(Toby's POV)

I woke to the sound of hushed voices. At first, I thought it was just Spencer stirring—she sometimes couldn't sleep when her mind was on overdrive. But the more I listened, the more I realized there were two distinct voices coming from downstairs. One was Spencer's, anxious and urgent. The other belonged to Cynthia.

My heart clenched.

Slipping out of bed, I padded down the hallway on quiet feet. The conversation halted abruptly when I reached the living room. Spencer and Cynthia were huddled around her laptop, faces etched with fear. Spencer's body language told me everything: arms crossed tight around herself, eyebrows furrowed, her stance both defensive and protective. Cynthia looked rattled but determined, like a deer that's just realized the hunter has them in its sights.

"What's going on?" I asked, keeping my voice low. I didn't want to startle them, but it was clear something serious was unfolding.

Spencer and Cynthia exchanged glances. Finally, Spencer turned the laptop toward me. The screen glowed with a stark, black website displaying a single ominous message: "We know who you are. And we know what you're capable of."

The words sent an old, familiar chill through me—a haunted memory of cryptic texts and unstoppable threats we once endured in Rosewood.

I drew in a steadying breath. "Where did this come from?" I asked.

Cynthia was the one who answered. "I—I found it while trying to trace the number that called Mom." She swallowed hard. "Something called the Black Rose Collective."

The name alone rattled me. It felt contrived, ominous, too close to the sort of theatrics we once faced. I turned to Spencer, wishing more than anything I could wipe the fear from her eyes. This was exactly what we'd tried to shield Cynthia from her entire life. We worked so hard to make sure the shadows of our past never reached her. But here we were, sixteen years later, facing a new threat that already knew too much.

"Let me see." I lowered myself onto the couch beside them and quickly scrolled through the site. Minimal text. A near-blank digital presence, as if designed solely to deliver that one, chilling message. I felt Cynthia's eyes on me, searching for answers I didn't have.

Spencer pulled her hand through her hair, a familiar nervous gesture from years before. "I tried tracing the call, Toby. There's no record, no digital footprint we can follow. It's like this whole group is a ghost."

It stung to hear that. The old feeling of helplessness resurfaced, reminding me of times I promised Spencer I'd protect her, only to find both of us tangled in a psycho's game. But now, it wasn't just about Spencer or me—it was about our daughter.

I stood, trying to regain a sense of control. "All right, let's think this through. We need to contact the police again and show them this website. Maybe they'll assign someone to do a deeper tech dive. And in the meantime…" I turned to Cynthia, meeting her gaze. "No more going off alone. I mean it."

Cynthia bristled, crossing her arms over her chest. "Dad, I'm not a kid—"

"I know you're not," I said gently, forcing my voice to stay calm even though my insides felt twisted. "But this isn't normal. Until we figure out what's going on, we stick together. All of us."

Spencer nodded, her eyes flicking toward Cynthia, silently pleading for her cooperation. "Cynthia, please."

My daughter finally let out a tight breath, nodding. "Fine," she said, though I could see in her face how much she resented feeling trapped. She was sixteen, with a mind like her mom's—always seeking answers, always digging. But she was also Toby Cavanaugh's daughter. Stubborn. Protective. That combination gave me both pride and fear.

A heavy silence settled over us, the eerie glow of the laptop screen reflecting off worried faces. It took me back, years ago, when the Liars and I would gather around a phone, or a laptop, or a package left on a doorstep, bracing ourselves for the next twisted revelation. That dread had a taste, metallic and bitter. I could feel it on my tongue again.

I shook off the old memories and focused on the here and now. "I'll call my old contact at the station in Rosewood," I told Spencer. "I know we're out of their jurisdiction, but he might have resources. We can't ignore the fact that this could be tied to our past."

Spencer's expression told me she'd already considered that—and then some. "We were so certain we'd left all that behind," she said quietly, smoothing a hand over Cynthia's shoulder. "Maybe we were too naive to think it would never find us."

Cynthia frowned. "What if it's not about your past, though? What if it's something…else? Something to do with me?"

The question sent a chill through me. Our daughter had grown up away from the worst of Rosewood's secrets, but we'd never been naive enough to believe we could hide everything. She was bright and observant; she knew we had skeletons. We just never expected a new threat to target her specifically.

Spencer opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, I placed a hand on Cynthia's arm. "Either way, we're going to figure it out together. That's what families do."

For a moment, none of us spoke. Then, almost as if waking from a spell, Spencer closed the laptop. "We should get some rest. It's been a long night, and we're not getting any answers right now."

Cynthia hesitated, then nodded. She stood, her shoulders sagging beneath the weight of it all. It broke my heart to see her so shaken. As she headed for the stairs, Spencer gave my hand a gentle squeeze and followed her, leaving me alone with my thoughts in the dimly lit living room.

I stared at the dark screen of the laptop. The reflection of my own troubled expression stared back at me. Sixteen years ago, I promised myself I'd protect Spencer. I kept that promise—eventually. But now, it wasn't just my wife who needed safeguarding; it was our daughter, too. And that simple fact ignited a fierce, protective determination within me.

The silence of the house pressed in. I stood and crossed over to the front window, peering out into the night. It was quiet on our street, every house dark but for a few porch lights. The trees rustled gently in the breeze, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. It looked so normal out there. So safe. Yet somewhere—maybe in Rosewood, maybe closer—someone was watching. Planning. Waiting.

I made a quiet vow to myself: I will not let this become our reality again.

With one last glance at the laptop, I headed upstairs. Spencer and Cynthia might not see it right now, but we'd survived the unthinkable before. And if anyone knew how to stand tall against shadows, it was us. The stakes were higher now, with Cynthia's safety in the balance, but we weren't the same frightened kids we once were. We had every reason to fight—and more than enough reason to win.

As I climbed into bed beside Spencer, the only sound was the unsteady rhythm of her breathing. I wrapped an arm around her waist, and she leaned into me, still half-awake, half-lost in worry. I pressed my lips against her hair, a quiet reassurance for both of us.

Tomorrow, we would act. Tomorrow, we would gather allies, make calls, and dig until we discovered who or what this Black Rose Collective really was. Tomorrow, we'd be one step closer to keeping our family safe.

But tonight, as the darkness pressed in, all I could do was hold Spencer close and pray that we weren't already too late.

(Spencer's POV)

I didn't sleep, not really. In the hours before dawn, I lay still in bed, listening to Toby's steady breathing. Once, this familiar rhythm was enough to lull me into a sense of safety. But tonight, my eyes stayed locked on the ceiling, my thoughts chasing each other in useless circles. I kept picturing Cynthia's wide-eyed fear, that website with the ominous message, and the shadowy figure who'd called us.

It wasn't until the first soft light of morning crept through the curtains that I made up my mind: waiting wouldn't solve anything. Once Toby stirred, I slid out of bed and headed downstairs. The living room was still dim, the shades drawn, but it felt like a different place in the morning—a little less haunted. Yet, when I flicked on the lamp, my heart clenched at the memory of the night before.

I breathed in slowly and opened my laptop, willing myself to be calm and methodical. Digging for answers had always been my comfort zone. Maybe that was why I became a lawyer—to untangle knots no one else could. This time, though, it was personal. My daughter's future was on the line.

I scrolled through the notes I'd taken while trying to trace the call. Nothing but dead ends. The number had bounced through multiple virtual networks, erasing itself at each hop. Behind me, I heard Toby's footfall on the stairs. He crossed over, placed a comforting hand on my shoulder, and pressed a soft kiss to the top of my head.

"Morning," he said, voice laden with concern. "Any luck?"

I shook my head. "Whoever set this up is good—frustratingly good. It's almost as if they anticipated everything we'd try."

He exhaled, a low sound of frustration. "I'll call Mike at the Rosewood station in a bit. Maybe they can at least use their resources to keep an eye on us here."

"Okay," I said. The thought of involving Rosewood police again set off a swarm of old anxieties. The truth was, I hated feeling like we were back under scrutiny. But if it meant protecting Cynthia, there was no debate.

We heard a creak on the stairs, and a moment later, Cynthia appeared in the doorway, hugging her arms around herself. She looked exhausted, dark circles beneath her eyes. It reminded me of so many nights during my teenage years—nights spent waking from nightmares, always fearing another text or note or sign that A was watching. I never wanted that life for my daughter.

"Morning," Cynthia murmured.

I mustered a reassuring smile. "Morning, sweetheart. How are you feeling?"

She shrugged, sliding into a seat at the table. "Like I got run over by a freight train."

Toby moved to the kitchen, busying himself with making coffee. "We all do," he said gently. "But we're gonna figure this out. Promise."

Cynthia attempted a small smile, then looked at me. "You find anything new, Mom?"

"Not yet." My voice was steadier than I felt. "But your dad's going to call one of his old contacts. And after that, I might reach out to someone I know in Philadelphia. They've got resources that might help."

I almost mentioned contacting the FBI—I had a friend from law school who'd joined the Bureau—but I wasn't sure how far I wanted to escalate things yet. If we didn't get answers soon, though, we might need to pull every string we had.

Cynthia nodded, biting her lip. "I guess that means I'm not going to school."

I raised an eyebrow. "We're keeping you home for now, yes. At least until we know more."

"But my debate final is coming up in a few weeks…" she began, then trailed off, as if realizing this conversation didn't hold a candle to the bigger threats looming. "Right. Of course. Safety first."

My heart twisted; I hated taking away normalcy from her life, especially something she'd worked so hard for. But this was a matter of life and death—at least, it felt that way.

Toby poured three mugs of coffee, setting them down in front of us. He gently ruffled Cynthia's hair as he placed hers in front of her. She gave him a ghost of a grin.

I sipped the coffee, trying to clear the fog in my head. "So, let's lay it all out:

1.We have a threatening phone call.

2.An untraceable number.

3.A cryptic website referencing Cynthia and talking about what she's 'capable of.'

4.A name: Black Rose Collective."

Toby leaned against the counter, arms folded. "And zero clues about why they're targeting us—or Cynthia specifically."

"Right." I drummed my fingers on the table. "Could it be something from your past, Toby? Some case you worked as a cop?"

He considered. "Maybe, but it doesn't ring a bell. My cases were mostly local issues or smaller crimes. This feels…bigger. And personal."

I looked at Cynthia. "What about you, honey? Have you had any strange run-ins, fights, or anything that might have triggered someone?"

Her cheeks flushed, as though the idea of confrontation embarrassed her. "No, Mom. My biggest drama at school is whether I'll beat Felicity Ramirez in debate finals." A pause. "Unless you count that time we had a protest about environmental policies, but that wasn't even big. And nobody threatened me."

I believed her. Cynthia wasn't exactly the type to make mortal enemies at school. She was more cerebral, a bit intense like me, but her circle of friends was small and drama-free.

Toby nodded. "All right, then. My gut says this has to connect to the past we tried to leave behind."

The words hung heavily in the air. Our teenage years in Rosewood had been…complicated. Dangerous. Full of secrets, blackmail, and twisted games by an unseen tormentor. It still felt surreal to think of all we'd survived. I swallowed hard. Could this be another echo of 'A' somehow?

I forced the thought from my mind. We had to stay logical.

Toby set his mug down. "I'll call Mike. Let's see if he or anyone at the station has heard of this Black Rose Collective. Then we'll go from there."

"Thank you," I said, reaching for his hand. Our fingers intertwined, and I tried to draw strength from the solid warmth of his grip.

While Toby grabbed his phone and stepped out onto the porch for privacy, I looked at Cynthia. A flicker of guilt twisted my stomach. I'd vowed years ago to protect her from the nightmares Toby and I once knew, but the vow felt broken now. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

Cynthia shook her head, surprising me by taking my hand. "It's not your fault, Mom. I just…hate feeling helpless."

I squeezed her hand, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. "I know. Me too."

We sat like that for a moment, letting the quiet reassure us we weren't alone. Through the window, I caught a glimpse of Toby pacing on the porch, phone pressed to his ear, lines of worry etched into his brow. It was strange how similar it felt to the old days—keeping one eye trained on every shadow, the constant hum of anxiety in our veins.

But it was different, too. We had each other. We had a family. And we'd learned from the past. We wouldn't be blindsided. We'd fight this threat as a unit, no secrets between us this time.

Toby stepped back in, slipping his phone into his pocket. "Mike's going to do some digging," he reported. "He hasn't heard of Black Rose Collective, but he'll check local records, see if anything suspicious has cropped up like this. Meanwhile, he advised us to stay alert, keep documenting any new threats, and—" Toby paused, grimacing. "He suggested we might want to consider new security measures at home."

Cynthia let out a shaky breath. "Security cameras?"

Toby nodded. "Yeah, and maybe an alarm upgrade. Just in case."

"All right," I said, my voice resolute. "I'll look into that today."

Cynthia picked up her mug, then paused. "Mom, Dad? Thanks—for not shutting me out. I know you want to protect me, but I want to protect both of you, too. We're in this together, right?"

I felt pride swell in my chest. Toby's eyes shone with the same emotion I felt. It was startling sometimes, how grown-up our daughter could be. "Together," I echoed softly.

A determined silence settled among us, infused with a new sense of purpose. We might not have leads yet, but we weren't powerless. We would uncover whoever was behind this. We had no choice.

I glanced at the clock, finishing off my coffee in a few big gulps. "Let's make a plan. I'll handle the security updates. Toby, you follow up with any leads Mike finds. Cynthia, if you think of any detail—no matter how small—write it down or tell us immediately. Deal?"

They both nodded. And for the first time since that call, I felt a spark of confidence. Maybe it wouldn't last, but I clung to it. Because if there was one thing my past taught me, it was this: knowledge is power, and secrets only help the enemy.

We wouldn't let the Black Rose Collective hide in the dark for long. We would shine a light on them until we found the truth—even if that meant confronting ghosts we thought we'd buried long ago.

And for Cynthia's sake, I'd do it without hesitation.