All Chapters of the devils mirror : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Blue and red washed the cove, sirens breathing color across wet sand. Police boats traced patient arcs through the black water, their searchlights combing the chop. Onshore, uniforms swept the dunes with torches, radios crackling a jittery chorus that couldn’t agree on what it had seen. A young constable stood by his patrol car, door ajar, staring at the sea as if it might stare back. The waves rolled and drew, rolled and drew—an unnatural rhythm, like the whole bay was holding something down. Billy lifted his C.B. with a shaky hand. “Search Team One, report status.” Static hissed, then a distant, broken reply: “Search Team One… no contact. No signs. Water’s… clear.” Another voice cut in, cleaner, no comfort. “Team Two reporting. If there was something in the water, we’d have seen it. Still nothing.” Billy lowered the radio and let out the breath that had been caged in his chest. Beyond the tape line, Scott sat in the sand, knees up, eyes drained to glass. Faith stood beside

The bar smelled like old beer and fried oil that had seeped into the walls years ago and never left. A jukebox in the corner played something bluesy and low, half-drowned by the hum of overhead lights. Locals slumped in booths, drinking to forget or waiting for trouble. Behind the counter, the bartender—Seth—flicked a greasy rag over his shoulder and leaned forward, chewing a toothpick like it owed him money. “Hey,” he grunted. “What can I get you?” Scott stepped up, resting his forearms on the bar’s worn timber. Faith slid onto the stool beside him, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room. “Actually,” Scott said, “we’re looking for someone.” Seth didn’t blink. “That so?” He looked them over—too young to be cops, too clean to be from here. “Looking doesn’t pay the bills.” Faith leaned forward slightly, voice calm. “We could use your help.” Seth kept wiping the bar like he hadn’t heard. “People walk in here all the time asking questions. Most of ’em walk out with nothing.” Scott n

The police four-wheel drive crackled up the gravel, a slow circle beneath the ghost gum’s pale shade. Chris Michaels, crouched on the front steps with potting soil under his nails, looked up. He wiped his hands on his jeans and stood. The driver’s door swung wide. A blonde woman in a Queensland Police uniform adjusted her cap and took the path in measured strides. “Mr. Michaels?” Her voice was even, practiced. “That’s me,” Chris said. “What’s going on?” She lifted her chin into the sun—handsome, serious, a badge flashing like a shard of light. “Officer Elsie Watson, Little Bay Police. I’m sorry to intrude on a Sunday.” “No drama,” Chris said, though unease tightened behind his ribs. “Is something wrong?” “I’m afraid so.” A breath. “There’s been a serious incident involving members of your family.” He tried on a brittle smile. “Let me guess—what have the kids done now?” “It’s not the kids,” she said gently. The smile fell from his face. “Bambi and Douglas Masters were

Morning: Kitchen The kitchen breathed comfort—warm toast, golden scones, strawberry jam. Steam rose from a fresh pot of tea; sun filtered through lace and turned flour dust into slow snow. Selma moved between oven and counter with practiced economy, apron dusted, jet-black hair coiled into a no-nonsense bun. The door whispered open. “Morning, Selma,” Bambi sang, perfume arriving first. She stole a strawberry, bit, and closed her eyes. “God, that’s divine.” “What’s the goss?” Selma said, handing her a hot scone in a napkin. “Shrub run. Again.” Bambi’s mouth twisted. “We plant them, baby them… they crisp like they’ve been hexed.” “Wrong time of year?” Selma lifted a brow. “I checked rainfall, pH, frost charts,” Bambi said, waving the scone like a credential. “I even prayed to the gardening gods.” “You’ll solve it,” Selma said, smirking. “You always do.” Bambi drifted toward the foyer, nibbling, and stopped between the twin staircases. The mirror—their mirror—was a sheet

Hideaway Island got a facelift—one jackhammer, cherry picker, and bruised thumb at a time. Grounds The estate looked like a post-festival hangover. Glow sticks fossilized in hedges. Plastic cups pressed into flowerbeds like low-rent relics. An inflatable flamingo rotated in the dead fountain, regal in defeat. Chris toed a charred fire pit rimmed with cans and half-melted bracelets. “Looks like a herd of drunk unicorns exploded.” “Don’t laugh,” Rebecca said, hefting a bulging garbage bag. “Feather boa on the sundial. G-string in the mailbox.” They smiled because the alternative was crying. Foyer Inside, the foyer had been a rave cathedral. Chandeliers wore LED garlands; VIBE ZONE glowed in neon across marble. Glitter sifted from vents like taunting snow. “Someone DJ’d from here,” Chris said, eyeing a record-shaped burn on the baby grand. “Who puts a turntable on a piano?” Bruce peeked into the drawing room and recoiled. “Grandfather’s portrait has abs. Sharpie ones.”