Stacy: The vampire

Unlike Adam, Steven wasn't hurt. He only resented not receiving support from his colleague. He was sure Adam would back his theory.

He couldn't sleep, but even so, he didn't like receiving a call from Adam in the middle of the night:

"Dude, are you awake?"

"Damn! Is that you, Abrax? Do you have any idea what time it is? Just so you know, you can't punch me over the phone."

"Don't be an idiot. I called because I think I might have a lead on the Penelope case."

"Then spit it out already."

"The photos of the garden—the ones we took because of the footprints—there are flowers in them. Flowers, do you hear me?"

"Okay, a garden with flowers. That's really concerning. I think we should investigate," Steven said sarcastically.

"Not just any flowers. They are the same ones outside Stacy Abrax's mansion. I think they are… they are…" Adam struggled to find the right word.

"They're petunias, Adam. Petunias… I know because I flirted with a florist for two months. It didn't go anywhere, but I learned a lot. And now that I think about it, they're the same flowers from Penelope's window ledge. Same color, too. But that could be just a coincidence," Steven said.

"I highly doubt it. There are no coincidences in this case," Adam replied.

While everyone tried to make sense of what was happening, Penelope dove deep into her own being, trying to remember how she had gotten there.

She knew who her mother was. She recognized her father. But she remembered almost nothing before waking up in the coroner's office.

She slept during the day, and at night, she felt an uncontrollable urge to be awake and in motion. She could hear footsteps from great distances. She could hear her parents talking in the living room, even while she was in her bedroom.

The psychiatrist didn't notice these things—he only prescribed vitamins, iron pills, B12, and heavy sleep medication.

Penelope's hair color had changed—not a golden blonde anymore, but a pale, almost platinum shade, as if she had done intense highlights.

Her skin was far paler than usual. Cold, too. But the city's temperature had dropped drastically.

Even if she could talk, Penelope wouldn't have much to say—she remembered almost nothing.

The next day, Abrax tried to present Jack with the clues he had found, but the sheriff wouldn't listen. Even though he liked Abrax, he stood firm on the suspension—he couldn't let two of his most trusted men keep throwing punches whenever they disagreed.

The suspension was only four days, but Adam felt like he would miss too much by being out of the investigation.

The atmosphere in the city was tense. People wanted answers, and Jackson was without his best officers.

The truth was, the officers from Jackson's time were real warriors. They worked long hours for little pay, all with one goal: to make Red Hollow as safe as possible.

The officers now weren't as dedicated. They were more concerned with paperwork and career advancements. And this case was perfect for anyone who wanted to rise through the ranks.

Jackson understood that only he could handle the situation. That's why, alongside Kowalski, he went to see the psychiatrist who had examined Penelope.

The coroner arrived at the station early, ready to give Sheriff Jack a ride—Jack had left his truck at the mechanic the day before due to an engine issue.

When Kowalski pulled up, Jack thought it was a joke:

"What the hell kind of car is this?" he asked, laughing.

"This isn't just a car. It's a Lincoln Town, and it's new—I've had it for four years now. So I hope you don't light your cigarette in here while I drive."

"Hahaha, okay, Doc, you're the boss. I just wasn't expecting to ride in a funeral limousine, but fine."

"This is a luxury car. And I'm not just a coroner—you know I sometimes have to transport bodies myself. We don't have all the resources we need."

"I was joking when I said that, but wait—you actually transport bodies in this car? Fantastic. That makes me feel so much better."

"Jackson, for a big man, you're surprisingly superstitious."

"Yeah, especially when I'm riding in a hearse for the dead."

"As if that's what really scares you."

"That doctor we're going to see—he's your friend, right? Do you think he's good? Reliable in his judgment?"

Kowalski adjusted his glasses and pressed himself against the steering wheel. He drove like an old hunchbacked man.

"Yes, we go way back to university. He was my professor for a while. He's a specialist, Jack. If there's anything wrong with Penelope, he'll know."

Dr. Hermans was a slightly balding man with a prominent belly, round prescription glasses with small lenses, and a well-groomed mustache.

He was a highly respected psychiatrist, and one could say that his reputation gave him an air of arrogance. Jack disliked him instantly when they met, but Kowalski assured him that Hermans was the best available in the region.

"Dr. Hermans, I hope you liked the office I set up for you. I know it's not ideal, but the coroner's clinic isn't the best place for your specialty. This is a medical office I always keep available when we need to bring in outside specialists," Kowalski said politely.

"Dr. Kowalski, it was very thoughtful of you to arrange a place for me to handle this case. This situation is quite unusual, to say the least. I know it wasn't your final decision, but psychiatry has its interesting cases—and Penelope's is one of them."

Jack watched the two of them, somewhat confused. He simply greeted Hermans with a nod and tipped his hat, but the psychiatrist looked at him as if he were covered in filth, then ignored him and started talking as if he were giving a lecture.

"I've already prepared a file on my impressions of Penelope's case. It's not much—everything is still very recent. As I mentioned on the phone, Kowalski, the girl shows no physical trauma. Of course, we'll need further tests, but for now, she appears to be physically fine. You mentioned being concerned about her lack of speech, correct? Well, that is clearly a symptom of trauma. I believe a good course of treatment would be to reintegrate Penelope into her previous routine—seeing school friends, going to the mall, engaging in everyday activities. That way, we can establish a recall pattern and work from there."

"If you think that's a good idea, I have no objections. But we'll still need those extra tests. My initial death diagnosis was wrong. I need to understand where I failed. If I overlooked something, I want a thorough record of it."

Jack, who had been listening quietly, decided to step in:

"Very few people know that Penelope is alive. We want to keep it that way for now, at least until we catch whoever is responsible, Doctor."

Hermans looked at Jack with more disdain than he would at a stray, mangy dog and replied:

"Sheriff Jackson—is that the right term? Sheriff? I find it so primitive that, in an age of knowledge, we still use such a title for someone with such an important function in society. It feels like we're back in the Wild West. But, of course, this is Texas—or rather, deep Texas—so I understand that's just how things work here. Now, as a psychiatrist, my job is to determine what's best for my patient. And what's best for her right now is social reintegration. Isolation is for criminals, not fifteen-year-old girls who have just been through what Penelope has."

"Okay, you're the expert here. What I want to know is if, with your method, the girl will be able to talk—because I'm going to need to interrogate her."

Dr. Hermans gave a polished smile and finally focused on Jack. He was beginning to realize that the man in front of him wasn't just some backwoods sheriff with a badge and leather boots—he might be far wiser than Hermans had assumed.

On the way out, Jack couldn't help but comment:

"That Frenchman is an asshole."

Kowalski laughed.

"He's just methodical. And he's not French—Dr. Hermans is Belgian. A very proud Belgian."