MONDAY, OCTOBER 14TH
2:30 PM
BRADFORD

I leave Watts' house right at 2:30, knowing that after yesterday, having my parents think I did anything but go to school today would be a big mistake. Ambrose takes Renny home, telling a concerned Watts that he'll stay with her overnight to make sure she gets more sleep.

I hop on my bike as Ambrose pulls out of the driveway, giving me a wave as Renny rests in the passenger's seat. There's still so much for us to do, to figure out. I mentally go over the list of unanswered questions for what feels like the millionth time as I pedal.

By now, I know the route back to my house by heart—I've got a mental map of Bradford in my head, thanks to biking everywhere. That's why I'm so surprised when I snap out of my thoughts and find myself heading in the direction of Vanterbest instead of my street.

I slow to a stop, trying to think how I possibly could have made a wrong turn. I'm sure I wouldn't have, even as distracted as I was. With a sigh, I figure maybe I'm lacking sleep, too. I haven't gotten much since Saturday, and I guess it's starting to show.

I turn around, head back up the road lined with old, well-kept houses, and make the right turn. Only to stop dead in my tracks as I find myself faced with the wrong road again. A different street of houses, none of which are the ones I usually pass on my way to Watts's house. But I do recognize them—I see this street every day. Every day on my way to Vanterbest, after I leave my house.

How the hell did I get here? I just left Watts' house a minute ago. There's no way I rode all the way past my house without even realizing it.

I force myself to take a deep breath, to let the chilled air sting my lungs, and let it out with a humorless laugh. I'm losing it. I must be.

I close my eyes, picturing where I am in regards to my house. I just need to turn around, take a right, then a left, and I'll be on my street. I take this route five times a week—there's no way I can get lost.

I step back onto the pedals and steer myself in yet another circle to head back the way I apparently came—and come to a stop so sudden that I almost topple over as the shock of what I'm seeing knocks the wind out of me. Landmarks of Vanterbest High—the large oak tree that stands right next to the staff parking lot, the nearby woods, the lone house sitting on the distant hill that looms over the building.

Only, the building I'm looking at isn't Vanterbest. In its place is a small building with a domed roof and wide, tall steps leading up to ornate double doors. Above the entrance, engraved in thin, fancy letters are the words, Town Hall. It's the building from the image Watts showed me at lunch that day—the old town hall that used to sit where Vanterbest was built. The building that was torn down decades ago.

And there are people—a large crowd is gathered out front, twenty feet or so from where I'm frozen in place. It's like looking at a page in a history book—their clothes are old-fashioned and dull, stout faces illuminated by the light of flames glowing at the ends of torches held in their angry fists. The commotion is loud and tense, voices shouting over each other with threats and accusations.

It's all aimed at one woman, who's writhing and snarling in the middle of the mob, attempting to free herself of the binds that hold her arms and legs together. Her struggle has her long blonde hair sticking to the sweat that's gathered on her face, but even through the strands, I can make out her feral expression and hate-filled eyes.

I don't know how I'm seeing this, but as soon as I see her, it becomes clear what I'm watching: Joan's execution.

And then I see him. Miguel, standing at the edge of the crowd, just as he looked that night in my room. Covered in blood, skin charred, the large pane of glass protruding from his forehead. His name falls from my mouth before I can stop it. But he only holds my gaze in response, motionless as the crowd continues to bustle beside him.

Then he turns and enters the commotion. Despite his decayed appearance, the crowd pays him no mind. Even as he takes a torch from one man's hand, they only continue to jeer and yell at Joan, who's been tied to a tall, wooden stake. Miguel walks towards her, then looks back at me, meeting my eyes once again.

Without a word, or even a change of his stone-faced expression, he lowers the torch. And as the rest of the crowd finally moves in to start the fire, Miguel does too, helping them begin the torture.

This isn't real. It's a nightmare.

Miguel wouldn't do this. Joan lets out a brutal scream that pierces my heart. I don't want to watch. I can't see this; I can't listen to her die.

With shaking hands I grip the handles of my bike and point myself in the opposite direction, jolting as the front tire immediately bumps into something with a loud thud. I let out a hollow yelp, caught off guard by the sudden presence of something—a door.

A red door, a white house. My house. My gut twists, head spinning as I try to understand what the hell is going on. I don't even get a second to think before the door swings open and I'm face to face with Mom.

"Diego?" she questions, concerned eyes looking me over, searching behind me. "What is it? I thought I heard you yell."

I'm flooded with relief at the sight of her, so much that it doesn't matter if she's still angry with me, or if she hates me, even. I look behind me, and the weight on my chest dissolves a bit more as I discover nothing but the other side of the street. No more misplaced roads or visions of the past. No more Miguel.

Why would he have done that? Why would he have shown that to me?

Mom raises her eyebrows, looking more worried at my lack of a response.

"I—uh—Yeah. I did. It was just... a squirrel. Ran out of the bushes and surprised me."

She lets an amused smile spread across her face, but it falters and quickly morphs into a look of anguish. Yeah, she's definitely still angry.

"Sorry," I apologize. Whether it's for scaring her or for missing tryouts, or for the accident and everything since, I'm not sure.

She shakes her head. "No, it's not you. Come in."

I put my bike in its usual place behind the azaleas, then step inside. She closes the door with a sigh before continuing.

"They just... I was watching the news before you came in. They found another boy in the woods from your school. Derek Hoffman?"

I look into the living room, where the TV is displaying a picture of the smiling, round-faced teenager. "Darren."

"Some of the parents are pulling their kids from school until they catch the killer," she says, voice straining to stay casual. "I'm worried about you, Superman. I've been thinking about it, too."

I shake my head, but in spite of everything that happened to bring it on, my heart warms at the concern. "Don't worry. I'll be fine. Me and my friends... we stick together. Safety in numbers, you know?" I figure it's probably best not to mention the fact that I biked home alone today. "Plus, Dad would never go for it."

She lets out a long breath. "Yeah. He wouldn't."

"Really, don't worry. They've got police on watch at the school, and I never go anywhere alone."

And if you pull me out of school, I think, glancing towards the picture of Darren again, I can't do anything to help put a stop to all this.

────── 〔⛧〕──────

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 15TH
6:08 AM
VANTERBEST HIGH

I tell the others about what I saw as soon as we meet up the next morning, finishing the surreal story with a heavy sigh.

"I keep going over it in my head, but..." I shrug as we start the walk to Ambrose's first period. "He didn't show me anything we didn't already know."

The hallways are quieter than usual, and for once the four of us have no trouble walking side by side. Mom wasn't kidding about parents keeping their kids home. At this rate, between the murders and the concerned parents, Vanterbest won't have any students left by the end of the year.

"Maybe..." Watts purses his lips, pausing to think. "Maybe it's some kind of hint. Like, what if he's saying we need to burn Bozzanath?"

"Maybe," I say, wishing the theory felt right.

"Rivera."

I pause at the sound of my name, turning to find myself facing Coach Deeley. The group stops behind me, waiting as Coach walks over, clipboard in hand.

"Yeah?"

"Look... long story short, I've got three of my best ball players sitting at home behind locked doors thanks to this maniac running around. The team is desperate for a pitcher. You want the spot, you got it."

I can only blink for a second, my heart picking up speed as I process the words. "Just like that? No tryout?"

"No tryout. Just like that."

"Well—yeah, yes." The words are out of my mouth before I can even think it over. And for the first time in days, I feel my gut churn with the all too familiar feeling of nausea as I realize what I've just agreed to. The exhausting practices, the long games under the hot sun, and being on a team with people who lied to my face to prevent that from happening. And worst of all, I'm agreeing to resume the role that I'd finally stopped playing.

Without meaning to, I'd freed myself from Mom and Dad's expectations for me to take Miguel's place as their sports-loving, superstar son. When I missed tryouts, they accepted my failure as a resignation from baseball altogether—they haven't mentioned it since.

They haven't mentioned it, but have also barely spoken to me. Especially Dad. They're upset that I lied, I know that. But what if it's more than that? What if, without baseball, it'll always be like this? Quiet dinners and unspoken disappointment, relationships broken by the strain of the accident and my failure to adhere to their expectations?

"Yes," I repeat, stronger this time. "I want the spot."

He nods, jotting something onto the paper on his clipboard. "I figured. Alright, practice is tomorrow after school. You can tell your parents not to worry, we'll finish up way before curfew, and we'll have extra supervision."

Tell your parents. Some of my unease dissipates at the thought. They'll be so relieved, so happy that things worked out. "Got it."

"Oh!" He snaps his fingers, tucking his pen behind his ear. "And yearbook pictures are on the twenty-ninth, in the gym at lunch. Write it down somewhere, because I've had at least one kid forget every year, and we don't do retakes."

I nod, making a mental note. "Okay. Thank you, Coach."

"You can thank me by having a good fastball." He smiles as he heads off to the nearby staircase, heading up to the second floor.

When I turn around, Watts is wide-eyed. I think he's about to tell me off for conforming to my parent's expectations, or however it was he phrased it before, but then he grins and lets out a laugh.

"Yearbook pictures! Yearbooks! I can't believe I didn't think of it before."

Renny raises her eyebrows, looking to me and Ambrose for any clue what he means. I just shrug, and Ambrose waves his hand in a go-on gesture.

"The history of Vanterbest! I mean, think about it. I bet you anything they had at least a page about the creation of the school—including the name—in the first yearbook."

"Sure, probably," Ambrose agrees, not sounding so optimistic, "but where are we supposed to find a yearbook from 1930?"

"Especially when we're trying not to draw attention to the fact that we're looking into Vanterbest's history?" Renny adds.

Watts smiles, raising his chin. "I have connections."

Renny cocks an eyebrow. "Connections?"

"I just so happen to be close, personal friends with a member of Vanterbest High's first-ever graduating class."

"Is everyone you talk to outside of this circle pushing eighty?"

"Well, my sister's eight, so she brings the median age down pretty significantly."

Ambrose crosses his arms, looking between them. "If you two are done, we're sort of on a deadline, in case you forgot."

"Oh. Right." Watts' face reddens as he pushes up his glasses. "Sorry. My grandpa, he's who I mean. We can go to his house and tell him we need the yearbook for a project on Vanterbest. I'm sure he still has it lying around somewhere."

The four of us agree to go over there at lunch, so we can head home at our normal time. Today, though, I don't think being late would matter much. When I tell Mom and Dad the news about making the team, I'm not sure much else will matter to them at all—even the fact that I won't be smiling when I say it.

sorry for the later update than usual! Wattpad was being janky for me today lol, or maybe it was just my wi-fi 😬 I hope the biking scene was creepy, or at least disorienting 😆 and thank you SO MUCH for 6k!! 💜