The investigation, spearheaded by Nick Larsen, had become a Sisyphean task. They chased leads that evaporated like morning mist, explored theories that led to dead ends, and questioned an endless parade of potential witnesses who seemed to know less than nothing. They even entertained the notion that an outsider might be behind the killings, despite their earlier certainty that the perpetrator was a local with intimate knowledge of the area. Every phone record, every text message, every scrap of Rose's life was put under a microscope, yielding nothing but frustration. Nick felt the weight of failure pressing down on him, threatening to crush his spirit, but he refused to give in to despair. The truth was out there, and he was determined to uncover it, no matter the cost.

Jeffrey Saltano, by some miracle of bureaucratic inertia, still clung to his position as sheriff. But it was a hollow title, as meaningless as his days had become. He spent his time in a alcohol-induced haze, drowning his sorrows and his guilt in bottom of countless bottles. Bison, sensing the shifting winds, had cut all ties with his former ally, leaving Jeffrey to flounder in a sea of his own making.

The true tragedy, however, lay in the fate of Mary Saltano. Unable to bear the crushing weight of her daughter's death, she had attempted to follow Rose into the abyss. In a moment of profound despair, Mary had swallowed a lethal cocktail of sedatives and alcohol, a desperate bid to silence the screaming void in her heart. It was only by cruel twist of fate that Jeffrey had stumbled home to find his wife sprawled on the living room floor, her life hanging by a thread. The ambulance arrived in a blur of flashing lights and urgent voices, managing to snatch Mary back from the brink. A week later, still fragile and haunted, she was committed to Angels psychiatric hospital in Hayfield, Minnesota, for mandatory treatment.

The hospital, with its pristine exterior of ornamental trees and light-colored walls, wore a mask of serenity that belied the torment within. From the outside, it could have been mistaken for a high-end resort. But cross the threshold, and the illusion shattered like spun glass. The interior was a nightmare made manifest – a horror movie set brought to life. Harsh fluorescent lights cast an unforgiving glare over everything, turning skin sallow and eyes feverish. Long, windowless corridors stretched into infinity, their dark blue walls seeming to close in with every step. The air was thick with the acrid stench of disinfectant and despair. Patients in straitjackets were shuttled from room to room, their anguished cries echoing off the walls. Masked doctors rushed about in a constant state of controlled panic, as if racing against some unseen clock.

Into this maelstrom of suffering stepped Dr. Tom Homsont, the psychiatrist tasked with Mary's treatment. At forty-nine, he cut a figure of calm competence – average height, bespectacled, his short light hair neatly trimmed. His appearance was meticulous: a crisp blue shirt and pressed black slacks beneath his pristine white coat. But it was his eyes that truly set him apart – keen and compassionate, they spoke of years spent navigating the treacherous waters of the human psyche. His extensive experience with suicidal patients and severe mental illnesses made him uniquely qualified to help Mary, if anyone could.

As Tom entered Mary's room, the air seemed to thicken with tension. Mary sat perched on the edge of her bed, dressed in the shapeless uniform of the hospital – long white pants and a short-sleeved shirt that seemed to emphasize her vulnerability. Her bare feet barely touched the floor, as if she were poised for flight. But it was her eyes that truly captured the doctor's attention – wild and unfocused, they darted about the room, tracking the movements of specters only she could see. As Tom approached, Mary's lips began to move, forming words meant for ears long since stilled by death. "She's here," Mary whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and longing. "Rose is sitting right beside me, whispering…" Tom's hand steady, he shone a small flashlight into Mary's eyes, checking for any physical signs of her deterioration. Mary's reaction was as sudden as it was disturbing – a rictus grin spread across her face, her teeth bared in a grotesque parody of joy. She stared through Tom, through the walls, into some middle distance where the lines between reality and delusion blurred beyond recognition. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, Mary's hands flew to her head, her fingers clawing at her scalp as she began to wail, a sound of pure, unadulterated anguish.

"No, no, I'm not guilty!" she screamed, her voice raw and breaking. "I didn't want this, it was all him! He made me do it!"

In a burst of frenzied energy, Mary launched herself off the bed, scrambling into the corner of the room. She huddled there, knees drawn up to her chest, a picture of abject misery. Tom approached slowly, his hand outstretched in a gesture of comfort and support. But as he tried to help her to her feet, Mary lashed out, her hand connecting with his knee in a wild, uncoordinated swipe. Her screams intensified, her entire body wracked with violent tremors.

"My daughter," she gasped between sobs, "she's saying I'm guilty!"

Tom crouched down beside her, his voice low and soothing as he gently took her hand. Years of experience had taught him the importance of engaging with patients lost in the throes of delusion, of anchoring them to reality through human connection.

"Mary, look at me," he urged, his tone gentle but insistent. "What is your daughter telling you?"

Mary's shaking intensified, her teeth chattering audibly as she struggled to form words.

"She's saying… she's saying I'm hiding his 'skeleton' in the closet!" The words tumbled out in a rush, as if Mary feared they might evaporate if not spoken quickly enough. Tom knew he needed to keep her talking, to unravel the tangled threads of her psyche.

"Mary," he pressed, his voice a lifeline in the stormy sea of her mind, "what skeleton are you talking about? Tell me, I want to help you."

Mary's eyes, wide with terror, locked onto Tom's face. She shook her head violently, as if trying to dislodge the very thoughts from her mind.

"You can't help!" she wailed, her voice rising to a fever pitch. "No one can help!"

The strain proved too much for Mary's fragile psyche. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she slumped to the floor, unconscious. Tom sprang into action, calling urgently for a nurse. They worked in tandem, their movements precise and practiced, to revive her. When Mary finally came to, her eyes were clouded with confusion. The torrent of revelations that had poured from her lips just moments ago had vanished, leaving no trace in her conscious mind.

Later, ensconced in the relative privacy of his office, Tom placed a call to Jeffrey. His voice grave, he relayed the severity of Mary's condition, explaining that her stay in the clinic was likely to be extended indefinitely. The treatment she required was intensive, the road to recovery long and fraught with obstacles. Jeffrey's response, slurred and indifferent, sent a chill down Tom's spine. In that moment, he made the decision to withhold the specifics of Mary's outburst. The references to guilt, to hidden skeletons – these were seeds of something darker, something that required further investigation before involving Jeffrey. As he hung up the phone, Tom couldn't shake the feeling that he had just glimpsed the edge of a chasm far deeper and more treacherous than he had initially suspected.