Conspiracy TikToks have sprouted like mold—teens speculating about rituals, cults, coverups. Most of it’s satire and clickbait. But there is a growing number of earnest believers.
Some of them have discovered our podcast.
Walt unwraps a biscuit. Ribbons of steam curl in perfect spirals and fog up his glasses. “I warned them. Releasing that last statement was a serious fumble. A prank gone awry appeases nobody, especially not the parents of those girls.”
“Or Birdie Temple,” Maggie adds.
“If this was just some kids trying to cause a scare, two teens wouldn’t be missing.” Walt uses the hem of his cardigan to clean his lenses. “Or perhaps, just one.”
Maggie frowns. “They messed up the count?”
“More than a few town officials seem to think Lainey Sikes ran off with Rafe Vandenberg.”
So does most of the student body.
I take a delicate sip of my coffee, thankful for the weekend. I can hardly stand being in school these days. The anxious whispers. The locker shrines. The tears from kids who never once spoke to Lainey, or Ivy, or Callie. The tactless jokes. The empty seat in AP Lit where Ivy used to sit. Knowing the truth while everyone else speculatesis unbearable. If not for Jude and Twig, I’d feel completely alone.
Twig shifts. “Any word on the camera they confiscated?”
Maggie and Walt pause just long enough to make me uneasy. They know about our cemetery stakeouts. I’m pretty sure they suspect the equipment was ours. But like Mrs. Calloway, neither have confronted us about it.
“If there was anything on it,” Walt says, sliding his glasses back onto his nose, “no one is saying.”
Twig takes a bite of his biscuit, doing a great impression of a bad actor playing the part of casual.
In truth, we’re both wound tight, waiting for that knock on the door. For the other shoe to drop. For someone to show up and accuse us of murder. Twig’s been especially on edge. He nearly turned himself in twice, ready to confess the gear was his, that it was all part of a paranormal investigation. Jude and I talked him off the ledge both times.
“Do they have any suspects?” I ask.
“Not a one. Don’t think they will either.” Walt folds his hands over the newspaper. “So, what’s the scuttlebutt with the pair of you? Headed downstairs for the next episode of your podcast? I imagine season three will practically write itself after last weekend.”
Twig and I exchange a glance.
We’re a full week into November. Normally we’d be excited—diving headfirst into research,pinning down topics, crafting quippy titles. By now, we should have the first episode of our new season recorded. But we’ve been dragging our feet. It’s one thing to discuss supernatural phenomena to which we have no connection, or a vague one at most. It’s quite another to dig into something so close we can still feel it breathing down our necks.
“We’re going to start recording today,” I say to Walt, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my reply.
Twig gathers his coffee and another biscuit, I take my own, and together we make our way into Maggie’s basement. We don’t have much time to waste. Twig promised his mom he wouldn’t be gone long, and I’m meeting Jude at noon. We’ve decided to return the gemstones and the locket to the crypt. The portrait, too. We’ll lock them up, and put the whole thing to bed.
Twig pulls the crossbody bag over his head and sets it on the wooden table next to our sound equipment. He sinks into the nearest chair and stares forlornly at the crates in the corner.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Everyone thinks she’s off somewhere with Rafe.”
In a way, she sort of is. I swallow the tactless words and sit in the chair across from him.
He sets his elbow on the table and covers his eyes with his hand. “Kate was crying this morning in the bathroom.”
“She and Lainey were friends.”
He nods, and when he pulls his hand away, his eyes are red and teary. “I shouldn’t have let go.”
“Twig…”
“I had her by the wrists, Selah. But I just … I wasn’t strong enough.”
I reach across the table and set my hand on his arm. “There’s nothing you could have done.”
