Episode 2 - Rumor Mill
«««««« Previous Episode Next Episode »»»»»»»
It was too dark to see.
The air, thick and humid.
A familiar sound she couldn’t place, but mangled, distorted and oppressive, like a constant exhale, warm fetid air blowing against her cheeks.
Something was wrapped around her head, and she could barely move. She was somewhere between sleep and dreaming.
There was a pressure in her arm, something pressed into her skin.
A voice, resonating, and echoing, said, “Collect what you can. Then give her a break.”
She felt the pressure, and then it pulled on her arm, tugging and tearing. Something warm dripped on her leg, and she heard the tap, tap, tap of the drips on the floor.
She wanted to go home. She wanted to wake up from this nightmare.
Something deep inside her said, she wouldn’t be doing either.
Chapter 6
Fluorescent lights buzzed above Casey as he took a steadying breath and slid Millie’s yellow Discman across the counter.
The sight of it—a little scuffed, left out overnight in the cold—gnawed at him just as it had hours earlier when he’d first found it. He tagged it with a label before logging it in.
“Let’s get some men over on the scene,” Chief Frank Hart said to Gail, his voice gruff and low. “Put a call into the county sheriff’s if need be.”
“Johnson’s there now,” she replied, picking up a ringing phone, “and DeYoung’s on his way.”
Hart wore remnants of his hunting gear—boots dusted with mud and a jacket reeking faintly of wood smoke—though his badge was now pinned to his shirt pocket. Hart had cut his weekend short when he got the call, showing up in his usual fashion: ready to drop everything for the town and the people in it. Casey admired the longtime Westville police veteran but saw the cost of that kind of diligence—a mustache of far more salt than pepper, short fading hair, and permanent bags of fatigue hanging beneath pale hazel eyes.
He nodded at Casey as he strode out of the admin office. “You look like you’ve seen better days,” he said.
Casey let out a low sigh. “You could say it’s been that kind of night. Or morning, I guess.”
Chief Hart pulled him aside, his face tight as he relayed the latest. “We got a call from Francine Meyers. Says her husband Howard didn’t come home last night. We’re looking at two people missing now.”
Casey’s jaw clenched. Howard Meyers was a bus driver and youth leader at the Methodist Church, a staple in the Westville community. “Someone at the Shell station reported seeing Millie talking with Howard last night. He was running his shuttle route for the game.”
A muscle in Casey’s neck tensed. A missing girl and now a missing bus driver, both last seen in the same place. “We think he’s a suspect?”
“Well, I hope to hell not.” Hart sniffed and shook his head. “But if it starts looking that way, we’ll have a whole town of angry, scared parents. Couldn’t be, though,” he added, sounding very much like he was trying to convince himself. “He’s had his trouble with drinking, but the guy wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“What a mess,” Casey said.
“Yep,” Hart said, his voice low and full of weight. “It’s about to turn even messier if Thompson Sr. gets in.”
Casey had been surprised Joe’s father wasn’t there already.
Hart headed off to file some paperwork.
Casey started down the hall, his footsteps echoing as he made his way toward the interview room, when the door opened and Sergeant Gordy Reynolds stepped out, his face somber. He gave Casey a quick nod.
Allie followed Reynolds, expression tight as she steadied her sister’s shoulder. Olivia’s gaze darted around the hallway, landing on Casey for only a split second before looking away, brows pinched in irritation more than fear.
Casey shared a wordless exchange with Allie, a quiet recognition of the worry pressing down on everyone.
Olivia cleared her throat, crossing her arms as if she could block out every bit of the room around her. Her eyes were slightly puffy from crying, but now there was a fire in them mirroring her red hair, a defiant sharpness that almost dared him to speak. He remembered her as a shy, almost scrawny kid tagging along with Millie and a few others around town. But today, there was a stubbornness to her that was hard to ignore, and it was easy to see she didn’t want anyone’s pity.
Casey cleared his throat, aiming for steady. “Thanks for coming in.”
She huffed, glancing sideways as though his words barely registered. “Yeah sure…” she muttered. “Just doing my civic duty.”
As Olivia’s gaze darted around the room, she suddenly broke her silence, her voice edged with a simmering anger. “So, what’s the plan now?” she asked, her eyes flashing as she looked between Casey and Chief Hart. “Are we just going to sit here, talking about it, or is someone actually out there looking for her?”
Aly put a hand on her sister’s arm, trying to calm her, but Olivia shook it off, stepping forward. Her voice rose, fueled by frustration and something sharper, almost accusatory. “Millie’s out there, scared, maybe hurt, and you’re all here acting like it’s another case file to put in a drawer.”
Hart shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Casey as if he might defuse the situation. Casey took a slow breath, nodding toward Olivia. “We’re doing everything we can,” he said, though his words sounded hollow even to him. He tried to find the right thing to say, something that might make her believe it, but his mind was a haze of frustration.
Olivia scoffed, crossing her arms. “Everything you can? You can’t even get out of this building, and I bet I could find more people who’d be willing to look for her than you have here.” She looked past Casey, almost daring him to argue.
Casey could only watch as Olivia’s defiant stare drilled into him. He felt a pang of helplessness, a part of him knowing that she was right—he’d have done the same if he were in her shoes.
A tense silence followed, the weight of her words settling over everyone. Casey felt Chief Hart’s gaze on him, a subtle reminder to keep things in line.
He met Olivia’s gaze, his voice quiet. “You’re right, we should be out there, and we’ve got officers securing the scene now. We’ll find her.”
But as she looked at him, her jaw set in a hard line, Casey saw the disbelief lingering in her eyes.
Aly’s hand hovered near her shoulder again, uncertain, but Olivia stalked off toward the door. She met Casey’s eyes again, her quiet plea for patience clear. “If she thinks of anything else, we’ll call.”
Casey nodded stiffly as Aly turned to join her sister.
Casey looked toward the lobby, where Joe and Erin Thompson sat, worn down and exhausted. Erin looked like she’d aged ten years since he’d last seen her, clutching a cup of coffee, her fingers trembling as she stared past the blinds. Joe was pacing, tension etched across his face.
A half-hour later, the door opened again, and Jack and Mary Thompson entered.
Jack’s presence was commanding, even here, as he assessed the room, his gaze settling on Joe. Casey noted Joe’s discomfort immediately; he seemed almost unable to look his father in the eye, his hands clenching and unclenching around the coffee cup. After a moment, Joe abruptly turned and left the room, leaving Erin to watch him in silence.
Jack’s eyes lingered on Joe, his expression a mixture of disappointment and frustration. He turned his gaze to Casey, his tone formal but laced with a subtle edge. “Good to see you, Casey. Shame it’s under these circumstances.”
“Yeah, I’d say so, Mr. Thompson,” Casey replied, keeping his own tone neutral. Jack had always had that effect—a way of making everyone feel like they were on trial. He remembered it well from when they were kids, and though that judgement always fell heaviest on Joe growing up he had felt it too.
Jack’s gaze drifted back to the doorway where Joe had disappeared. “Sometimes I wonder if I taught that boy anything about handling responsibility,” he muttered, just loud enough for Casey to hear. “And now, with Millie…” His voice trailed off, a mixture of anger and something like regret flashing across his face.
Casey’s jaw tightened. “Joe’s doing his best, Jack. We all are. It’s his daughter that’s missing.”
Jack’s mouth thinned into a hard line. “It’s my granddaughter that’s missing, Casey. And if Joe had been paying more attention…” He stopped himself, glancing toward Mary, who was visibly uncomfortable with the tension.
Casey met Jack’s eyes; his own gaze unflinching. “Blame won’t bring her back, sir.”
A flicker of something unreadable passed over Jack’s face, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he gave a stiff nod, acknowledging Casey’s point—or at least letting it go for the moment.
Casey followed Joe out, catching him just as he started down the front steps. “Joe,” Casey called, stepping down after him.
Joe stopped, rubbing a hand over his face. “I just… needed some air.”
Casey put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, steadying him. “We’ll find her.”
But before Joe could answer, Chief Hart appeared at the station door. “Casey, a word.”
Joe walked off toward his truck, got in and revved the engine.
Turning toward the Chief, he noticed Jack Thompson’s piercing stare from the doorway, watching his son drive off with unreadable intensity.
“You need some rest, son,” Hart said.
“I’ll manage,” Casey said, though even now his head ached with stored up fatigue.
“You’re way over on hours.”
Casey felt his jaw clench, the protest rising in his throat. “I’ve got this. I’m not just going to sit on the sidelines.”
Hart gave Casey a knowing gaze. “Can’t have you burning out on me, Benson. Go home.”
“Millie’s like family,” Casey said.
“Which is why I need you to step back, at least for the night.”
“With all due respect, sir, I know how to separate the job.”
“I’m not sure you do, son. You haven’t been the same since the wreck with the Hopkins kid. And it’s been almost two years.”
Hart’s words hit a nerve; an echo of the guilt Casey had been carrying for years. He looked away, the tension gnawing at his resolve. Just then, he felt a prickling sensation and turned to see Jack Thompson watching him from across the lobby, his gaze steady and unreadable.
Whatever it was, Casey knew this wouldn’t be an easy road—not with Jack breathing down his neck, or the weight hovering over his head.
“I’ll handle the family,” Hart said. “You get some sleep, and we’ll talk tomorrow.”
Casey knew the Chief was right.
But as he walked to his car, he wondered whether tomorrow would be too late.
Chapter 7
That night, patrol cars prowled the dim streets of Westville—county sheriff’s and W.P.D. cruisers alike—creeping down back roads and dirt lanes. Foot patrols combed the state game land, sweeping along the North Country Trail, flashlights cutting jagged paths through the darkness.
Chief Hart had ordered Casey to stay away until dawn, to rest. But rest wasn’t possible; he lay awake, feeling the night press down like a wet blanket.
Olivia Fischer fared no better. She stewed in silence, simmering over the expectation that she should simply wait, play along, pretend everything was fine. When sleep did come, she dreamed of being somewhere hollow and cold, alone and afraid.
Somewhere like where Millie might be.
Sometime after midnight, the Westville United Methodist Church bus rumbled away from the loading dock at Prince Milling. It rolled onto Main Street, but Ethan Crawley wasn’t aiming for the church.
He guided it onto Riverside Drive, past darkened houses and into the looming pines, their shadows flickering over the windshield like skeletal fingers. He hummed along to Nirvana’s “Lithium,” cranking the volume to drown out the stifled sobs from the man tied up in the back: Howard Myers, bound and helpless.
Ethan nudged the bus up Burroughs Hill, veering it onto the shoulder and bringing it to a rough stop. He rolled his shoulders, trying to keep the boiling rage beneath his skin from spilling over. The red wanted out—wanted to tear, burn, break—but he kept it leashed, for now.
“Almost done,” he muttered to himself, as if soothing a rabid dog. He snapped off the radio.
Turning, he ripped the gag from Howard’s mouth, then jammed a cheap bottle of liquor against the man’s lips.
“Drink,” Ethan ordered.
Howard sputtered, whiskey spilling down his chin. “Francine… please… she needs to know where I am—”
“No one needs to know,” Ethan said, his voice low and final.
Howard struggled, fear turning his movements jerky. He managed a clumsy punch that caught Ethan on the jaw.
Red.
Ethan’s vision blurred, rage painting the world in shades of crimson. He inhaled sharply through his nose.
“Thank you for that.”
With a quick, brutal twist, Ethan snapped Howard’s neck, the fat man’s head slumping forward, pressing the horn into a blaring wail that cut through the stillness.
The red purred, satisfied. Ethan’s lips curled.
He whistled Cobain as he stepped off the bus, searching the area until he found a rock that would do the trick. He wedged it onto the gas pedal, revving the engine to a fevered roar. Then, with careful precision, he grabbed the shifter and slammed it into drive.
The bus lurched forward, wheels spinning wildly, and Ethan threw himself out the door. He tumbled down the hill, arm snapping at an unnatural angle with a sickening pop. Pain shot through him, but the red relished it.
Ethan gritted his teeth and forced his arm back into place, rising just in time to watch the bus barrel down the embankment, flip violently, then crash into the lake. It rolled once, twice, and then plunged, disappearing beneath the water with a frothy churn.
He stood, shaking his head, the red inside him momentarily sated. But beneath that satisfaction, a sudden fear crept up—had he gone too far? That small, weak part of him, the one that still cared, clawed at the edges of his mind. But he couldn’t afford to let it resurface. The red wouldn’t allow it. It needed to consume, to tear apart anything that lingered of the old him.
His new employer had made that clear. This was the better way.
He wanted to Seethe.
The flip phone in his pocket rang, and Ethan flexed his jaw before answering.
“Is it done?” the voice asked.
“Yes.”
Ethan snapped the phone shut and slipped it into his pocket. He glanced once more at the dark, rippling water, red brake lights fading into blackness. Then he turned back up the hill, whistling as he went.
Chapter 8
Casey watched as the minibus with “Westville First UMC” painted in block letters on either side was hauled up from the shallow waters of Burrough’s Bend, where the Slate River widened into a fat, oblong lake that seemed made to swallow secrets. He prayed Millie Thompson wasn’t in there—that her body wasn’t drifting cold and lifeless in these depths.
But the body they found was too large to be hers. Howard Meyers.
He’d heard the sirens in the early hours, shattering the uneasy quiet after a sleepless night. Fractured dreams had tangled with memories of a twisted Camaro hugged around a tree, metal scorched a fiery orange—the Hopkins wreck. And in the dream, it was Millie in the wreckage.
Careful on the steep hill where the bus had gouged a path down to the water, Casey moved toward the gathering crowd. Johnson, who’d tried to stop him at first, recognized him and let him through. “Where’s the uniform?”
“Not on me. Who called it in?”
“A fisherman saw bubbling near the bank, smelled fuel.”
Casey glanced at the crowd—quiet, tense. In Westville, rumor travels fast, and by now, everyone knew Millie Thompson and Howard Meyers had vanished within hours of each other. In a town like this, people add up two and two in ways that end up wilder than the truth.
But as Casey worked his way down to the water’s edge, where the chief shook his head and looked skyward as EMTs heaved Howard’s body up the awkward, leaf-strewn incline, he feared the gossip might not be far off.
He didn’t see Erin or Joe, thank God, but he knew it wouldn’t be long.
“Casey,” he said, feeling the need to explain himself.
Hart, rubbing his mustache—a habit when he was either nervous or deep in thought—glanced over. “Get any sleep, Benson?”
“Enough,” Casey lied. “Anyone called the family yet?”
Hart shook his head. “I’ll handle it. Not sure Francine will even understand.”
Casey recalled Francine from his childhood—a sweet woman who’d worked the five-and-dime until dementia put her in the local nursing home.
“Probably need to call his son first,” Hart said, just as a commotion erupted from the hilltop. The stretcher had slipped, and Howard’s body rolled a few feet down the incline, his neck lolling as gasps and murmurs rose from the crowd.
Chief Hart swore under his breath, and Casey moved to help, repositioning Howard’s heavy frame onto the stretcher. As they did, something slipped from the pocket of Howard’s denim overalls.
A pink W.W.J.D. bracelet, clasp broken.
Casey picked it up, catching Hart’s questioning glance.
“Where’d you get that?”
“Fell out of his pocket,” Casey murmured. The sky felt too bright, the light too sharp for the scene at hand. And in his mind, he saw Millie waving, that same pink bracelet on her wrist.
He didn’t want to believe it.
But that gnawing instinct laced with dread told him loud and clear—it was hers.
Chapter 9
The flickering red neon sign that spelled out “Westville Lanes” buzzed overhead, drawing a twitching cloud of moths and flies in its crimson glow.
Olivia stalked under the yellow awning, pushed through the front doors, and was hit by the clatter of pins and the hard, rolling crash of a bowling ball. Her gaze cut through the dim arcade, the smell of old popcorn, pizza and shoe leather heavy in the air, until she found Austin and Kyle.
She marched over to the “House of the Dead” machine, the latest zombie shooter, and crossed her arms, glaring at her so-called friends. They were glued to the screen, fingers on the triggers, their focus unwavering as they blasted pixelated zombies and grinned at the virtual carnage.
“Take that, bitch!” Kyle yelled as a zombie head exploded on screen, his face twisted in concentration.
Austin flinched, his eyes never leaving the screen as another wave of undead swarmed forward. He was taller than Kyle and had jet black hair longer than Olivia’s, his skin a several shades darker that hers.
“Watch your mouth, Stevens!” Mrs. Meyers snapped from behind the counter, wiping down a pair of worn-out bowling shoes, her gray U of M sweatshirt stained and sweat-dampened, her usual look of exasperation firmly in place.
Kyle flinched. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Hey, Liv,” he mumbled without looking up, still blasting away.
Olivia’s patience snapped. She circled around them, her boots squeaking on the sticky floor, then reached up and smacked each of them across the back of the head.
“Ow!” Kyle yelped, twisting to face her, one hand still gripping the green plastic gun.
Austin blinked, startled out of his trance.
“How can you play games at a time like this?” Olivia demanded, her voice tight. “Millie’s still missing, and here you are, shooting zombies like it’s just another Saturday.”
Austin opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Kyle stared at the floor, shuffling his feet as guilt seeped into his expression. “We didn’t know what else to do,” he muttered. “We’ve been talking to everyone. We’re just…trying to keep busy.”
“Yeah,” Austin added, his voice small. “What are we supposed to do?”
Olivia’s jaw clenched, her anger fading into something heavier—fear, maybe, or the helplessness she’d been pushing down. She dropped her arms, running a hand through her tangled red curls.
“I don’t know either,” she admitted, her voice quieter. “But it feels wrong. Like…she could be out there right now, scared or worse, and here we are, standing around like nothing’s changed.”
For a long moment, none of them spoke, the bowling alley’s noise filling the silence—the crack of pins, the rumble of bowling balls, the macabre metal soundtrack from the game looping as the next zombie horde shambled forward on the screen.
“You think the cops are even close to finding her?” Austin finally asked. Olivia shook her head.
“Doesn’t seem like it. I overheard them talking to her parents this morning.”
The game’s tinny speakers erupted in a high-pitched laugh, a skeletal-faced demon taunting them as “Continue?” flashed on the screen and a 30-second countdown began.
“Damn it,” Kyle muttered, slamming the plastic gun down on the machine.
“Last warning, Stevens!” Mrs. Meyers barked from the counter. “You want me calling your father?”
Kyle gave her a sheepish shake of his head, and dug through his pockets.
“Got any more quarters?”, he said turning to Austin.
He shook his head.
Olivia rolled her eyes, grabbing the thick black cables tethering the guns and holstering them back on the arcade machine.
Olivia sighed and sank into a nearby chair, her gaze drifting over to a group of younger kids huddled by the Street Fighter machine.
“I keep thinking it’s my fault,” she said softly, more to herself than them. “Millie got mad at me last night, took off on her own…”
Kyle looked up. “Why? What happened?”
“Does it matter?”
Austin shook his head. “I guess not.”
Kyle’s voice shook a little. “But…what are we supposed to do? We can’t just go wandering through the woods looking for her, right?”
Olivia straightened, the spark flaring again. “Why not?”
Kyle took off his cap, scratching his head. “Uh, because there are, like, a hundred reasons?”
Austin shook his head. “You know how pissed our parents and the cops will be if we get caught?”
She glanced back at the “House of the Dead” screen, where the zombies staggered endlessly forward, waiting for more quarters.
The demon on-screen let out another high-pitched cackle. “Shut the hell up!” Kyle barked at it.
Mrs. Meyers threw open the counter flap, her face stormy, and the three of them scattered, beelining for the exit.
At the door, Olivia ran right into her sister.
Aly’s expression was too much like their mother’s—one part wrath, two parts worry. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she said, frustration radiating from her. “You can’t just take off like that with what’s going on.”
“Quit acting like Mom,” Olivia muttered.
Aly’s eyes narrowed. “Mom’s flying home tonight. I’ll let her deal with you.”
“I don’t want to sit around doing nothing while Millie’s out there somewhere.”
Aly’s face softened, but her stance stayed firm. “We’re going. Now.”
Olivia looked back at Kyle and Austin, the weight of resignation sinking over her.
Chapter 10
A throng of reporters, from Westville’s small-town Ledger to regional news stations, clung to the front steps of City Hall as Chief Hart took his place on the makeshift podium early Monday morning.
They crowded along the narrow sidewalk—a space clearly never meant to withstand this much buzz and bluster. Their microphones jutted forward like spears, their lenses capturing the Chief’s every twitch and frown.
Casey hovered to one side, still out of uniform. Officially, he was off-duty, though that hadn’t stopped him from showing up here. The Chief had insisted again that he keep his distance from the case, his personal ties to the Thompsons making him too close to the fire.
Casey understood, and he knew the Chief was right.
But that didn’t lessen the pull, the way he felt wired to this case. He owed it to Erin and Joe—and if he was honest, he owed it to himself, too.
Things were under control, or as close as they could be. County sheriff’s deputies, their cars lined along Main Street like a grim parade, had arrived not long after they’d pulled Howard Meyers’ body from the Slate River.
Typically, the Chief wouldn’t be too pleased with the sheriff’s department intruding, but the scale of this was beyond typical. This was a town gripped by an unease it couldn’t quite name, where people looked over their shoulders a little more often, and every rumor spread like wildfire.
Around the reporters, a crowd of locals had gathered, their curiosity spiked by a blend of dread and fascination. Some had been at the river that morning; others had simply heard about the crash. Drivers pulled over to gawk, turning the main road into a gallery of faces pressed against car windows.
The sky darkened as the first clouds crept in, a quiet omen that quickened Casey’s pulse. They were coming up on 48 hours, and every passing minute etched Millie’s absence deeper into the town’s bones. Soon, Hart would have to address that ticking clock.
The Chief stepped up to the podium. His shoulders squared, his voice steady. “Saturday morning, a young girl by the name of Millie Thompson was reported missing by her parents, Erin and Jack Thompson. Since then, we’ve been working for any leads we can find. While I’m unable to share specifics, I assure you that we’re pursuing active leads. We are committed to bringing Millie home.”
A volley of questions broke out, reporters fighting to be heard over one another. Casey felt a strange dissonance, watching this small town he thought he knew play host to something that belonged on a much bigger stage.
“Chief Hart!” The loudest reporter, a wiry man from Channel 7, elbowed his way to the front, thrusting his microphone high. “Is there any possible link between the missing Thompson girl and the body found this morning in the Slate River?”
“At this time,” Hart replied, his tone careful, “these are separate cases. I’m not yet at liberty to go into detail on the crash, except to say that we’re treating it as an accident.”
Casey’s stomach twisted; he knew that look in Hart’s eyes. The Chief wasn’t being entirely honest, but Casey couldn’t fault him. There was no need to feed the rumor mill; it was already turning fast enough.
“We ask that if anyone has any information about Millie Thompson’s disappearance—if you’ve seen or heard anything—you contact the hotline or the sheriff’s office directly.”
Casey’s gaze drifted across the street, where a shiny black Crown Victoria was pulling into a spot by the curb. An unfamiliar sight for Westville, especially with its Illinois plates. As the doors opened, a tall Black man and a woman with dark hair stepped out, and when the sunlight caught the yellow flash of three letters emblazoned on their jackets, Casey’s gut clenched.
Feds.
The reporters sensed it, too. As if some invisible wire had tugged them toward the federal agents, they turned in unison, microphones aimed, voices rising. The county sheriff’s deputies stiffened, and Hart’s face turned a shade of red that Casey knew all too well.
“Chief Hart,” a reporter called out, “are either of these cases now under federal jurisdiction?”
“And if so, why?” another added.
But Hart was already retreating, muttering, “No more questions,” before vanishing through the double doors of City Hall.
Casey circled around the building, watching as the agents flashed their badges, pushing through the scrum of reporters. When they disappeared inside, he slipped through the back garage and entered the station, catching sight of the agents just as the Chief waved them into his office.
The door hadn’t even closed when Hart’s voice spilled out, thick with irritation. “For starters, you want to tell me why the hell I wasn’t informed you people were coming?”
“Let’s get off on the right foot, shall we?” the older agent replied smoothly. “We’re on your side here. There’s only one side—the victims’ side.”
“How about names instead of a lecture?”
Casey watched from the hallway as the older agent extended his hand. “Special Agent Stephen Lochlear,” he said, his tone neutral. “And this is Agent Sarah Reeves.”
“Uh-huh,” Hart muttered, shaking their hands reluctantly.
Casey knew then that things were about to get a lot more complicated.
Chapter 11
It seemed to Olivia that the whole town and everyone in it quavered with the unspoken apprehension that things in Westville were no longer safe. News of Howard Meyer’s death in a wreck was all over the TV and radio, along with the ongoing Amber Alert for Millie.
When Liv walked into school that Monday, she felt eyes all over her—some like accusing daggers, others more like gawking spotlights that were probably supposed to radiate sympathy but only made her feel worse, like she wanted to crawl out of her own skin.
The week dragged on, with an ache in her chest every time she passed the empty seat in algebra where Millie used to sit. Between first and second periods on Wednesday, Olivia swapped her biology book for an advanced algebra one, and the thought of Millie’s talent for math—how she’d saved her from failing so many times—made her stomach twist. She veered down the hall for Mrs. Summers’ classroom, dreading both the math test and the empty seat that would be a sharp reminder.
As she rounded the corner, she nearly collided with Kyle and Austin, who seemed to be lingering near her locker, glancing over their shoulders every few seconds.
“Hey, Liv,” Kyle said, eyes flicking from her to the hallway around them, his tone unusually subdued. “You doing okay?”
“Define ‘okay,’” she muttered, shoving her book into her bag. “Millie’s missing, the whole town’s on edge, and people are treating me like I’m cursed. You?”
“Pretty much the same.” Austin’s fingers fidgeted with the strap of his backpack. “Everyone keeps asking us about her. It’s…weird.”
“Annoying, more like it,” Kyle said, crossing his arms. “Especially when we don’t know anything more than they do.”
Austin shot him a sidelong glance. “At least they’re trying to care.”
“Doesn’t feel like it.” Liv shut her locker door, her jaw tight.
The three of them started down the hall together. “It’s messed up. But, Liv…do you think the cops are anywhere close to finding her?”
She swallowed, not meeting his gaze. “No. Doesn’t seem like it. I overheard them talking to her parents yesterday. They barely have any leads.”
The group fell silent, their footsteps echoing in the corridor as they trudged toward math class. But just before they reached Mrs. Summers’ room, a voice sliced through the din.
“Fischer.”
Liv turned to see Brett Hoffman, pushing himself away from his typical lean against the wall across from his locker. A couple of other upperclassmen boys were on either side of him, one of whom, Kevin, had been down by the river the night Millie vanished—the last time anyone saw her.
Kyle and Austin stiffened beside her, both exchanging uneasy looks.
“Seems like that friend of yours should’ve stuck around the other night,” Brett sneered.
Olivia shook her head, her pulse already spiking. “Don’t talk about it.”
“Oh, right. Don’t want to upset you too much. You might throw up on someone else’s shoes.”
“No. I’d make sure to aim for yours,” she shot back, her voice icy.
Kyle muttered, “Let it go, Liv.” But Olivia couldn’t, not when Brett’s smirk stretched wider.
“I’ll bet that stuck-up nark got what was coming to her,” Brett called down the hall, loud enough for others to hear. The usual background noise of kids talking and moving between classes seemed to hush, with more than a few heads turning toward the commotion.
Olivia stopped in her tracks, wrestling with the instinct to ignore him and the urge to do something—anything—that might make her feel less helpless. Kyle’s hand lightly touched her arm as if to keep her from going back, but she shook him off.
Millie would have walked away, but Millie wasn’t here. And that was the problem.
Olivia clenched her fists, pressing the heavy algebra book tight to her side.
She turned and saw Brett standing there, looking smug. “Or maybe,” he said, stepping forward, the crowd in the hall somehow knowing to part for him like the guy with the staff in Prince of Egypt, a movie Millie used to watch all the time. “Maybe she did us all a favor and ran away. One less spoiled Thompson in this town. Did everyone a favor.”
“Come on, man,” Kevin muttered, tugging his arm. A tentative crowd gathered, and miraculously, no teachers were in sight—at least not yet.
Kyle whispered, “Liv, let’s just go. This isn’t worth it.”
Austin’s gaze darted nervously between Liv and Brett. “Please, Liv. Just ignore him.”
But Olivia shook her head, taking a step forward. “I’d listen to your friends if I were you, Brett,” she said, her voice low and steady.
“Why’s that?”
Olivia gripped the book tighter. “Because I hate math. A lot.”
Brett let out a sharp tsk, then laughed, half-heartedly joined by his buddies. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”
“This.”
She reeled back and swung, bringing the rigid back of the algebra book down on Brett’s nose with all the force she could muster. There was a satisfying crack, followed by a stream of blood.
“Solve for that, prick,” she hissed.
Brett stumbled back, his hand flying to his nose, which was already dripping with blood. His face twisted with pain and anger. “You crazy b—”
“What is happening here?” a stern voice cut in.
Liv turned to see Mrs. Summers storming toward them, her face a mask of fury.
“Mrs. Fischer,” she said, looking at Brett’s bloodied nose, then at Olivia. “Did you do this?”
Brett clamped his mouth shut, unwilling to admit he’d been beaten by a girl, so Olivia jumped in, knowing full well what it meant to take the blame.
“Yeah,” she said, her tone defiant. She could feel Kyle and Austin’s nervous glances, but she ignored them. She’d get whatever punishment was coming, but at least she’d be skipping math class. Maybe, if she were lucky, she’d get suspended—and that meant more time to go looking for Millie.
As Mrs. Summers led her toward the office, Liv glanced back at her friends. Kyle offered a nervous thumbs-up, and Austin gave her a faint, uncertain smile. For all the trouble she was about to be in, she felt a strange sense of satisfaction. If no one else would do something, at least she would.
The cold, gnawing worry about Millie lingered in her gut, but so did the fierce resolve. After whatever reprimand awaited her, she was going to find her friend—no matter what it took.
#
When Olivia left the principal’s office, all she wanted was to walk straight out the door and go searching for Millie. Anything was better than sitting around, feeling helpless. But she knew full well that if she ditched school, Kathy would ground her into oblivion, making everything even harder. She headed to the cafeteria as the lunch bell rang, already planning.
They needed a way to get out there.
“That was awesome,” Kyle said as he mimed the dramatic flop Brett had made when her book’s spine had hit his face. He raised a half-eaten Go-gurt like a trophy, finishing his reenactment with a grand flourish. “End scene.”
“Doesn’t change anything,” Olivia said, poking at her lunch without interest.
“Yeah, but it had to feel good,” Austin said, nudging her. “Brett had it coming the way he was talking about Millie.”
Olivia nodded absently, her fork twisting through the sorry excuse for teriyaki stir-fry, the cafeteria’s Wednesday special.
“It’s been five days,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.
Austin and Kyle exchanged a glance, their playful demeanor fading. She knew they were just trying to lift her spirits, and despite everything, she felt a pang of appreciation for them.
“Nothing from the cops?” Austin asked quietly.
Olivia shook her head. “I called Mrs. Thompson last night.” She bit back the frustration that threatened to spill over—she’d called every night since Millie had disappeared, and even spent hours at the Thompsons’ house, though she wasn’t sure if it helped or hurt more. “The police think she ran into the woods near the old Scout cabin.”
Austin swallowed, glancing down. “My mom said search parties were all over there through the weekend.”
“And they didn’t find—” She stopped herself from finishing the thought, “anything, around Burrough’s Bend?”
Kyle grimaced, shifting uncomfortably. “Do you really think Mr. Meyers could’ve done it?”
“Done what?” Olivia’s voice was tense.
“Taken Millie. Or worse. I mean, I don’t know…” Kyle trailed off, looking guilty for even saying it.
Olivia sighed. She understood; none of them wanted to say the worst out loud.
“Devil’s Peak,” Austin muttered suddenly, his gaze distant.
Olivia and Kyle looked at him, frowning.
“That’s where they think she went missing,” he continued, taking a long drink of his chocolate milk as if it were something stronger. “The trail leads right up to it.”
“Devil’s Peak?” Olivia echoed, memories of her dad’s old stories tugging at her mind. He’d told her tales of the so-called banshee of Devil’s Peak, always ending the story with a tickling fit that left them both laughing. It was one of her better memories of him, a memory that hurt just to recall.
“Yeah,” Austin nodded. “My grandpa used to tell me about that place, too. Said it was where the Ottawa chieftain supposedly hid treasure after selling the tribe’s land to settlers.”
Olivia frowned, unsure how that was relevant. “And what does that have to do with—”
“It’s haunted,” Austin cut in, lowering his voice. “He used to say something bad lives up there.”
“Like… a banshee?” Olivia asked hesitantly.
Austin shook his head. “Not a banshee. I don’t remember the name, but… something worse.” He looked at her meaningfully. “We could check the library—see if there’s anything in the town history books.”
Without another word, Olivia grabbed her tray and got up. “What are we waiting for?”
Austin followed, but Kyle hesitated. “You’re just going to leave me here alone?” he called out, huffing before grabbing his backpack and trailing after them. “You know, it’d be nice to get a little warning!”
They hurried to the library, asking Mrs. Bird, the librarian, for any books on local history or legends about the area. They only had a few minutes left of lunch, and the first couple of books were disappointingly dry, glossing over any local lore.
“Anything else?” Olivia asked impatiently, tapping her foot as the bell for next period rang.
Mrs. Bird looked down at the open books with a frown, her lips pursing. “Don’t you all have somewhere to be?”
“Yep,” Kyle said, already edging toward the door.
“Do you have anything about the legend of the Ottawa treasure?” Austin asked, casting a hopeful glance back at Mrs. Bird.
She paused, her expression shifting slightly as if the question sparked a memory. “Now that you mention it… try ‘The Haunts of Hollow Pines.’” She rose and scanned a nearby shelf, pulling out a slim, faded book with a weathered cover. “It’s a collection of old folktales, but be careful with it. It’s the only copy we have.”
They quickly thumbed through the book until Austin found a passage about Devil’s Peak. His eyes widened, and he pointed it out to the others. “It’s here… it says the woods around Devil’s Peak are cursed. And there’s something… something that comes out at night to hunt.”
Olivia felt a chill run down her spine as she read the words. “We need to go out there. Tonight.”
“Whoa, whoa, “Kyle looked uncertain. “We can’t just wander into the woods without, like, gear and stuff. Flashlights, compasses, walkie-talkies… and a map wouldn’t hurt either.”
Austin gave Kyle a knowing look.
“Isn’t your uncle the scoutmaster?”
“So?”
“He has the key to the shed by the cabin. All that stuff would be in there.”
“I’m not just going to ask my uncle to help us sneak out past curfew.”
“I’m sure Eli would help.”
Olivia cocked her head. “Who’s Eli?”
“No way…” Kyle said.
Austin snorted. “He’s not that bad. You just can’t stand the fact that he’s earned way more badges than you and he’s a year younger.”
“Whatever.”
“If you think he could get us what we need,” Olivia said, “we have to try.”
Kyle sighed. “Fine… but we’ll need time to get things together.”
“Tomorrow night then,” said Olivia. “Halloween. That’s when we go.”
Austin looked to Kyle, then back to Olivia and nodded.
Hold on Millie, she thought. We’re coming.
