How do you know if what you see is real?

The waning dewdrops of daybreak, the sublime sunlight slipping through your window, the air that plummets itself down caged lungs every single day; must it all even exist in the first place?

How do you know your reality isn't someone else's imagination?

Tahlia didn't. Not anymore, she was sure.

As the velvety cold spread on her bare skin, it felt as if her body was laying on a bed of feathery slivers of ice. For a brief moment Tahlia wondered if she, indeed, was sprawled on the snow, just like that night. What if she never did escape? What if her disheveled mind made all of it up; her waking up in the hospital, Turner's corpse, Dean's arrest...What if none of it ever happened?

What if she opened her eyes and saw him standing over her supine form, the ruthless knife in his hand raised, just in time for him to strike.

But she did open her eyes; instead finding herself surrounded by panels of cold white tiles, water from the shower trickling down her skin steadily, melding with the salty streaks on her face. With a glazed look in her eyes, she began scrubbing her limbs. As the blushed suds of rose-scented soap started turning into snow-like white lather, she only buffed at her skin harder; ceasing only after what seemed like years, letting the water cleanse it all.

As if soap can wash away blood from open wounds.

As she watched the murky water on the tiles swirl its way down the drain, she couldn't help but think of how anything and everything that had happened in the course of the last year had all been a perfect mirage. Like a deceptive haven of water in the middle of an desert— too good to be true. With jaded hands and short breaths, she wistfully turned the shower off.

Quickly drying herself and putting on a simple outfit, she was out of the bathroom, going straight towards her bed. Various cardboard boxes lay haphazardly scattered all over the covers, some full to the brim with her stuff, others waiting to inevitably be filled. She quietly walked to her desk, clearing all of it out at once and stowing it into one of the boxes hastily. She then turned to empty the bottom-most drawer, having merely just pulled it open, when she halted.

Her gaze was instantly met with an onyx zip folder, one that she'd almost forgotten all about. Almost.

With unsteady fingers, she lifted the chunky dossier up from the pit of the compartment; taking in a shallow spell of breath, she zipped it open. The first thing she saw was an illustration of a particular willow tree, one she'd last seen in room 159. The sage green branches of the leaves drooping down all the way down to the bottom of the grand trunk, remained as evergreen as the first time she'd laid her eyes on the painting.

"You have some serious talent Mr. Hunt."

It brought bile to her mouth, the very thought of her ever having uttered those words to a monster.

It was only when all of a sudden her phone chimed, the screen lighting up with a notification, that Tahlia could finally pull herself out of the pool of self-hatred she was flailing in.

'Dean Jackson's lawyer releases public statement'

Reading the mere headline was all it took for the girl's heart to start thumping like a jackhammer. She had to look away, her fleeting gaze landing on a spot near her feet.

It had been three whole days since Dean was arrested. The Feds did a lengthy press conference the day before, detailing the probable cause. If there was a dwindling ounce of hope left in Tahlia, it too was annihilated the second Agent Gallagher's words left his mouth.

Lo and behold, Dean Jackson is the only known child of Moira Jackson, The Westfield Ripper's second known victim.

When Dean once told her he lost his parents when he was young; turns out his words weren't completely untruthful. His father did pass away from leukemia when he was barely a year old. Unable to pay the bills with her odd jobs, Moira had to turn to sex work, leaving Dean with his grandmother. Gallagher and his team speculated his resentment for his absent mother ultimately drove him to work with her very killer.

However, the bona fide incriminating piece of evidence turned out to be the security cameras that recorded Dean frequenting Professor Turner's apartment for about two years now, including the very morning of her murder. Multiple witnesses confirmed seeing him suspiciously hang around the place for years.

As Tahlia continued to dejectedly stare off into the empty space, she had no tears left to spare. First Turner, then Dean. Was everything in her life a cleverly planted ruse?

The more she thought about it, the more she had to admit that it would make sense for Logan to have an accomplice be that close to her to keep tabs. She should have known; after all, what boy would find unspecial Natalia Faith Meyers and her repulsive scars beautiful? It all made perfect fucking sense.

A diminishing part of her brain, yet, couldn't help but wonder what Dean so desperately wanted to talk to her about that night. Judging by the things he was saying, she could only presume he wanted to explain why he shut her out after her ordeal. She blinked, a crease forming in her forehead.

If Dean was indeed Moira Jackson's son, it would seem perfectly reasonable why finding out about Tahlia's connection to the case would be jarring to him. She couldn't begin imagine what that must have felt like.

But then what the hell was he doing with Turner?

She reached for her phone, opening the link to the news clip. It took her to a video, one where a balding brown-skinned man in a crisp charcoal suit stood surrounded by teeming hoards of press.

"....The Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Westfield Police Department are incredulously attempting to pin this on my client, considering there hasn't been a known substantial breakthrough in the case for months. And thus, wasting the taxpayers' money and time by charging him purely based on circumstancial evidence..."

Carefully and with all of her undivided attention, Tahlia intently watched the attorney continue,

"...Mr. Jackson admits to the possession of drugs with the intent of distributing it, which is why he met with Ms. Lauren Turner for 18 months, providing her with prescription sleeping pills. According to him she was the one to contact him first and denies any knowledge of Ms. Turner beyond that.

We will have a date for arraignment soon, where my client will plead not guilty..."

Tahlia shut the video off, tossing the phone heedlessly to the bedside. Involuntarily, she found herself gritting her teeth as she mulled all of this information over. Her right foot restlessly tapped against the cold floor as she sat there in complete silence.

It felt as if decades passed, when she finally rose up from her seat, mechanically getting her phone and the keys on her nightstand, proceeding to reach for the sleek folder and clutching it in her grips as tight as once Logan had locked his fingers around her neck.

With a hazy but made up mind she began walking out of her room in slow yet resolute steps, right up to the edge the hallway, where once she spotted a large trashcan, she propelled the whole dossier straight into the abyss. The art she once considered to be unearthly exquisite, was now one with the grime and filth of the earth. Right where it belonged.

It felt like a small weight, just about the size of a glass marble, evaporated off her chest the second she was done. Exhaling deeply, she told her conscience,

This is it. It's time to let go.

She looked up, idly glancing at the corridor that as bustling with people as it was in the moment, seemed oddly deserted. Perhaps it was the fact that most of her peers had either moved out, or were in the process of doing so.

With Turner's death and Dean's arrest, push had come to shove and now the university was sending the students back home for the semester.

Tahlia, of course, did not have a home. She never did, really. The place she grew up in was but a skeleton of wood and cement that was bursting at the seams with the pain and anguish of two little girls. She shook her head, shaking off the despairing thought as she checked her phone for the time and realized she had to be down in the yard by her dorm building.

The Westfield sun was high in the sky, the springtime noon every bit as comforting as it ever got in the small town. As Tahlia walked to the spot, she could feel her fatigue catching up with her. She had barely eaten or slept in the shitstorm that was the last four days.

Her gaze found a familiar head full of light blonde wisps and she stumbled towards his direction. "Hey," she not-so-expressively mumbled.

Jace swerved around, "Hey."

His smile, as ever-radiant as it had perpetually been, visibly fell a little when he realized Tahlia was not smiling back. He parted his mouth open, perhaps to say something about it, but then decided against it. Jace could guess Tahlia was not completely over the fact that he'd kept Dean's little side job from her, and understandably did not want to stir the pot.

"So," It was Tahlia who spoke, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen between them, "Um, did you talk to your father? About you moving back."

He merely scoffed, "Yeah right. While I was at it, I asked if him and I could have a sleepover where I could make him friendship bracelets while I paint his nails."

Tahlia shot him a knowing look, one that was filled with equal parts incredulity and sympathy. Jace did not talk about this a whole lot, but from what she knew he was not on speaking terms with his parents since the whole vandalism thing.

They were paying his tuition, but that was it.

"I'll figure it out, don't worry about it Tal." He waved his wrist in the air casually, "Hey by the way, a bunch of us are going to the Pine Barrens to spend the night, you in?"

"I'll pass." She said in one breath, looking away.

"Why not? It could be the last time us friends see each other in a while. Come on, it'd be fun! I mean, unless...You're scared of the Jersey Devil." He teased, elbowing her bemusingly.

Tahlia could almost laugh. A mythical winged creature was the least of her worries right now.

"There are bigger problems than the Jersey Devil I have to take care of Jace."

Like avoiding an insane serial killer.

"Like looking for a place." She sighed, "It's all so freaking expensive on the West Coast."

"Nah, you just gotta know the right areas. Besides if you need help with the money just—"

"Jace, hey!"

Both Jace and Tahlia turned around at the same time towards the source of the pitchy voice. Tara Hayworth sauntered in her practically reflective white sneakers, right towards them.

She was all smiles as she greeted Jace, only offering a quick nod of the head to Tahlia, before quickly latching her tenacious arms to Jade's side.

"So are we on for tonight? Jesse and Tyrone are coming too, they told me."

Tahlia could only presume she was talking about the Pine Barrens, and thus decided to zone out from the conversation, instead observing the melting frost on the grass.

A flash of her body lying limp on the snow hit her mind, but she blinked it away. To distract her own self, she decided to take out her phone and pretended to text someone. She could keep the act up for a few minutes, before it struck her that she had an actual call she needed to make.

Her fingers scrolled all the way down her contacts list, until she found the name she was looking for, pressing the device to her ears as it rang.

"It's Wynn. If I'm not picking up and you got something to say, it better be worth my time—"

She ended it, exasperated by the fact that Wynn had been refusing to pick up her calls for a week straight. All Tahlia wanted was to return a necklace that probably ended up in her stuff when they changed rooms.

It was about then that Tahlia could swear she heard her name being uttered, making her look up quickly.

"What?" She breathed, wide eyed and disoriented.

Jace grinned, "Tara was asking about the fête and I said you'd know more about it since you're a local."

Shooting him a brief glare, she looked at Tara, "Um yeah, it's being cancelled now, because uh, you know, the-the murders."

Tahlia could facepalm herself at how stupid that sentence came out of her mouth.

"I meant what is it, like, about?" Tara pressed, her tone vexed.

Taking in a shallow breath, Tahlia shook her head, "Westfield used to be part of the neighboring town Kriptonhurst. This year was supposed to be the tenth year anniversary of the demarcation."

It was as if as soon as the words left her mouth, Tahlia paused in her tracks.

She found herself spiralling deep into the webs of time, falling into a memory from just about twelve years ago.

Emilia and her were in Kriptonhurst with their mother, who in turn had come to see her own mother in a place Tahlia couldn't quite remember. Tahlia clamped her eyes shut; feeling overwhelmingly caged somewhere that felt dark and dank. She remembered Emilia being scared and holding onto her for dear life. As she strained her brain to dive deeper into the recollection, she could see Deborah signing in the visitors book. She could now see the front cover, in ochre binding, embossed bold letters;

St. Jude's Psychiatric Hospital.

Her eyes fluttered open.

St. Jude's Psychiatric Hospital, she remembered that name. It was all over the news just a few days before Emilia's death, for having burnt down to the ground.

And just like that, the missing pieces of the puzzle, for once and all, began falling into place.

"He said he woke up in the hospital with the burn scars." She said dumbfounded, her jaw going slack.

"What?" Jace turned to look at her perplexedly.

"I thought he meant like a real hospital. What if it was an asylum?" She mumbled to herself. "He was always the Westfield Ripper, so they never looked for him in Kriptonhurst."

"Oookay, now you're officially starting to scare me Tal."

"Jace." She turned to look at him with dazed eyes;

"I think I need to borrow your car one last time."

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