Chapter 8

  For most students, Monday was just another school day. Classes blurred together, the usual cycles of boredom and routine filling the halls. Teachers droned on, notes were scribbled, and conversations revolved around who did what over the weekend.

  For me, the weekend had been memorable. The quiet corrections, the veiled warnings, the reminders of who truly ran Sunnydale—all of it had already settled into the background, just another unspoken truth in a town that thrived on them.

  When the final bell rang, most students made a beeline for the exits. The lucky ones had cars, peeling out of the parking lot before the buses could trap them. The rest drifted toward their usual after-school haunts—Espresso Pump, the arcade, or home. I had somewhere else to be.

  The library was mostly quiet, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the occasional rustle of pages from Mrs. Harper's desk. A few students lingered—a group of cheerleaders whispering over a magazine, a lone student flipping through a reference book at the library computer—but otherwise, it was just Megan, Emily, and me. They were already seated at the central table, waiting.

  I set my binder down, flipping it open as I glanced between them. "Alright, welcome to our first official publishing meeting. Got any drafts?"

  Megan was ready. "Obviously," she said, flipping open her folder with dramatic flair. "I put together an exposé on the intricacies of high school fashion, predictions for homecoming styles, and—" she turned a page with a flourish, "—a deep dive into who's actually setting the trends versus who just thinks they are."

  I leaned back in my chair, exchanging a look with Emily, who sat across from me, arms crossed. Exactly what I expected from Megan.

  "I mean, ugh, last year's homecoming was, like, an actual crime against fashion," Megan continued, flipping her hair as though the mere memory offended her. "I saw the pictures. And, like, we all know certain people—" she cast a not-so-subtle glance at the cheerleaders across the room, "—should literally never be allowed to coordinate dresses again. So, honestly? This piece is a public service."

  Emily, who had been quiet up until now, finally pushed a single sheet toward me. "I was just going to handle formatting and layout," she said, "but then I found something weird."

  I skimmed the page. No fluff, no filler. Just clean, direct writing that belonged in an actual newspaper.

  CHASE REALTY DONATES TO SUNNYDALE HIGH COMPUTER LAB – A GENEROUS GIFT OR A CONVENIENT OPPORTUNITY?

  Beneath the headline, she had compiled donation records, contracts, and details on the apartment complex Chase Realty was building right across the street.

  I let out a slow breath, setting the page down. This was the kind of thing that could get attention—the wrong kind of attention.

  "Emily," I said carefully, "this is really well put together."

  Her eyes narrowed. "But?"

  I hesitated, glancing toward Mrs. Harper's desk, where she was absentmindedly sorting a stack of books, only half-listening to us. "But it's not exactly… school paper material."

  Emily blinked. "What? It's about the school. It's about a donation to the school."

  Megan leaned over, giving it a once-over before snorting. "Oh, please. You really think they're gonna let us print something that suggests one of the richest guys in town is shady? We'd be shut down before the ink dried."

  Emily's frown deepened. "So what? We just ignore it?"

  I exhaled, then pushed my own draft forward.

  A fluff piece. A welcome-to-the-school-paper editorial. Something so inoffensive, so perfectly curated, that no one could take issue with it.

  Emily skimmed it, then deadpanned, "This says literally nothing."

  Megan, at least, looked pleased. "It says we're focused on things that actually matter—homecoming, school events, stuff people want to read."

  Emily crossed her arms. "And not actual news."

  I sighed, rubbing my temple. "It's not about ignoring things. It's about keeping things… manageable. If we start throwing around accusations—even if they're true—we're putting ourselves in a situation we can't control."

  Emily studied me for a long moment. "And you care about that because…?"

  I met her gaze. "Because I like this club. And I'd rather it not mysteriously disappear before we even get started."

  She didn't respond right away, but after a beat, she muttered, "Fine. Whatever."

  At that moment, Mrs. Harper finally looked up from her books. Adjusting her glasses, she said mildly, "I think Richard is right. The school paper should focus on things relevant to students. Things that keep them informed—about their school, their experiences."

  Emily didn't argue. Megan looked smug.

  "Great," I said, gathering the drafts. "Then we have our first edition covered."

  Emily muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like but she didn't push it further. I knew she wasn't happy. She had every right to be. Because the thing was—she wasn't wrong. Chase Realty's donation was suspicious. The whole thing probably reeked of money laundering or land development corruption.

  But printing it? That was suicide.

  For now, I needed everyone to focus on safe things. I wasn't here to change the world.

  By the time our meeting wrapped up, most students had already cleared out. Emily tucked her notes under her arm, still radiating irritation, while Megan took her time packing up, carefully smoothing out her pages like they were classified documents.

  I glanced at the clock and stretched, rolling my shoulders. "Hey, do me a favor—let Dawson know I'll be late?"

  Emily barely looked up. "Why?"

  Megan raised an eyebrow. "Ooooh, secret meeting with a mystery girlfriend?"

  I snorted. "Yeah, Megan, that's exactly it. Can't let the world know about my tragic romance with the Dewey Decimal System."

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  She waved a hand. "You joke, but honestly? I'd believe it."

  Emily sighed, already half-turned toward the door. "Fine. I'll tell him if I see him. Don't get locked in."

  That was the plan.

  Megan gave a lazy salute before the two of them left, their voices trailing down the hall. I waited a few minutes, keeping busy—stacking papers, flipping through notes—just in case someone wandered in.

  Mrs. Harper passed by once, giving me a look.

  "Still here, Richard?"

  I gave her my best smile. "Yeah, just wrapping things up."

  She nodded, adjusting the books in her arms. "Don't be too long." Then, without another word, she gathered her things and disappeared through the library doors.

  I wouldn't be.

  Just…not in the way she thought.

  ***

  The administrative office was eerily quiet after hours. No murmuring voices, no clicking keyboards, just the low hum of overhead lights and the occasional distant squeak of a janitor's cart. The stillness made everything feel sharper—the sound of my own breathing, the rustle of my clothes, the faintest creak of the door as I tested it. Locked, of course. But that wasn't an issue.

  I had checked the lock days ago. It was old, the kind that stuck if you pulled the handle just right. A simple laminated card slid between the latch and the frame, a practiced flick of my wrist, and with a soft click, the door gave way. Slipping inside, I eased it shut behind me, pausing just long enough to make sure I hadn't been seen before moving deeper into the room.

  The office smelled like paper, stale air, and burnt coffee. Desks were arranged in neat rows, each one carrying the faint personal touches of the staff who occupied them during the day—family photos, half-used notepads, abandoned coffee mugs with rings of dried residue clinging to the bottom. The secretary's desk sat at the front, its drawers half-open, as if she had left in a hurry. Filing cabinets lined the walls, labeled by year, their metal surfaces dented from decades of use. Those were important, but first, I needed to check the computer.

  I slid into the secretary's chair and powered up the bulky machine, watching as the monitor flickered to life, casting a dull blue glow across the room. Login Required. A problem for someone else, maybe. Not for me. Most people, when asked to create a secure password, chose something personal—something easy to remember. And if there was one thing I knew about the school secretary, it was that she never stopped talking about her cat.

  Fingers hovering over the keyboard, I typed:

  Username: Secretary_JD.

  Password: Whiskers.

  The screen loaded for a moment, and then—Login Successful.

  I exhaled, rolling my shoulders before navigating through the system. The student roster was straightforward, listing names, addresses, enrollment dates, and parent contact information. The real interest, though, lay in the withdrawal records. Most students who left had a paper trail—transfer requests, forwarding addresses, a clean handoff to another school. But others? Others had nothing.

  I ran a search for students who had been withdrawn without an outgoing request. The results loaded slowly, the old processor whirring as it worked through the request. Then the list appeared.

  I stared at the screen. Dozens of names. Some recent, some from years ago. No transfer requests. No record of where they had gone. Just blank spaces where their futures should have been.

  I hit Print. The machine hummed to life, spitting out pages as I kept scanning, checking for patterns, for anomalies. But there was only one pattern—they were just gone. I gathered the papers as they finished, sliding them into my bag before logging out, clearing the printer history, and shutting down the machine. The digital trail was erased. But I wasn't done yet.

  Turning toward the filing cabinets, I ran my fingers over the metal labels, stopping at the drawers marked for withdrawn students. Locked. Of course. The school's digital records only went back so far—if I wanted older cases, I had to go old-school.

  The lock wasn't complicated. It was the kind that could be opened with the right amount of force in the right place. I grabbed a letter opener from the secretary's desk, wedged it into the seam of the drawer, and gave a careful, practiced twist. A soft snap, and the drawer slid open.

  Inside were hundreds of manila folders, thick with paperwork. I flipped through them quickly, scanning for missing pieces. Some files were thick, full of transfer requests, letters from parents, records sent to other schools. Others were thin—too thin. A name on a single sheet of paper. Withdrawn. No details. No forwarding address. Some didn't even have that much—just a label, an empty space where the file should have been.

  I took notes, copying names, withdrawal dates, and anything else that stood out. The deeper I went, the more obvious it became—this wasn't just bad record-keeping. Someone had been removing information. The only question was whether it had been sloppy work… or intentional.

  Sliding the drawer shut, I pressed until I heard the lock click back into place. Everything had to look exactly as I found it. I took a final look around the office, making sure nothing was out of place before heading to the door.

  Stepping back into the hallway, I walked calmly, casually. The hallway was empty. No witnesses. No reason for anyone to question why I was still here."

  By the time I reached the front doors, Dawson's car was already waiting. Emily had done what I asked.

  I climbed in, settling into the seat, my bag resting against my leg. Inside it was the start of something.

  A project that would take months.

  A list that would only get longer.

  Step one was done.

  Now came the hard part.

  ***

  By the time I got home, the house was quiet. My mother had likely gone to bed with a half-finished bottle of some wine, and my father was either in his study or somewhere else, doing whatever it was he did when no one was watching. The silence suited me just fine.

  I locked my bedroom door, set my bag on the desk, and pulled out the freshly printed pages. The list of names stared back at me, row after row of students who had once been enrolled at Sunnydale High but had left without a trace. No forwarding schools. No transfer requests. Just gone. Flipping to the earliest entries, I traced my finger down the dates. Dozens of students missing every single year. It was one thing to know, intellectually, that Sunnydale devoured its own. Seeing it in black and white was something else entirely.

  If I wanted to put faces to names, I'd need to cross-reference with club photos, honor rolls, sports teams. The library had copies going back to the town's founding. Those would be useful. But this wasn't enough. Not yet. School records could only tell me so much. If I wanted the full picture, I needed access to police reports, hospital records, funeral homes. The problem was getting my hands on them.

  Police files would be the hardest. Hansen ran a tight ship, and Sunnydale PD didn't exactly share information with civilians. I wasn't about to walk into the station asking about missing persons reports—that was the fastest way to get noticed. Hospital records might be easier, but medical confidentiality was an issue. I'd need another approach—maybe finding someone willing to talk. Funeral homes were the best bet. If students weren't transferring, then they were either leaving town in body bags or never being found at all. There had to be paperwork—death certificates, obituaries, something.

  I tapped my pen against the desk, staring at the list. Every new lead meant more risk. Every question asked brought me one step closer to someone realizing I was asking them.

  The phone on my nightstand rang.

  I glanced at it, hesitated, then picked up. "Yeah?"

  Emily's voice came through, sharp and unimpressed.

  "I wasn't gonna say anything earlier," she started, "but I need you to explain something to me. Off the record."

  I exhaled, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Emily—"

  "No, seriously." Her voice had that flat, sarcastic edge to it. "I get it, okay? The school paper is supposed to be about, like, football games and dumb homecoming articles. But you didn't even pretend to fight for it. You just shut me down like it wasn't even worth trying."

  I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. "It wasn't."

  Silence. Then, a sharp little scoff:

  "Right. Figures. Mayor's office is censoring the school paper now?"

  I sighed, rubbing my temple. "Emily, come on."

  "No, really. Should we start running our articles by City Hall first? Maybe print some Wilkins-approved talking points?"

  I let the comment sit for a moment before answering. "You ever wonder why people in this town don't ask questions? Why no one talks about the weird things that happen?"

  That shut her up.

  I pressed on. "Emily, people disappear. All the time. And no one ever asks why."

  "…You mean dropouts?"

  "No," I said quietly. "I don't."

  She was silent again, and for a moment, I thought she was going to hang up. But when she finally spoke, her voice had changed.

  "You're serious, aren't you?"

  "Yeah."

  Another pause. Then, softer: "So what do we do?"

  For a second, I almost told her. Almost let all of it slip—the files, the research, the fact that I was sitting here with a list of names that proved exactly what I just said.

  Instead, I settled for:

  "We stay smart. We stay careful."

  Emily let out a slow breath. "Right. Sure. I'll see you tomorrow, Richie."

  The line went dead.

  I placed the receiver back in its cradle, staring at the pages spread across my desk.

  Emily wasn't stupid. She knew I wasn't telling her everything.

  The question was whether she'd let it go.

  Or whether she'd start asking the wrong kind of questions.

  And if she did?

  I wasn't sure if that made her a liability… or an ally.

  Either way, things just got a whole lot more complicated.