Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As Mother reaches out to touch me, to attempt some intimacy as we say our goodbyes, I’m struck with Déjà vu. The way I instinctively shift away from it, her hand only hovering near me before sadly dropping. The disappointment on her face. It is just like when they dropped me off here for the first time. It’s almost nostalgic.

Father hugs me. I let him. He is a clueless helpless puppy, living only to serve Mother.

Pugsley squeezes me tightly too. My arms limp at my sides, I remind him that my toolkit is under my bed at home. We’d had a conversation earlier about bullies at his school, that if they’re still teasing him this semester, he should hammer nails into their knuckles. He’ll never actually do this, because he is weak, but I keep encouraging it.

“Thanks, sis,” he says, nodding as he pretends to take my advice seriously.

“It is time for us to go, my little storm cloud, but this semester will be even more excruciating than your last! I just know it!” Father uplifts me.

I watch as they drive off, and I inhale deeply. It feels good to know that I’ve made it, that I managed to keep my secret from Mother all throughout break. I was sure she’d see it in a vision, confront me awkwardly, desiring a deep connection with me. Expecting me to open up to her. That will never happen.

I wasn’t planning on coming back, but my stalker piqued my interest. Finally. Once I’d left for winter break, they’d gone radio silent after just a few semi-unsettling texts, as if they gave up as soon as I left Nevermore. Like they couldn’t make the six-hour drive to my family’s home. A stalker is bad, but a stalker who is also a coward is even worse.

Then, just when I decided to confess my condition to my parents and accept my fate being stuck at home with them, my phone vibrated with a new text.

It read: I know your secret.

Along with it came a gif, similar to the one in their first text, but this time the clipart Wednesday is being knifed in the stomach, rather than the head. This admittedly intrigued me, because I was sure no one knew. A few minutes later, I got another text—a photo taken from outside my house. My figure in the window. I closed all my blackout curtains, my brain churning with possibility.

Thornhill is dead. She is buried. I know this for a fact. But she’s also the one who walked in on me in the library the day after I discovered my affliction. The only one I can imagine would piece this together.

At first, my decision was so obvious it didn’t even feel like a conscious choice. Mugwort tea. I’d heard it could do the trick. It was still early. By my calculations, I was five weeks pregnant.

Pregnant. The word has such a delicate connotation, but I didn’t feel delicate at all. I felt stronger than ever. Yes, I experienced the nausea, the fatigue, a change in appetite and even unexpected emotional reactions that made me feel like I was losing my mind. But there was also an inexplicable feeling of fire raging inside of me, burning through my veins. A newfound energy.

I hadn’t taken a test, fearing leaving a trace behind would get me kicked out of Nevermore before I defeated the monster. The Hyde. Tyler, I now know, which is another part of this story entirely. But I didn’t need this physical confirmation, because I was certain all on my own.

It was only when I went in search of this Mugwort tea information—I knew I had to get it exactly right or risk it not working at all—that I came across a glorious book that detailed all the bloody visceral horror that comes with carrying a child and birthing it. I was mesmerized. Of course I’d heard of these things, but I’d never done this kind of research. How grotesque it all was. It’s how we all come into the world and it’s one big horror show. Your organs shift. You are stretched to your limits. Your teeth may fall out? I nearly smiled at that one.

That’s when I heard Thornhill’s footsteps, and I slammed the book shut, placing it back on the shelf. She didn’t seem to be suspicious of me. If she had noticed, seen the book—would she have told Tyler? Is he my stalker?

No, he is in juvenile detention. I know that for a fact too. Or do I? After everything I went through last semester, I can’t be so sure.

I did decide to go through with it. With having the child. I just found it too difficult to pass up this opportunity to go through something so horrific, so miserable. And it is—blissfully so.

Plus, I can feel her. She’s a lot like me, and I’ve always thought I could greatly benefit from having another me around.

The fetus is now at eleven weeks. I need to find my stalker, determine what they want with me, and decide whether it is necessary to torture or kill them before people find out about my secret and I get kicked out. I should have at least six weeks—maybe more, considering I don’t think anyone would dub me a teen mom.

The problem is that I haven’t gotten another stalker text since they told me they know my secret, and I can’t find them if they’re not giving me anything to go off of. My stalker is really starting to frustrate me, the way they come and go as they please. All I wanted when I came back here was to get to the bottom of this, rest the case, then leave again, knowing I’d done my part in keeping Nevermore safe. But it seems like there’s always something brewing, and somehow, I keep ending up in the middle of it.

Enid is in our room catching up with Thing when I walk back in. She wasn’t here when we brought my bags up, so it’s a nice surprise.

She squeals and runs to hug me. My arms twitch, nearly wrapping around her too, but I manage to stop myself. I hugged her back once, after we both almost died, and I can’t let her think it was more than a one-time thing. Even if there is a part of me saying that this may be the only person whose physical touch has ever not sickened me.

When she pulls away, she seems confused. She sniffs the air dramatically, her canine sense of smell clearly detecting something. “Are you wearing perfume?”

“No. You wear enough for the both of us.”

She smiles like that was a compliment. “Well, you smell different.”

I cross my arms. I’m nervous suddenly. All throughout winter break, I kept my distance from Mother, even more than usual, out of concern she would discover my condition. Because of her psychic abilities, of course, not because of the mythical mother-daughter bond she believes we have. But even then, I wasn’t nervous. I was annoyed that I had to hide something, that my plans may be interrupted.

Now, I feel a disruption at my core, imagining Enid finding out about the child. A part of me thinks it might disturb our relationship, something I’ve grown frightfully comfortable with.

“Well, I did do a roadkill autopsy on the way here. Maybe that’s what you’re smelling,” I say, thinking this will throw her off my scent—literally.

Her face twists. “Oh, God, please tell me you’re kidding!” She covers her nose.

I’m actually not. To be fair, this could be what she’s smelling. There was a strange-looking dead animal in the middle of the road. Turns out it was a raccoon, but it had clearly ingested some sort of poison and had shriveled into something unrecognizable. Pugsley kept one of its teeth.

“I’m kidding,” I tell her, because there’s no need for her to know that truth.

She exhales. “Oh, good!”

I sit at my desk, setting up my typewriter, while she flops onto her bed, her phone held in front of her face. Thing sits near me, tapping his fingers in accusation. He has been exceptionally judgmental of my decisions, though I can’t say I’m surprised. He’s always pushing me to connect more with family, be more honest, and even, God forbid—vulnerable. He thinks I should’ve told Mother and Father as soon as I got back home, and has reminded me every day since that I’m racing an hourglass. As if I don’t already know this. I continue to ignore his disapproval.

Enid asks how my break was, tossing in that she’s still upset with me for not visiting her in San Francisco. I would have, had I not been dealing with my own problems at home. Though I don’t admit this. Instead, I tell her about Uncle Fester’s mud and beetle casserole, Grandmama’s shot of mystery elixir to cover the taste of muck. Enid makes a face of disgust, and details her Christmas presents. Hair dye, a special edition Monster High doll, and most importantly, an iPad that she shows me, the glittery case covered in stickers.

A chirp comes from her phone, and she tosses the iPad onto her covers. “Oh my God!” she says, tapping her screen. “Are you on Morning Song?”

“What?”

She huffs, clearly annoyed with my lack of pop culture knowledge. “It’s an app. Everyone got on it during the break. Yoko just messaged me!”

I turn the knob on my typewriter, inputting the paper. I glance up at Enid. “Another social media app. How do they keep coming up with these things?”

“This one’s different,” she says. She’d say this about any app. “Every day you do these journal entries. And they give you little messages when you’re done! Like today, mine said, ‘Remember where you come from! Call your mom’. And I don’t know, it really spoke to me. It made me think I should try harder to connect with her, you know?”

I scowl. “She should try harder to connect with you.”

I dislike Enid’s mother even more than my own. Enid doesn’t like her either. I’m confused as to why some stupid app has changed her mind so suddenly. But if she wants to set herself up for more disappointment and criticism, so be it.

“Well, yeah, but she had a traumatic childhood, you know. I need to have more empathy for her.”

“She gave you a traumatic childhood.”

She waves me off, tapping again at her screen.

I can’t help but think of my child. The idea that I will turn out to be anything like my own mother is preposterous. She is mush; I am solid. Even now. Nothing has changed. I’ve not succumbed to the idea that being a mother means melting into a puddle of my softest little feelings. I don’t feel overprotective, but instead like this child is in the battle with me. If I live, it lives. If I die, it dies. And if it can’t withstand the harrowing journey I may be embarking on, then it isn't meant to be. But if it stays? It will be just as strong as I am. My own devil spawn.

It is my writing time. Viper de la Muerte is fighting her strongest enemy yet. It is a child, raised by the elements, emerging from a looming tower to destroy her.

Chapter Text

Two weeks have passed, and I’m mostly over the sickness now, but I’ve suddenly been hit with a wave of nausea and am lying in bed, above the covers, my head propped up with two pillows. I stare at the ceiling, using a water spot as a focal point.

A deafening chirping noise comes from the other side of the room, followed by Enid’s giggle. I wouldn’t mind the giggle if it weren’t always preceded by an obnoxious alert from her phone. Morning Song. She was right. Everyone is on it now. I hear talk of it in the halls, whispers in class.

“Enid,” I say her name. A warning.

“What?” she asks, her voice always cute and clueless.

“Your phone is so loud.”

She sighs. “You know, you have a phone now. Why don’t you use it? I mean, what are you doing anyway? Staring at the ceiling? Wide awake? It’s weird! You should get Morning Song too, and we can message each other on it! They have games you can play back and forth—”

“Social media is—”

“A soul-sucking void of meaningless affirmation, yeah, I know.”

A silence follows and, to my utter contempt, I find myself asking her a follow-up question about this certainly moronic app. I take a breath, pulling myself to a seated position, and look to where Enid lays on her bed, absorbed in the blue light of her screen.

“I thought it was a ‘self-care’ app. Why does it have games?”

Her face brightens. She sits up, eager to explain. “Well! The app reminds you how important it is to connect with friends, even if you don’t feel like talking!”

“When have you ever not felt like talking?”

She rolls her eyes. “So, instead of chatting, you can play, like Connect Four, or—oh! You can upgrade the games to make them cuter.”

She gets up and rushes to my side, showing me her screen, where a tic-tac-toe board is pastel pink. The Xs and Os are strawberries and flowers instead of letters. I grasp my stomach, leaning away from her phone. “God, please warn me before you shove something like that in my face.”

She shrugs. “Anyway, you can even buy these cute stickers to send to each other. Like, I just sent one to Yoko that says, ‘I carrot ‘bout you a lot!’. With a cartoon carrot and a bunny!”

“Did you say ‘buy’?”

“Oh, just like a dollar.”

“A dollar? For a digital sticker?”

Enid rolls her eyes again. Clearly finished trying to bond with me over this, she retreats to her side of the room.

I learned last semester that I like having a friend. I’ve been attempting amicability. That is, talking to Enid first. Before she talks to me. Asking her things, like that question about the app. Goody told me I was meant to be alone, but I've decided she was wrong. I haven’t seen her since we defeated Crackstone, and that’s fine by me. I actually haven’t had any visions at all since before break. It’s disturbing, the quiet.

I keep trying to conjure a vision, press my hands against my stomach and feel the child’s energy, the fire she emanates, thinking maybe she can speak to me already. But nothing happens. It is quiet.

In the same vein, my stalker is still mute as well. I’m beginning to think it was some hoax that is over now, and I have no business here anymore. Maybe I should have stayed home. I don’t have much time.

My crystal ball momentarily interrupts the silence, making its presence known on my desk. A call from my parents. Again. They’ve left five messages already, which I haven’t listened to. This is not abnormal for me, so I’m not concerned they will grow extra suspicious. Just their normal amount. They’ll think I’m committing heinous acts, meddling places I don’t belong, getting sucked into a world of monsters, murder, and mayhem. For once, they are wrong.

They’ll never suspect what is actually going on, something much more mundane. A tale as old as time, really.

Thing, who is perched on the foot of my bed, reminds me again how he disapproves of my ignoring my parents. I won’t argue with him over this issue with Enid in the room, so I simply glare at him and hope he feels my burning rage.

As quickly as that rage comes, it passes the same and is replaced by a strong wave of nausea. I think the strawberry baby pink tic-tac-toe got to me, jostled around my insides too much. I get up and walk to the bathroom, keeping a normal, unalarming pace. I turn on the sink before I retch, trying to keep quiet.

Once I’ve brushed my teeth and return to our room, I see that Enid is now blubbering. For a moment, I think I should retreat back into the cold embrace of the bathroom, sink into the tiled floor and wait this out. But I am too curious of a person. It takes me a moment to sort the words out in my mouth, as they are so unnatural, but I manage to ask.

“What’s wrong?”

She heaves a breath, wiping her eyes with her sleeves. “Nothing,” she says between sobs. “Morning Song just told me it would be a good time to release pent up emotion right now.”

I squint at her. Crying because an app told her to? This doesn’t seem right. I eye Thing, and he seems perplexed too. But it’s not a convenient time to discuss social media addiction and the way it’s turning my peers’ brains to souring sizzling piles of goo in their skulls, so instead I give Thing a nod in Enid’s direction, and he takes the cue to rush to her side, climbing onto her bed, then her knee. She touches him, thanking him for his comfort.

This is when I get a text from Eugene saying: WEDS IM IN THE INFIRMARY I ALMOST DIED CAN YOU COME I NEED TO TALK TO U

I roll my eyes. Whatever this is about, at least he isn’t in a coma this time. I have my doubts if he’s being serious, but I go to the nurse anyway.

When I reach Eugene, it seems he wasn’t being dramatic. He is in one of the beds, covered in welts, while the nurse applies cream to his skin.

Now I’m thinking I may have to kill someone. It easily could have been some bully’s doing. Eugene, small and cerebral, is an easy target. A lazy target, I should say. If anyone choses to pick on him, they seriously lack creativity and have probably spent their life overindulging in teen movies that highlight cliques and status quos. Their mind warped and shriveled, they see a small boy with curly hair and glasses that loves bees and they immediately decide it is his lunch money they should steal. That being said, I’m not sure my revenge can be as satisfying as his own ability to swarm someone, get them stung to death. It sure was a sight to see when he did it to Thornhill.

When Eugene sees me through his one non-swollen eye, he shrieks, “Wednesday!”

For a boy who just ‘almost died’, he seems full of energy.

“Who did this?” I ask, standing at the foot of the bed.

To my bewilderment, he says, “My bees!”

Because it is winter, the bees aren’t even active for anyone but Eugene, but since he’s their master, I’ve seen them swarm for him anyway. They live at his beck and call. They don’t hurt him. “Your bees? Why would your bees do this?”

The nurse, finished applying a white cream, steps away. “I don’t know! It was weird. I don’t even remember how it happened... I passed out or something. From the pain, maybe? But I don’t even remember going out there! It’s like I was asleep, and I just woke up getting stung! I must have spooked them.”

This intrigues me. “What do you mean? Do you think you were sleepwalking?”

“I don’t know... maybe.” He looks down. “I have been. Lately. Sometimes.”

“I didn’t know you sleepwalked.”

He shrugs. “I’ve never gotten hurt like this. I’m fine,” he says, waving me off, then wincing like this simple motion hurt. “But the thing is, the bees need to be fed, and I can’t risk getting hurt again. So I need your help.”

“That’s fine.”

“It’s crucial they have enough food in the winter, because they use it to generate heat, and—”

“I know what I’m doing. They will be safe with me. It's not like my Uncle Fester will come to town and try to eat them again in the coming weeks.”

Eugene’s less swollen eye bulges, his jaw dropping. “WHAT? Your uncle who tried to what?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. Rest easy.”

I turn quickly, my mind now on one thing only, and that being my bladder. I lost interest in this situation when I found out no person actively tried hurting Eugene, so there was no murder to commit, and then realized how badly I have to pee. When I try the nob for the infirmary restroom, Eugene informs me that the nurse just went in there. This is an emergency, so I rush out of the room and start towards the other closest bathroom.

The closest one that I'm aware of is downstairs and on the far side of this building, but as I’m making my way there, I spy the teacher’s lounge, which is much closer. I peek in, and no one is inside, so I go in, my mind easing.

However, just as soon as I take a few steps, a voice booms behind me. As if he was waiting in the shadows for some student to trespass on faculty land. As if he has far too much time on his hands.

“Ms. Addams.”

I turn to find Principal Shoemaker, Weems replacement. I haven’t actually spoken to him formally, but he’s given me these strange sideways glances in the halls, making a point to single me out. He is clearly attempting to use his height advantage to intimidate me, a move I am quite used to, as my short stature is the one thing other people have over me. Well, they think they do anyway. I am unphased by this cliched self-important act.

“Sneaking in to the teacher’s lounge already?”

I open my mouth, because although I would love to hear whatever ridiculous faux-menacing speech he has planned to give me, I really feel like I can’t wait any longer. “I needed—”

“Don’t bother,” he interrupts me, holding up his pale white hand. “I’ve been warned about you, you know.” He pauses for dramatic effect, not knowing how close he is to seeing a teenage girl wet herself. “And none of your shenanigans are going to fly past me the way they did your last principal. I hear you almost got expelled? Well, you aren’t going to be awarded so much grace from me, I can promise you that. So, whatever prank you were planning on pulling in here, you may as well forget it.”

“Prank? You think I pull pranks? Then you must not have heard much about me at all, or at the very least you weren’t listening. If not for me, there would still be a serial killer on the loose in this town. Since when is getting a murderous villain put behind bars considered ‘shenanigans?” I say. He furrows his eyebrows, ready to retort, but I quickly continue before he can. “Now, you can either let me use this bathroom, or I can pee now, on the floor, and you can be the one to explain it to Janitor Hendricks.”

We hold stares for a moment, but he finally blinks, and I know he is surrendering.

It’s not until I’m back in my room, where my phone was left behind, that I find my stalker has sent me another text.

Are you going to tell the principal? Or should I?

Chapter Text

I’ve just finished giving the honey bees their winter feed supplement. It should be enough until Eugene is able to visit them again. I know not to check in on the bees right now, that they’re inside their colonies working to generate heat and they need not be disrupted, but I wonder if they’ll notice Eugene’s absence. I still don’t understand why they would hurt him.

Just before I head into the Hummer hut to change back into my school uniform, I notice movement by one of the colonies. It’s Thing, getting dangerously close to tapping the side of the hive. He’s always been over interested in the bees and the worlds they create in their boxes.

I snap, and he freezes. “Thing. I told you not to bother them.”

His fingers droop sadly, but he inches back to my side, leaving the bees to their business.

He turns toward the wall as I change. I’ve already altered my uniform vests so that they drape over me instead of hug my frame. I did this using my mother’s sewing machine before I even came back to school so that it wouldn’t be an issue later. I’ve been scolded for my impulsivity on numerous occasions, but I actually have great forethought.

When I’m finished, I signal Thing to turn back around. “Maybe we should go to the library. That book I was reading the other day was enthralling. The one with all the photos of necrotizing fasciitis?”

He gives me a look.

I sigh. “I just don’t know if they’re... done.”

When we left the dorm, Ajax had just snuck in to see Enid. They were in her bed watching a movie on her laptop. It was revolting, and not in a good way. I don’t like him. If he’s dumb enough to accidentally look into a mirror and stone himself, I can’t imagine what trouble he could get Enid into.

Thing thinks we should go back anyway, and if we interrupt them, it’s for the better. One pregnant teen is more than enough, he says.

“Ha-ha,” I say humorlessly. If Ajax gets her pregnant, I can think of at least ten creative ways to kill him.

We stay standing in the hut silently for a long moment before Thing snaps for my attention. I groan. “Fine,” I say. “We can go.” I step towards the door, trying not to think about how we may find them still cuddled up in her bed.

When I reach for the door handle, a shock blazes through me, and I am transported elsewhere.

Bianca Barclay is standing in front of a door, crying. She rests her forehead on the wood and sniffles. “Please,” she says, pulling on the doorknob. “Please, I just can’t do this anymore.” She wipes her eyes, inhaling a deep breath.

It is quiet, and she seems to be attempting to pull herself together. There’s no other noise in this room, and I can’t see anything but the door and the wall painted pale gray. I can’t tell if this is her home, her bedroom, or somewhere more sinister. Some cabin in the woods she’s being held in.

Her composure breaks again, and she pulls on the doorknob hard. Three times, yanking it with all her strength. She beats on the door once, then seemingly gives up again, letting herself sink to the floor.

When I come to, I’m on the floor. I sit up quickly, looking around to confirm I am back in the Hummer Hut. Thing sits on my thigh, tapping me profusely. He is freaking out.

“What?” I say. “What is it?”

Fire, he signs.

I jump up before the smell even hits me. The burning smell. I reach for the door handle again, but when I attempt to open it, it will not budge. There is no lock on this door. Someone must have restrained it from the outside.

The flames are creeping up the back wall. Someone set this fire after they locked us in here. I can’t believe I hadn’t heard them, or felt their presence somehow. It must be my stalker. If I can get out of here fast enough, I can reach them and discover their identity. But how?

Thing scrambles on the ground, picking up a hammer from the toolbox, showing it off to me as if it is enough to free us. I don’t think it is, but I take it anyway, swinging it as hard as I can against the door, but nothing changes except the flames growing bigger behind us.

I throw the hammer on the ground, and it lands right on the edge of a water pail. A sharp ringing blares and the pail topples over from the weight of it. The absence of the bucket reveals a hole in one of the wooden boards that make up the four walls. This hut was put together by previous students, and was never quite sturdy.

Before I even instruct him, Thing rushes to the hole. It is almost the perfect size, but he needs a push. I crouch down and shove him through, the wood squeezing his flesh and bones in a way that looks less than comfortable. But he gets through nonetheless.

I cough. The smoke is filling the room. This isn’t good. I stay on the floor, close to the door, begging it to open for me. I try listening carefully, see if I can make out Thing crawling along the grass and making his way to the door, but I can only hear fire burning, the scorching of the wood.

Eugene is going to kill me if his bees are harmed.

To my relief, the door opens quickly. Thing went as fast as he could, I know. If it weren’t for me and Uncle Fester, he would’ve died last semester, so saving me now is the least he can do.

I almost trip over a long stick set in front of the door, and I see that this is the object Thing had to shove out of the way to get the door open. Meaning I was right, of course, that someone had trapped us inside. As much as I’d like to try and hunt down my stalker right now, I know the raging fire is more important. I gulp the fresh air for a moment before I grab Thing and we take off in a sprint.

Running to Principal Shoemaker renders me disgusted with myself, but I know he will be able to see the fire from his office window in the far distance, meaning he can’t not believe me. Besides, I don’t see any other option. I left my phone in my room again, as I usually do because I don’t often find any use for it, so I can’t dial 911.

I guess that would be a good use for it.

“Principal Shoemaker.” I puff out his name in a jagged breath once I finally am through his office door.

He is standing in front of his fireplace, and there isn’t even enough time for him to give me a dirty look before I say, “Fire.” I point to his window, and he jumps to investigate.

He looks outside, and when the flames catch his eye, standing out amongst the colorlessness of this dreary overcast afternoon, he rushes to the phone and calls the fire department himself. When he hangs up, he looks at me with a cold stare. “I’ll talk to you later, Ms. Addams.”

With that, he leaves his office, presumably to meet the firefighters in front of the school.

The hut is far enough away from everything else that this fire does not pose a risk to the students right now, but I’m worried that the bees will be burned alive. Eugene was in a coma last year. This is the last thing he needs. I lean against the wall behind me, letting out a sigh.

Thing asks if I’m okay. I realize my hand is clutching my stomach as I catch my breath. This must be instinctual. I let my hand drop to my side and nod. “I’m fine,” I tell him. I do feel heavy with exhaustion, like someone has placed a thick blanket over me, and I find that frustrating. I don’t normally tire so easily.

There is a lot more to think about, and as I sink to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest, I am reminded of my vision. Of Bianca. Now, in the silence of Principal Shoemaker’s office, I have a moment to remember it.

Bianca is gone. She hasn’t been at Nevermore at all this semester. It’s caused a stir in student body, many seemingly adrift with their queen bee gone. When I passed choir practice, it sounded like someone was torturing a large group of cats. They don’t know how to harmonize without her, apparently.

Enid has told me she is completely inactive on socials, which is strange, but she has been in contact with a few of her close friends. She said she is in Maine, at some retreat for young talent, and she has limited access to her phone.

This cannot be true. Unless the retreat she is at is also torturing its pupils. Something is wrong.

And the parallels between this vision and my life are concerning. I don’t believe in coincidences. There is something that ties these events together, and I just haven’t found it yet. Bianca being locked in a room, my being locked in the hut, my stalker. What would my stalker have to do with Bianca?

Much time passes before the new sheriff walks in the room. I stand in front of him, wanting to show that no matter how much taller than me he is, he cannot intimidate me. He is younger than the old sheriff by at least ten years. His name is Townsend. He meets my eyes with a certain annoyance, and my only thought is that Principal Shoemaker has keyed him in on my ‘shenanigans’. That, or he just hates all outcasts—and that would not be surprising, as he hails from Jericho.

Sheriff Galpin resigned from duty to move closer to Tyler’s prison. It’s about four hours away from what I’ve heard. I’m glad he is gone. He should never find out about my condition. But I haven’t met this new sheriff yet, and don’t have high hopes he’ll believe anything I say, mainly because I am a teenage girl. At least with Sheriff Galpin, I already proved myself. My proof landed his son behind bars, but I was right nonetheless.

Weems may have believed me too. It’s like I’m starting from scratch, having to convince the adults around me to take me seriously. I don’t like screaming to be heard, repeating myself until it gets through their heads. Maybe I’ll keep it to myself after all. Maybe I’ll solve this on my own. It’s not like I really had help before.

Sheriff Townsend tells me that they have found no signs of arson. This is preposterous. Obviously, there must have been signs, and obviously these policemen are incompetent. He does not appreciate my telling him this.

“There was an object blocking the door. Someone locked me in,” I say.

“We did not see any sign of that,” he says, deadpan and tired.

“Well, you did not see any signs of arson either, but they were certainly there. You missed something. Or many things.”

“Ms. Addams, we found flammable chemicals on site. Chemicals that are used as pesticides, typical of your little beekeeping club,” he tells me, belittling the Hummers. “It makes sense that this accident would occur in this area. That’s all it was.”

He leaves the room immediately before I can manage a rebuttal. His presence is quickly replaced by that of Principal Shoemaker, who is back to setting a judgmental gaze on me. His bulging eyes zero in on mine, and it is clear there’s no room for dispute. Though I will fight regardless.

The principal smiles. “Ms. Addams, I’ve been told that whenever—pardon my French—shit hits the fan, you’re somehow always in the middle of it. And that’s not something I’m able to ignore.”

I cross my arms. “I didn’t have anything to do with that fire.”

“I’m not saying you did. They ruled it an accident anyway.” He holds up his palms, as if to show his hands are clean. “I’m just saying that, if I were you, I may pay a bit more attention to my surroundings, so as not to end up an alleged culprit. You see?”

“All I do is pay attention to my surroundings. I can’t help that the walls always seem to be caving in around me.”

“I just find that curious.”

“So do I.”

We share a long stare before he breaks the silence.

“You should get back to your dorm.” He steps aside, leaving the doorway open.

“You should get back to doing your job.”

I walk out, thinking of how my stalker mentioned four days ago that they were planning on telling my secret to the principal, but he clearly has not heard a word. Once again, they have not stood on their word. A stalker who is a coward is bad, but a stalker with no follow through is even worse.