You knew something wasn't right. It started small—the way people would stare after a conversation, the unease that crept into their faces. You had always been Dewey Riley's daughter, the "sheriff's kid," a lingering shadow of legacy and tragedy. People either treated you like a fragile porcelain figure or like you carried the weight of the town's blood-soaked past on your shoulders.

But Jill... Jill had been different. She was magnetic, sharp-tongued, and unapologetically herself. The two of you had grown close—unexpectedly so. You weren't like the others who fawned over her, who wanted to be part of whatever orbit Jill decided to create. No, you were quiet. Detached. But Jill never seemed to mind. She sought you out, sat too close, leaned in when she spoke like it was your attention she wanted. It was intoxicating.

Then the killings started.

You found the phone buried under a pile of clothes in her room, sleek and black. The number was unfamiliar, but the messages made your stomach twist. Photos. Warnings. Threats sent to the victims before their deaths. And the voice changer. You almost dropped it, your hands trembling. But then, a shadow moved behind you.

Jill stood in the doorway, arms crossed, an eerie calm settled over her. No more pretending. No more crocodile tears. Her eyes were cold, gleaming with something sinister—something she had hidden so well.

"You weren't supposed to see that," she said softly, the words lingering. "But I guess you're smarter than I gave you credit for."

Her voice dripped with amusement, like this was a game and she was savoring every moment. You didn't speak. Couldn't. The air was thick, the weight of every death crashing down on you.

"But that's okay," Jill continued, taking a slow step forward. "I like it better this way."