The coffee scalded my tongue as I turned the page, the bitter pain somehow appropriate for what I was reading. Emma Mitchell's journal had started innocently enough—ballpoint compints about calculus that dug into the paper, loopy-hearted marginalia about a boy named Tyler, existential spirals about college applications punctuated with excessive excmation points. Standard teenage fare.

  Then came the Witchlight acceptance letter, and the handwriting itself began to transform.

  April 15: Got the strangest letter today. Witchlight Academy says I have "untapped potential" and "rare aptitude." They want me! Mom cried. Dad immediately started researching their college pcement rates. I didn't even apply though. How did they find me?>

  The question mark at the end had been retraced so many times it had nearly torn through the paper.

  She's scared even while being fttered. Smart girl. Not that it helped in the end.

  April 18: Orientation packet arrived. The brochures look normal but there's something... off about the photos. When I look at them from different angles, the buildings seem to change shape. I held one up to the mirror and swear the gargoyles were in different positions. Probably just weird lighting.

  I gulped more coffee, ignoring the way it scorched down my throat, and flipped forward, scanning for keywords that matched Sam's journal. My finger left a smudged outline on the paper, perfect for a crime scene tech to dust for fingerprints ter. Not that there would be any actual investigation.

  The leather binding creaked as I turned the pages, releasing a subtle scent of vanil and something else—something mineral and strange, like old pennies. I'd noticed the same peculiar smell from Sam's journal, an odor that seemed to intensify when I focused on the most disturbing passages.

  This isn't just simir to Sam's journal. It's practically a carbon copy. Like they're both following the same script but don't know it. Like something is guiding them both through the same maze.

  April 27: Did more research on Witchlight. Weird that a school so prestigious has almost no online presence. Found an old newspaper article calling it a "sanctuary for gifted individuals since 1867." Gifted how? Tyler ughed when I showed him the acceptance letter. Said all he saw was bnk paper. That can't be right.

  The handwriting grew increasingly erratic as the entries continued, letters snting at anxious angles, pressure inconsistent like her hand had trembled while writing. Sam's journal had shown the exact same progression—neat, measured script gradually deteriorating into frantic scrawls.

  May 3: Something is happening to me. I can tell when people are lying now. It's like their words have color. Truths are blue, lies are red. Mom's "I'm fine" at breakfast was crimson. The test results are back and Dad's not telling us something. I'm scared.

  My temples throbbed with the beginning of a familiar pressure headache, the kind that had become my constant companion since Sam vanished. I pressed my thumb hard against the spot, as if I could physically push the pain back inside my skull. Sam's journal had described simir experiences—suddenly noticing things that couldn't be expined, developing sensitivities that hadn't existed before.

  Colored lies. Seeing truth. It's the same thing Sam wrote about. I thought she was being metaphorical or having some kind of breakdown. But what if she wasn't? What if she could actually see lies?

  I set Emma's journal aside and pulled Sam's from my drawer, the binding loose from hundreds of readings. Flipping to the corresponding entry from six months ago, I read Sam's words beside Emma's:

  I'm seeing colors when people speak now. Blues for truths, reds for lies. Professor G. says it's my "spark" manifesting—truth-seeking abilities. He says I need to be careful who knows. Some people fear what we can see.

  The parallels were too precise to be coincidence. My heart hammered against my ribs as I continued reading Emma's entries, the coincidence burning in my gut like bottom-shelf whiskey.

  There's no way these girls independently invented the same delusion with the same specifics. Either they're both experiencing something real, or someone is maniputing them to believe the same thing. Neither option is comforting.

  May 10: Met with Professor G. from Witchlight today. He expined everything. I'm a "truth-seeker." My "spark" activated te, but now I can see through illusions. He says it's rare. Valuable. Says I'll need protection because people have hunted truth-seekers for centuries. He seems trustworthy, but something feels wrong.

  My mug froze halfway to my lips. Sam had used the exact same phrase: "truth-seeker." Her journal had mentioned a "spark" too. The words jumped off the page and lodged in my throat like fish bones.

  Spark. Truth-seeker. Professor G. It's all the same terminology, like they're being indoctrinated into some kind of cult. But with actual... what? Powers? Abilities? Or just shared delusions?

  I flipped through more entries, increasingly unsettled by the perfect parallels. Then something stopped me cold. In the margins of Emma's May 12th entry was a small, hastily sketched symbol—a triangle with an eye in the center, surrounded by what looked like fmes. I quickly turned to Sam's journal, finding the exact same symbol sketched on her November 19th entry, not just simir but identical down to the specific number of fme tendrils and the direction of the eye's pupil.

  Neither girl had artistic talent, which made the perfectly matching symbols all the more disturbing. This wasn't coincidence or suggestion—this was direct copying, except Emma couldn't possibly have seen Sam's journal.

  But there was something new in Emma's journal—a small sequence of numbers and letters in the margin of one page that didn't appear in Sam's records: "T.T.3.F.5." A code or reference I couldn't pce, possibly indicating the pattern was evolving.

  The final entry was dated three days ago:

  May 16: They say truth-seekers are rare. Maybe that's why they're watching me. I found the file. They have pns for us. There are others like me. The IDs are how they track us. "The waiting vessel approaches the threshold." I need to warn—

  The entry cut off mid-sentence, a single ink line trailing down the page like a scream frozen in time. A teardrop had dried on the paper, warping the final words. My fingers traced the water stain, and I could almost feel the fear that must have gripped Emma as she wrote these final words. The same fear that might have gripped Sam.

  She was crying when she wrote this. Terrified. And then she disappeared. Just like Sam. Too afraid to even finish her thought.

  That phrase—"The waiting vessel approaches the threshold"—identical in both journals, word for word. A phrase so unusual it couldn't be coincidence.

  I stood up, chair scraping against the floor with a sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. My heart hammered an irregur rhythm against my ribs as I crossed to my filing cabinet. The handle was worn smooth from daily opening, the metal greasy from my fingerprints. Sam's case notes were in the front, the folder edges softened like old fabric from constant handling. I flipped to her final journal entry from six months ago:

  November 22: Truth-seekers are being collected. I found three more files today. "The waiting vessel approaches the threshold." Something happens during the Equinox Alignment. I need more proof before I go to Headmistress V. The Circle must be stopped before they find another vessel. They can't know I've seen through their illusion. Derek, if you find this, don't trust the IDs and DON'T CROSS THE THRESHOLD.

  I pced the journals side by side on my desk, their pages like mirrors reflecting the same twisted image. Two girls. Same school. Same strange abilities. Same warnings about "truth-seekers." Same exact phrases that sounded like ritual nguage.

  Same outcome.

  Sam was trying to warn me away from Witchlight while leaving me enough to find her. Like she knew she was going to disappear. Like she knew I'd be coming after her. God, what did she get herself into?

  I thought back to Sam before all this started—how she'd always had an uncanny ability to tell when I was lying, even about small things. How she'd always refer to it as her "bullshit detector" while tapping her temple with one finger. I'd teased her about it, called it "little sister ESP," never imagining it might be something more.

  Sam, who at twelve had memorized pi to a hundred digits "just because." Who solved complex math problems for fun. Who had an entire wall covered in astronomy charts because she found patterns in stars that textbooks missed. Her dark blonde hair always pulled back in that practical ponytail, serious gray eyes that matched mine but without the cynicism, the few escaped strands framing a face too serious for sixteen.

  Sam, who despite her serious academic focus, still slept with the threadbare stuffed owl I'd won her at a carnival when she was nine. Who still ugly-cried at animal rescue commercials but hid it behind a throw pillow. Who'd punch anyone who hurt someone she cared about, regardless of size difference. Who beat me mercilessly at chess but always let me win at cards because she knew I hated losing at games of pure strategy.

  My brilliant, fierce little sister who'd stumbled onto something at Witchlight Academy that made her disappear without a trace.

  She was always seeing patterns others missed. Always uncovering truths. If anyone could uncover a magical conspiracy, it would be Sam. My stubborn, brilliant Sam.

  The implications settled over me like a shroud. Whatever had happened to Sam was happening again. And Emma Mitchell was just the test victim.

  I gnced at the calendar, the cheap paper curling at the edges where my sweat had dampened it earlier. Whatever "Freshman Orientation" really meant at Witchlight, it started tomorrow morning. I had twelve hours to prepare for the one thing Sam had explicitly warned against: crossing the threshold.

  Sorry, Sam. You knew I'd never stay away. You knew I'd walk through hell to find you. Even if it means ignoring your warning.

  My reflection in the window showed a man I barely recognized anymore—hollow-eyed, stubbled, with the desperate intensity of someone clinging to the edge of a cliff with bleeding fingertips. But for the first time in six months, I had something solid. Something real.

  A pattern.

  I smmed my fist on the desk hard enough to make the mug jump and spill what remained of my cold coffee. The liquid pooled around Emma's journal but I didn't move to wipe it away. My chest burned with a fire I hadn't felt since the first days after Sam disappeared—a combination of rage, determination, and terrible crity.

  "They took her," I growled to the empty office, the words hanging in the stale air like a vow. "They took her, and they've taken others, and they're going to keep taking more unless someone stops them."

  I pushed back from the desk with sudden energy, my chair cttering against the file cabinet behind me. Six months of running in circles, chasing false leads and dead ends, had left me exhausted and hopeless. But now—now I had direction. Purpose. A target.

  I pulled my gun from its drawer, checked the magazine more from habit than necessity, and pced it beside the journals. Whatever waited at Witchlight was beyond my experience as a PI, perhaps beyond normal human understanding, but that wouldn't stop me. Nothing would stop me now.

  "I'm coming for you, Sam," I whispered, the promise burning in my throat like whiskey. "And for whatever took you from me."

  With renewed purpose, I turned to my computer. Time to dig deeper into Witchlight Academy's secrets. Whatever was hiding behind that gothic fa?ade had just made its biggest mistake: it had given me a pattern to follow, and following patterns was what I did best.