A newspaper sat on a workbench. Neatly folded.

Not one of the reputable publications—this was one of the more sensational ones, a borderline tabloid called The Inquisitive Listener.

Its headline screamed in bold red font: Bloor Bloodletter Leaves Trail of Blood in His Wake

Hands—clean, gloved, deliberate—moved across the paper. One index finger traced the grainy photograph of a dark alley, police tape fluttering across the frame like a torn ribbon. The article was read slowly, methodically. Every word absorbed.

Then the second hand appeared, bringing with it a pair of pristine scissors.

With crisp, certain cuts, the headline, photo, and column were removed with surgical precision. Not a jagged edge, not a single wasted movement.

The clippings were moved to an open scrapbook—its thick cream pages blank save for the one beneath it. The newly cut pieces were positioned with quiet reverence.

Then came the tape.

Clear. Matte. Pre-measured strips, applied one by one. Each one smoothed flat by a steady fingertip.

When the final edge was sealed, the hand moved to the previous page.

There, affixed with the same deliberate care, was a photograph. Not one taken by the press. Not one anyone had seen.

A private photo, taken just moments after the last "performance"—before the police had come to defile the scene.

Fingers lingered on the image. Not caressing. Just… connecting.

That final moment. That fleeting beauty.

They sighed. Softly. Almost wistfully.

Perhaps that was the nature of art, they mused. To be ephemeral. A burning star winking out too soon after it shines.

They turned to the next page of the scrapbook. Blank. Waiting.

And somewhere in the city, a new canvas was already taking shape.
***

Coraline had slept better than she had in days. Which wasn’t saying much.

The only reason she managed any real rest at all was because her patrol of Bloor Street the night before had left her so thoroughly exhausted that even her mind, relentless and restless, had finally surrendered to her body’s quiet demand: shut up and let me recover.

It had been a fruitless patrol. Not so much as a mugger stirred in those dark alleys—almost like the smaller predators had retreated, unwilling to test their luck in territory now claimed by something far more dangerous.

She had scoured the sites of the Bloodletter’s kills, searching for anything the police might have missed. But if there was evidence to be found, it was long gone. Either the killer was painstakingly careful… or Detective Benoit was just that good at collecting what mattered.

After their meeting, Coraline decided both were likely true.

She rolled over in bed and watched the numbers on her clock tick toward eight. She could have stayed under the covers a little longer, waited for the usual morning call and breakfast delivered to her bedroom.

But today, she decided to meet the morning halfway.

She tapped the alarm off with a light press and sat up. Her body ached, a dull soreness from rooftop sprints and late-night strain—but it was earned. A light breakfast, a shower, a change of clothes, and then… a visit. Not to work, not to court.

To a friend.

Someone just as rattled by Alice’s downfall as she was.

She made her way into the kitchen in silk pajamas and a light robe, barefoot and still blinking away the fog of sleep. The scent of butter, coffee, and something toasting met her as she entered.

A few of the newer staff turned subtly, surprised to see Miss Penrose at the kitchen table instead of the formal dining room. None said a word, of course. She was the one paying the bills, after all. A little eccentricity was expected from women of wealth and legacy.

At the stove, Solveig Schulz—the estate’s head maid and Coraline’s unofficial third parent—was already commanding the kitchen like a seasoned general in a war of eggs and etiquette.

“Nein, no, not like that—her toast is not to be charred like a funeral pyre!” she snapped, waving her wooden spoon at a nervous junior chef. “And do not forget, one sugar, two cream, and a proper espresso shot—strong enough to wake the dead!”

Coraline smiled faintly as she slid into her seat.

Solveig had been with the Penroses long before Coraline was born. Hired by her mother. Trusted by her father. Feared by every sous-chef who’d ever set foot in her kitchen. When the estate had passed to Coraline, Solveig had stayed on without question.

Coraline often joked that even if she tried, she couldn’t get rid of the woman.

Not that she ever would.

There wasn’t a soul alive better at running the sprawling chaos of Penrose Manor, or at making sure Coraline started her day with the right coffee, the right breakfast, and just enough affection disguised as discipline to keep her grounded.

Solveig turned and set a steaming cup of coffee in front of her with military precision. “Drink. You look like you’ve been chasing ghosts again.”

Coraline raised the cup with a grateful nod. “Not ghosts. Just monsters.”

Coraline took a long sip of her coffee just as a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon slid across the table in front of her.

The smell hit her instantly—rich, buttery eggs folded with herbs and cheese, paired with thick-cut peameal bacon, still sizzling from the pan. Her stomach gave an appreciative growl, and she found herself salivating before the first bite.

“I’m not sure what I’d do without you, Solveig,” she said with a tired smile, already reaching for her fork.

The head maid gave only a slight incline of the head—a regal nod in miniature—as she supervised the kitchen’s continued operation like an orchestra conductor disguised as a domestic general.

“You would have to rely on that swill your mechanic friend John calls coffee,” she said dryly, folding her arms. “Which is not what I learned how to brew in my younger days at a Turkish coffee house in Munich.”

Coraline chuckled into her cup and took another sip. Bitter and strong, with just enough cream to smooth it—exactly how she liked it.

“You do make a damn good cup of coffee,” she admitted, a touch grudging but sincere.

Solveig allowed the faintest smirk. “Of course I do. I am not a monster.”

Then, without another word, she turned on her heel and marched off to reprimand a junior staff member for using the wrong butter for toast.

Coraline, smiling faintly into her eggs, took another bite and let herself enjoy it—for a moment.

The world could wait a few more minutes.

Coraline finished her breakfast, setting her fork down with a small note of surprise. She’d eaten more than expected.

The new head chef, she had to admit, had a real talent—everything he made had that quality her grandfather used to describe as “tasting like seconds.” The kind of meal you finished before realizing you’d been hungry.

A quick shower later, dressed in something casual and soft—a fitted cardigan, jeans, boots she could walk in—she made her way down to the garage to pick a car for the day.

As she stepped inside, the overhead lights flickered on one by one, bathing the space in warm industrial glow.

The garage felt... emptier than it used to.

Since her father had most of his collection moved to Florida, the once-packed space felt almost cavernous. Too many empty slots. Too many silent engines.

Only a modest fleet remained now—vehicles Coraline had collected herself, handpicked over the years, each with its own quirks, its own history.

And at the far end, still polished and lovingly maintained, sat the old Mustang—a classic 1967 Fastback, cherry-red with racing stripes. A gift from her father when she’d gotten her license. Still ran like a dream. Still smelled like old leather, cigarette smoke, and memory.

She smiled faintly, then caught sight of John, arms elbow-deep in the engine block of a half-dismantled ’57 Chevy Bel Air, grease on his forearms and a look of intense mechanical reverence on his face.

He glanced up, pushed his goggles up onto his forehead, and offered her a nod.

“Mornin’, boss.”

She waved back. “How’s our girl?”

“She’s still a stubborn old lady,” John said with a grin. “But I like a challenge.”

Coraline chuckled and moved past him, letting her eyes sweep the cars. She tapped her chin thoughtfully.

She wasn’t in the mood for flash today. No low-slung convertibles or turbocharged ego-magnets.

She wanted something that felt like control. Something with weight. Presence.

Something reliable.

She let her hand trail along the roof of the Mustang.

“Alright, old girl,” she murmured. “Let’s go see an old friend.”

Coraline liked driving.

It was one of the few normal pleasures in her life—simple, quiet, grounding.

She’d inherited that love from her father, along with his taste for classic cars and the stubborn, greasy patience required to tinker with them.

It had been one of the rare ways they truly bonded—just the two of them in the garage, sleeves rolled up, music playing from a battered radio, the air thick with the smell of oil and old leather.

Her father had been a busy man, pulled in a thousand directions by power, legacy, and obligation. But somehow, that time—those hours under the hood, passing tools and trading stories—had always been sacred.

Just him and his little girl. A memory now, but one that still mattered.

When she drove, especially when she drove this car, she felt a piece of that past still alive.

The cherry-red 1968 Mustang Fastback gleamed in the sun as she rolled it out of the garage, the engine growling low and smooth like a well-fed beast. It wasn’t the most practical car. It burned fuel like sin and didn’t always like cold mornings.

But it had soul.

And today?

It was the perfect day for it.

The sky overhead was a soft blue, only a handful of lazy clouds drifting by like they had nowhere to be. The breeze was just enough to whisper through the trees lining the estate drive.

The kind of day made for open windows and long, winding roads.

She should’ve enjoyed it more.

But the weight was still there—coiled tight behind her ribs. Alice’s trial. The Bloodletter. The city’s growing unrest.

Too many spinning plates. Too many masks.

But for now, she gripped the wheel with steady hands, pressed her foot to the gas, and let the Mustang carry her forward.

Somewhere ahead, a conversation waited. A friend. Maybe comfort. Maybe pain.

But at least for a few miles… she could just drive.

And a drive it was.

A good, long Sunday drive—the kind where you crack a window just enough to let the wind snake through, pulling at your hair, carrying the scent of warm pavement and fresh-cut grass.

She wasn’t racing toward anything. Not today.

Today, she was heading southwest, out of Toronto, leaving behind its glass towers, its gridlocked streets, and the weight that seemed to settle deeper on her shoulders with every passing headline. Her destination was just outside St. Catharines, nestled in the greener edges of the Niagara region.

She told herself it was just to visit a friend. Someone who needed her. Someone she needed, too, if she was honest.

But part of her knew the truth: she needed to get away.

Even if only for a few hours.

The Niagara region was beautiful in ways tourists rarely noticed. Sure, most came for the Falls and the casinos, the novelty and noise—but Coraline preferred the quieter side.

The back roads. The winding vineyards. The sleepy towns and old rail crossings.

Places where the world felt a little softer. A little slower.

She let the Mustang stretch its legs on the highway, the engine humming contentedly beneath her as the trees blurred by in streaks of green and gold.

It wasn’t an escape. Not really. The things weighing on her—Alice’s trial, the Bloodletter murders, the mounting pressure of double lives—those weren’t things you could outrun.

But for now?

For now, it was just her, the road, and the wind.

And that was enough.

Coraline slowly pulled into the driveway.

Though “driveway” didn’t really do it justice. It was long enough to qualify as a country road, winding through tall trees, manicured hedgerows, and the slow, creeping hush that only came with estates this old and this rich.

She knew the path well. Had traveled it dozens of times growing up.

The Vanhorn Estate.

If the Penrose family was a well-off blend of old and new money, the Vanhorns were the kind of wealth that made everyone else feel like they were playing dress-up.

Their ancestors had struck gold in Canada’s early Dutch immigrant wave—farmers and winemakers, at first. Then they turned land into power. Real estate. Industry. Stocks. Legacy.

The Vanhorns didn’t have money. They had roots that grew it.

The estate sprawled like a private kingdom—acres of vineyards, guest houses, a greenhouse the size of a shopping mall. It was the kind of place that didn’t have rooms for guests—it had buildings for them.

Her fingers tightened slightly on the wheel as the old house came into view. The brick and stone façade unchanged by time. Regal, but not cold.

It was here she’d first met Martha Vanhorn.

The girl who was supposed to be the perfect heiress—demure, proper, polished. The living embodiment of everything the family name demanded.

But that wasn’t the Martha Coraline knew.

The real Martha snuck out of high tea to climb trees barefoot. She scraped her knees on stone garden walls, ran down hallways yelling about “secret treasure maps”, and led Coraline into every sort of mild trouble two rich girls could find within the safe bounds of legacy and land.

“Adventures,” she’d called them. Always with a grin.

Coraline smiled softly at the memory.

Martha had been her first real friend. The first one who didn’t care that Coraline sometimes got awkward, or quiet, or angry. The first person who didn’t treat her like a political alliance-in-training.

In a world full of curated smiles and iron-clad expectations, Martha Vanhorn had been real.

And Coraline had never forgotten that.

Not through law school. Not through her transformation into the Vulpes. Not even after the Wonderland incident.

Today wasn’t about justice. It wasn’t about strategy. It was about checking on someone who mattered.

And maybe, if she was honest, getting a little comfort of her own.

Coraline felt a twinge of guilt twist in her chest—subtle, but sharp enough to sit with.

Because Alice hadn’t just been her friend. She’d been Martha’s too.

The three of them—Coraline, Martha, and Alice—had met during college. And for a while, they’d been inseparable. A mismatched but perfect trio, joined by Dorothy, Alice’s fierce and funny roommate. Between lectures and long nights, between cafes and philosophy debates, they’d built something rare: a real bond, the kind that felt like it might last forever.

But forever never came.

Not after Michael Macentyre. Not after Wonderland.

Coraline still blamed herself for what happened. For not seeing the red flags in Michael sooner. For not being louder, firmer, when Alice started slipping.

For letting herself believe that Alice would be okay—because she wanted so badly for her to be.

And then, when the inevitable happened… when Alice shattered and Wonderland took the wheel… It had been Vulpes who faced her. Vulpes who stepped into that illusion-warped tower and saw firsthand how close Alice came to becoming a murderer.

That memory still haunted her.

Alice hadn’t seen Coraline under the mask. But Coraline had seen Alice at her most broken. At her most dangerous.

She had watched her friend become the villain the world always feared she would be.

And afterward?

Coraline had withdrawn.

Too raw. Too ashamed. Too wounded to reach out. She’d left Martha to cope with it on her own, justifying it in her head as space, as protection.

But the truth?

It wasn’t what a good friend would have done.

She had been grieving, yes. But so had Martha. And Coraline had failed to show up for her. Failed to be the shoulder Martha might have needed.

And now…

Now she didn’t expect forgiveness.

But she hoped—quietly, desperately—that even if she was late, some comfort might still be welcome.

She put the car in park and took a deep breath.

Time to see if that door would still open.

Coraline parked the Mustang and barely had time to turn off the engine before she was greeted by staff.

Of course.

The Vanhorns never did anything modestly. Their estate ran like a private fiefdom, maintained by what felt like a small army of gardeners, drivers, housekeepers, and groundskeepers. Everyone uniformed. Everyone precise.

It made Coraline feel a little nostalgic—and more than a little uneasy.

She nodded politely to the man who offered to valet the car (she declined), and to the two who rushed to open the grand front doors. Their manners were flawless, their efficiency admirable.

And yet… she wondered.

Did Martha feel alone in all of this?

Because Coraline remembered what she was like in college—when they'd roomed together in the Sorority House, away from the marble and velvet of their family estates.

That sorority, of course, had its legacy and wealth—both their mothers had once worn its pin and pearls—but for Martha, it was a kind of freedom.

A cramped room with bad lighting, squeaky beds, and shared bathrooms. Freedom.

She'd never seen Martha happier than she was in those years—no debutante expectations, no silent eyes judging the way she spoke, moved, laughed.

Just Martha, unfiltered. Loud. Funny. Climbing things she shouldn’t. Making up names for professors. Living.

And now... after Wonderland, after the media circus, after Alice had been taken away—Martha had retreated back to this place. Back to the rooms of marble, wine, and generational legacy.

Coraline wasn’t sure that was good for her.

Being here, surrounded but isolated.

Staff who knew her name but not her pain. Family more concerned with reputation than recovery.

She wondered what Martha had really been feeling during the silence.

And maybe, if she’d needed someone to say the thing no one else would.

Coraline squared her shoulders and started toward the grand front steps.

Whatever came next—grief, anger, forgiveness—she would meet it.

Because Martha was her friend. And she wasn’t going to let her face the fallout alone.

Everything at the Vanhorn estate felt enormous.

The halls were too wide. The ceilings too high. The distances between rooms somehow longer than they should’ve been.

It wasn’t just scale—it was atmosphere.

The place was full—full of people, art, history, and immense wealth—and yet it still managed to feel empty.

Too pristine. Too silent.

Coraline had grown up in luxury herself, but her family’s estate had never felt like this.

It wasn’t cozy, exactly—but it wasn’t hollow either.

She thought, not for the first time, that it had everything to do with who built it.

Her grandfather, Reggie Penrose, had been old English money—but a practical man, the kind who thought pomp and circumstance was “bloody bollocks.”

Her grandmother had been a Canadian Army nurse, raised on a dirt farm in rural Ontario—tough as nails, wise as scripture, and immune to pretense. The kind of woman who could dress a gunshot wound with one hand and scold you into drinking chamomile tea with the other.

Together, they’d built a family that prized duty over display, and principle over polish.

Her father had inherited that sensibility. So had his siblings. They’d never pretended their wealth made them better—just luckier.

Even her mother, the socialite of the family, had rebelled against expectations in her own way. She’d done a tour with Greenpeace. She’d delivered relief aid in disaster zones. She’d volunteered, sweated, broken fingernails, and buried the idea that wealth meant exemption from compassion.

That’s how her parents met, in fact.

Her mother had been arrested at a protest—facing charges for minor vandalism. And her father had been the young, court-appointed attorney assigned to defend her.

The rest, as they said, was whispered family legend.

So no—Coraline hadn’t grown up normal. But she’d grown up with values that had weight.

She’d been raised to care.

To do more than pose for photos at charity galas.

Which was perhaps why, standing now in the immaculate, echoing grandeur of the Vanhorn estate, she felt a quiet ache in her chest.

Because she knew this was the world Martha had been born into.

Immaculate. Unforgiving. Beautiful. Empty.

And she remembered the girl who used to climb trees barefoot just to feel something real.

Coraline paused near the grand staircase, brushing a small wrinkle from the sleeve of her cardigan. She wasn’t underdressed—not by any objective standard—but still, she felt just a little… unpolished for the Vanhorns.

Maybe it was the way Martha’s parents and older brothers carried themselves—straight-backed, cool-eyed, as if the world and everyone in it were part of a well-managed investment portfolio.

Maybe it was the scale of the place.

She glanced upward. The Penrose estate could have fit comfortably inside the Vanhorn manor—and still left two-thirds of it untouched.

She let her eyes travel over the room.

Paintings. Display cases. Sculptures. Gold accents. Imported tile.

There was more wealth in this entry hall than some families earned in a year—maybe five years—and the thought made her stomach twist, just slightly.

She wasn’t naive. She’d grown up rich. She moved through high society like a dancer through familiar steps. But this? This was something else. This was legacy as spectacle, opulence for opulence’s sake.

And it didn’t sit right with her.

Not when she’d been raised by women who taught her that wealth meant responsibility, not status.

Her mother had been a socialite, yes—but she’d also brought Coraline as a child to serve soup at shelters. Not for photo ops. Not for press. Just… because it mattered.

Her grandmother, despite a comfortable life of wealth, had insisted Coraline learn to garden with her own hands. “No child of mine is growing up thinking people are here to be ordered around,” she’d said. “If you want roses, girl, you’d better learn how to dig.”

Charity wasn’t a tax write-off in the Penrose household. It was second nature.

And standing here, in the gleaming marble heart of the Vanhorn empire, Coraline felt that old upbringing rise in her chest like a quiet rebellion.

She didn’t envy this. She pitied it.

Because it reminded her just how much Martha must have had to endure—playing heiress while craving adventure, freedom, realness.

And how easily this kind of grandeur could become a gilded cage.

Speaking of gilded cages...

The bird who lived in this one made her entrance with theatrical timing—stepping into view at the top of the grand staircase like she’d walked straight out of the kind of airport romance novel that featured brooding dukes and windswept cliffside estates.

Well. Not quite.

Martha Vanhorn wasn’t in a flowing dress or some corset-laced bodice waiting for a rugged man with windblown hair and sculpted knuckles to rip it off in the name of passion.

No—Martha was dressed with Vanhorn precision.

Pressed slacks. A smart blouse under a sleek black jacket. Tasteful accessories. Expensive shoes that had never seen a muddy field. Her posture was perfect. Her expression neutral. A model of poise and breeding.

Exactly as her parents expected her to be.

And Coraline? Coraline smiled.

Because she saw through it.

Yes, Martha was beautiful. That much was undeniable. The kind of beauty that made heads turn and linger—flawless skin, striking eyes, a presence that could hush a room just by existing in it.

But Coraline didn’t love her for that.

No—Martha’s beauty ran deeper.

It was in the way she used to climb out second-story windows to escape etiquette classes. In the way her laugh would turn into a snort if she really lost it. In the way she once rescued a terrified muskrat from a barbed wire fence and then tried to name it “Duke Flufferton.”

Coraline knew the real Martha.

And she’d never been able to forget her.

She looked up at her friend now, framed by the marble and gold of the Vanhorn estate, and smiled softly.

Her grandfather would’ve had the perfect line for it: 

“No one would kick that woman out of bed for eating crackers.”

But Coraline had something better than a punchline.

She had loyalty. And a friend she’d come too close to losing.

Martha offered her a smile.

It was half genuine, half poised—polished to perfection, the kind of smile you practiced in a mirror and wore like armor.

Coraline recognized it instantly.

It was the only version of Martha she ever saw when they were standing in Vanhorn territory.

And while it still carried warmth—still held the shape of friendship—there was a tightness to it, a restraint. A performance.

Coraline had never fully understood it. Why Martha played this part. Why she put on the heirloom mask of the dutiful daughter, the flawless socialite, the perfect Vanhorn.

Maybe it was love.

Or maybe fear of disappointing them.

Coraline had always struggled to believe it was love. The Vanhorns seemed so... cold to her. So curated. Their affection was a thing of etiquette and expectation, not warmth. They were the kind of family that treated love like a social obligation, not a feeling.

Still—whatever the reason, Coraline had learned not to question it out loud.

She had come to accept it.

Because she also knew the truth: when the world wasn’t watching, Martha dropped the act.

She became the girl who would change her hair on a whim and use fake names at clubs just to feel like someone else. The girl who’d strip off the makeup, toss on hiking boots, and disappear into the hills with Coraline for a weekend of rock climbing and realness. The girl who—away from the polished floors and suffocating expectations—could laugh, swear, dance like no one was recording, and breathe like her ribs weren’t made of glass.

That was Martha.

And Coraline missed her.

She smiled back, casual but knowing. A signal more than a greeting.

I see you. Even now. Even here.

She could wait.

The real Martha would show up soon enough.