"Trick or treat!"

Costumes and three open bags greeted us at our doorstep. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the cheery smiles that fit their faces. John grinned at me and passed over the candy bowl. His eyes then lingered over the children waiting patiently.

"Ah, what do we have here? A pumpkin, a Rockstar, and a"—John gasped—"a cop!? Well, you've come to the right place. Just wait until you get a real badge, eh?"

I rolled my eyes, picking candy from the bowl. "Oh great, another reason for you to get amped up about tonight"—turning away from him, I placed candy into their bags—"here you go, you guys look so cute!" I cooed.

"Thank you!" They grinned and ran for the next house.

"Hey!" John feigned hurt. I giggled and leaned forward, planting a kiss on his lips. He reluctantly kissed back, the pout on his face fading.

The night had just begun. Clusters of parents', children, and teens scouted the neighborhood, jumping from house to house. The streets were so full that it looked like the entire town had gathered for an event. I'd seen at least one in every ten people wearing the same costume, too.

"Hey, babe. We're almost out of candy. Where's the extra bags we bought?"

"Oh, I think I stored them in one of the cabinets. One second, I'll go check," I said before heading towards the kitchen.

Children's laughter echoed in the distance from the crack of the living room window. I could hear John poking fun at every kid who walked by. They giggled in response to every word. Some of them even laughed out a snarky remark back, offending him. Sheesh, he could be so silly at times. But it made me smile anyway.

There was no doubt he was going to be a great father. His handle with kids had always been marvelous, even when he doubted himself. It could have come from years of experience babysitting his younger cousins. Due to the constant overnight shifts his aunt worked, the little rascals were almost always over. Two girls and three boys were a fine number to drive you crazy. But he managed through the chaos somehow.

"Just a few more months, baby." I sighed in relief, stopping in the middle of the kitchen floor. Now, where had I put those candy bags? I reached for the top cabinets and began sifting through the groceries.

"Well, you're not in there, that's for sure," I mumbled.

Hmm, could I have accidentally stored the bags away with the grain products? I didn't remember stuffing them down there. Maybe I was too tired. Our food shopping trip last week went on for hours, from morning to afternoon. Then we spent almost an hour storing the food away. Sometimes, I wish I could say to hell with food shopping. It would have been more stress than it was worth if we hadn't needed to survive.

With a small huff, I bent down the best I could, sticking my hand into the bottom cabinet. Can rims, thick bags, and sharp-edged boxes met my skin as my fingertips brushed over the products. I recognized the cereal box and the large bags of rice under my fingers. Guiding my fingers further into the back of the cabinet, I continued to feel around. There was nothing but wide, empty space. I stuck my hand further until I felt a slit open on my skin.

"Son of a bit—" I yelped and leaped back.

When I pulled my shaky hand from the inside of the cabinet, a thin coat of red slid down the line of my palm. What the hell? Something pricked me! I winced but quickly stood up and ran to the kitchen sink. Cool water massaged my palm, rinsing the warm blood off. A slight sting merged into the wound as the water pressure came down on it. I clenched my teeth, muttering a curse under my breath.

What the hell was that anyway? I wouldn't have doubted it if it was a piece of wood chipped from the cabinet wall. We had quite a few of those things hanging back there. This must have been another reminder for us to finally remove them before something worse happened.

As if the night hadn't already gone sour, a cool draft invited itself into the kitchen. The window wasn't open wide enough for it to have been seeping through there. So, I wasn't sure where it could have been coming from.

Static. It filled my ears before I could process it. I felt my shoulders tense. My eyes shifted left and right, searching for the source of the sound. For once, it wasn't the TV.

"Who could resist all the cute costumes out on Halloween? I mean, seriously! What about you, Noelle? Do you plan on taking your kids out this evening?" A voice ripped through the static.

"Goodness grief, that has got to stop happening!" I breathed a heavy sigh, balling the material of my shirt into my fist against my chest.

The words from the radio blared loud enough for my ears to hear only. The voices bleeding from the other end made me cock my head to the side. Only when the squeaky voice of Margaret Santana began to speak again did I know for sure who was talking.

Margaret Santana's talk show went live on the air every Thursday afternoon. I wasn't a fan of hers, but her talk show was so popular they thought to add on her own radio hit podcast series. As a new edition to the radio channels, her podcast aired every Monday morning.

That's what made this weirder. It wasn't anywhere close to morning right now. I shook my head quickly. The contemplation wasn't worth playing the guessing game.

"Haha, you're right, Margaret. And I do, actually! The town's community garden is holding a special family event open to everyone. It'll be a fun little treat for the kids," Noelle expressed cheerfully.

"Oh, right! They've got a little Halloween party, festival kind of thing going on there. The flyers were all over town!" Margaret said.

"Yep, that's the one." Noelle laughed. "There'll be music, face painting, a costume contest, and tons of other activities. They've even got a maze going through the garden and. . ." Her words faded into the background of my mind.

Gardens grew flowers. Roses were flowers.

The thought crossed my mind as fast as she mentioned it. There was something about the butterfly and the red rose I saw that connected. And if the roses were connected to the butterfly, then roses were a hint that'd help in the missing thirteen's case. Why else would a podcast I didn't even listen to start talking about gardens on the radio?

I was way past coincidences by now. Halloween night was not going as I planned.

"Angie, you can stop looking now! I found the candy—whoa, what the hell happened to your hand?" John rushed to my aid, clutching my hand in his. He examined my hand front and back. The blood had dried by now, but that didn't stop his eyebrows from knitting in concern.

"It's nothing." I snatched my hand away. "I just pricked myself in the cabinet."

"Pricked?" John scoffed in disbelief. "Angie, that looks like more than a prick. Let's try a long scratch going down the palm of your hand. Come here; that needs to be cleaned."

I didn't protest, only quietly followed him as he led me into our bedroom. He sat me on the edge of our bed before proceeding to search for the first-aid kit. A stinging sensation spread in my palm. I clenched my hand shut and sucked in a breath. Bring it up to him, Angie. The little voice ringing in my head wouldn't go away. It poked at my brain until I chose to obey.

"Hey babe, were there a lot of kids outside still?" I shot the question.

"There weren't too many around our house," he said, then added, "why?"

"Well, I just heard about this Halloween event going on at the community garden on the radio, and I was thinking, maybe we could check it out? You know, instead of being cooped up in here all night, missing out on the fun."

"You mean the one in West Greenbush?" he piped up.

"Mhm." I nodded.

His eyes stopped for a moment, pausing on me. An unreadable glint surfaced in his gaze. I swallowed, tapping my fingers against my knee. My patience thinned within every tap, trading itself in for nervousness. He shifted his weight onto his other foot and bent down in front of me, first-aid kit in hand.

I was ready to open my mouth until I saw him open his first. Finally, he spoke, "If that's what you want to do tonight, then sure. Why not?" My shoulders dropped in relief. I smiled and nodded.

The next few minutes went on like that. My face scrunched in discomfort every time John touched my palm with the alcohol pad. The liquid burned deep into my flesh, causing me to flinch. I had been so caught up in wincing I missed the soft vibration against my leg. Carefully, I slipped my free hand into my pocket, grasping my phone.

"NEWS ALERT," it read in bold letters across my screen, like an echo calling out to me. While John remained preoccupied with my hand, I took it upon myself to begin reading the article.

I could have almost laughed when I had barely made it a few words into the article and my chest was doing funny things. But there was nothing humorous about what I saw. The headline was just as telling as the roses, the garden, and the radio. Except it told me exactly where I needed to go. The dark video—which seemed to have been recorded live a couple of hours ago—of the maze underneath the headline couldn't have been any clearer either.

Sitting beside a sentence written by a reporter, what showed off the maze was its entrance decorated with roses. But that was only around the gates. Looking into the entrance was like looking into a black hole leading to regret. Something no one could turn back from.

Everything around me seemed to have quieted down. My thought process, the air, my aching palm. And the loudest thing was now the urgent voice in my head, the one who screamed over and over again, pleading with me to follow my gut.