overturned furniture, the shadows pooling in the corners. "Because everything here feels out of place."
Wednesday was already moving.
"Start anyway," she said. "Criminals always leave something behind. Especially when they're trying too hard."
Enid swallowed, hugging herself as she took a hesitant step forward—reminding herself that all of this was for Ethan, that proving his innocence.
Wednesday searched the house methodically, moving from room to room, eyes sharp, hands careful. She found nothing—no stray fibers, no overlooked footprints, no sign of a struggle that hadn't already been cataloged.
Whoever had done this had been careful.
Too careful.
It was clear the perpetrator had gone to great lengths not to leave a trail.
Then—
"Wednesday!"
Enid's shout cut through the silence.
Wednesday turned and crossed the house quickly. Enid stood by the window, frozen, eyes fixed on the broken Window.
Claw marks gouged into the frame—deep, uneven, unmistakable.
Wednesday leaned closer, examining them.
"My suspicion was correct," she said calmly. "This was done by the monster I saw in the woods. It broke in through this window."
Enid frowned. "Then why didn't the police investigate this?"
"Because they weren't looking for the truth," Wednesday replied. "They were looking for a conclusion."
"When authorities find evidence that fits their assumptions, they stop questioning it. They don't examine a case from every angle—they just want it closed."
Enid's shoulders slumped. "So Ethan was convenient."
"Yes," Wednesday said. "And convenience is the enemy of justice."
She glanced back at the claw marks.
"But this," she added, "is something they couldn't explain away."
Her gaze lingered on the window frame—and then sharpened.
Caught on one of the splintered shards was a small, dark smear. Dried, almost missed entirely if you weren't looking for it.
Blood.
Not enough to matter to the police. Enough to matter to her.
"Hmmm," she murmured to herself. This must belong to the monster.
*****
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