Synopsis: It has been six years since Jughead Jones set foot inside Riverdale. A month before he left, his girlfriend Betty Cooper vanished without a trace. And her case has gone cold. Now that he's back, he's determined to find out what happened to Betty Cooper. And whether he's one of the reasons she vanished in the first place.

Genre: Crime/Mystery/Romance

Timeline: Post-Season One. Depending on the events of Season Two will depend of whether it's incorporated into this story.

Pairing: Betty/Jughead

Rating: T

A/N: Reviews make me happy.

Chapter One

Many Happy Returns

The day that Betty Cooper disappeared, I was in the shower.

It had been like a portal. The Jughead that had stepped into icy cold water, unaware and unassuming, was not the Jughead that had stepped out.

It was as if the whole world had known. The shower had sucked in a breath as I'd switched it off. The glass doors had shivered as I'd climbed out.

And I was greeted with a cellphone alive with missed messages.

My hand, oblivious and ungratefully carefree, had reached out. And, ignorant of its unbearable weight, had picked it up.

If I had known then the reality on the other side of that phone, would I have even swiped by thumb against the screen?

I breathe out and stare at Riverdale.

It is now a skeleton of a town. Wind howls through streets like rattling bones. Litter crackles along the asphalt like tumbleweeds.

This place, this community that I used to call my own, is hollow.

I step forward. I worry that I'll break the brittle road with my feet.

Passers by stare at me, a stranger. No wonder they don't recognise me. Now that my black hair is chopped away from my face and my head is eerily void of any sort of hat.

I feel their eyes on me. They dwindle in their broken groups, rotating in a repeating life. Work, home, school. Work, home, school.

I make a point to look at them as I walk by. The one who broke away.

Or the second. Depending on what you believe about Betty.

I thumb the key in my pocket. It's hard edges grate along the skin of my palm. How ironic that it would be just a chunk of metal that brought me back here.

It had thumped through my letterbox, the contents of a well wrapped parcel. Usually I glower at the sight of anything remotely covered in tape. But this time I had been sure Santa had finally delivered on his promise to send me a lifetime supply of Frosted Flakes.

Instead, he'd sent me this.

A block of metal. I drag it out, letting it rest heavily in my hand. It's rusted grooves barely alight in the dim sun. I scoff. How oddly humorous that it almost resembles me.

I let it thud to the bottom of my pocket.

With a heave, my feet follow the worn contours of the street. They know the exact route in which to take. It doesn't matter that I've been gone six years.

I had never intended to come back here. Not after everything that had happened. When I had packed up what little belongings I'd had, stuffed them into a duffel bag and hauled myself onto a bus, it was a finale. A farewell, hope to never see you again, goodbye.

Funny how things come back to bite you. When the universe demands a season two.

Well, here you go, Universe. Hope you're happy.

The buildings seem to whisper as I pass by them. They mould with the murmuring gossip of the people staring at me. I study their hardened faces, searching for any recognisable features. Anybody stuck in the past.

That flash of red hair in the distance could be Archie, perpetually sixteen and stubbornly zealous.

That woman over there might be Veronica, unaware that the pearl necklace she wears are the very shackles binding her here.

A cockled laugh in a crowd could very well be Kevin, the click of heels against concrete might be Cheryl. Here, in this desolate, godforsaken place, there are a thousand people mingled with a thousand possibilities. And only harsh one reality.

Betty Cooper is not among them.

Betty had awoken a dormant Riverdale the day she went missing. The act of one girl had thrown a boulder sized chunk of reality through people's closed windows.

They immediately swarmed together like bees, rallying forces to search for this missing Cooper. They scoured the nearby forest, clasping hands with one another just in case one of them stumbled upon her body. Missing posters were plastered on every flat surface in town, a crude kind of wallpaper. Everywhere I had turned, I had caught a glimpse of the missing girl with the wide smile and the ponytail.

It had hurt, seeing her like that, trapped in a photograph. It wasn't good enough. Not if Betty wasn't here. Not if I couldn't reach inside that photo and pull her out.

Because a photograph is only as real as it was flat. It feels an awful lot like me.

Now all those photographs are gone. The walls around this town are barren. Pristinely void of any pictures or posters, as if it's trying to hide its own secrets.

All of this is now just a myth. A legend. A murmur amongst people, the lessens taught to children before bedtime. The story of the girl who disappeared.

Paper flutters. It catches my attention. The paper is strapped to a lamppost, plastered on top with newer gaudy advertisements and flyers for events. Some garish school dance, a two for one offer at POP'S. An advertisement for maple syrup.

The paper sits underneath, barely visible. The wind toys with its corners.

It's starkly white.

I reach forward, lifting up the pile of newer posters. There, underneath them all, is her face. She smiles out into the world, a woman of sixteen, her hopes her dreams all wrapped up in her eyes.

I yank it down. The corner rips as it detaches from the lamppost. I look at it once, capturing her face, before folding it carefully and threading it into my pocket.

If these people don't care enough to remember her, at least I'll be someone who does.

With a heave, I follow my feet through the streets to the trailer park. The key weighs heavily in my pocket. It's as if it's reacting to the nearness of its counterpart.

I let my feet crunch gravel as I head towards what I came here for - my father's trailer. It's paint sprayed walls are even more rusted than how I'd remembered it. I kick my toe against the side of it, hearing the metal creak. In any other town than Riverdale, this rust bucket would have magnificently collapsed by now. Yet things in Riverdale have always stood still.

And that includes time.

I drag myself to what remains of the front door. Giving it a shove, I hear it groan under my weight. But it stands still, protecting whatever junk is inside. I guess that's why I needed the key.

I pull it out of my pocket, the edges snagging on the newly pocketed missing poster. I weigh the key in my hand, jumping it between fingers as if it were hot coals, debating on the worth of actually using it.

But I move. I shove the rigid end of the key into the trailer lock, twist it and hear the familiar click. A weight lies between me and the door. Well, what had I come here for if not to look inside?

And I push it open. It creaks in protest, threatening to fall off its hinges.

The place is hazy with dust. I step into the black smog. My feet clatter against empty beer cans on the floor. In any other world, I would have piled them all up and thrown them in the trash. But they belong to my father. Even if it is what killed him.

I step over the ashes of my father's life, staring at all the mess it's in. Floor littered, furniture stained, damp creeping up the walls.

I let out a scoffing breath. "Welcome home." I roll my eyes, picking up an empty beer can and flipping it over in my hand. "All my worldly possessions."

When I'd left Riverdale, I'd never intended to keep in touch with my dad. He'd stumbled out of jail and right back into the serpents lair. I'd seen a glimpse of that life he'd been living and it was what had thrown me over the edge and out of town – my girlfriend had been missing for a month and my father had disappeared once again into a life of alcohol.

But I hadn't imagined that he'd die in the six years I'd been gone.

Not when everything in Riverdale is supposed to stand still. Well, until a Blossom is murdered, a house is burned down and a Cooper goes missing for six years.

It turns out though, even if your son leaves town never to contact you again, you still leave everything you own to him in your will. And that includes a cranky old trailer and a motorbike stashed round the back.

I piece my way through the mess, finding a stack of cardboard boxes stashed in the corner. My father used to keep all his important things in cardboard boxes. They were cheap to find, easy to carry and nobody ever suspected a cardboard box. Not compared to a safe hidden in a wall or a briefcase with too many buckles.

Thumping myself down on the dusty sofa, I pull up the first box. It's full of junk like charging wires and odd kitchen utensils. Not exactly something I'd remember my father by.

The next box is just as useless, stashed with plastic bags, a ball of string and what remains of my father's old office job. I let it thump beside me next to the other box.

I freeze when I pick up the last box. It looks just as mundane as the others except on the front a word has been scrawled with black sharpie; Jughead.

Tentatively, I pull open the lid. On top, as limp as the day I'd left it, is my hat.

I'd thrown it aside, a way to make a statement, when I'd left this place. It was supposed to be symbolism for leaving everything behind and starting afresh. As soon as I'd climbed onto the bus to head to mom's, I'd instantly regretted it. My head was deftly cold and instantly self-conscious about that hat.

Now it sits before me, a haunting memory of my past. I pick it up, feeling it's empty weight in my hands. It used to hold so much significance, it had felt like a brick.

With a sigh, I lay it aside, delving into the rest of my box. Somehow, my dad had managed to stuff my old laptop in here. It stands on it's side, crammed into the corner where it used to be open twenty-four seven. My fingers had filled it with ideas and words and now it lies empty and dormant. I lift it out, lying it beside my hat.

I almost laugh when I see the next object. The old portable tape recorder had been my attempt at being a journalist as a kid. I'd lugged it around to all the kids at school, demanding they comment on the segregation and abomination that was the school dance. Archie had just laughed into the microphone, and Betty had smiled and said, "What do you want me to say, Jug?"

I could tell by the brightness of her eyes, even at the age of twelve, that she loved the school dance. And I had immediately decided to report on something else.

I pull it out and snort at it's size. The attached microphone dangles from the brick sized recorder. How had I ever managed to lug this thing around as a kid? It could be used to build a house – or to smash through a window.

Setting it beside me, I pull out the next object – it's a polaroid camera. Something Betty had gifted me once, when we'd still just been friends. She'd said it made all photographs look better. It was the perfect gift for a writer. I had just scoffed at her. But it had been her way of believing in magic.

And, without even questioning it, I'd kept it. Stashed it away, like a stolen piece of her.

The film inside is still unused.

I lift it up, unveiling the rest of the box's contents.

My heart plummets. It's all my notes. Scrawls and charts of everything that could have possibly happened to Betty when she'd disappeared.

I had recounted the last time she'd been seen, the last interaction we'd had with each member of her family. The last text she'd ever sent me. "I love you".

I had been furious. The police, the sheriff, weren't doing a quick enough job of finding her. I'd thought that maybe if I, someone who knew enough about her secrets, searched hard enough, I'd find her.

She'd be safe and happy and be waiting for me just to shout, "Surprise!"

I'd have broken down and told her how much I hated surprises. And then I'd bury her into my arms and hold her and take her home back where she belonged.

But it turned out that Betty had had more secrets than even I had known. And, even with every inch of searching, I'd never seem to come close to finding her. It was like she didn't want to be found.

And when police investigate the disappearance of a teenage girl, they tend to suspect the boyfriend first.

So I'd used all the remains of my energy to prove my innocence, packed up my stuff and fled town.

It had been too much. Everything in Riverdale reminded me of her. And, even more so, reminded me that, over everything, I might have been the reason she left.

Maybe my running away had been my way of chasing after her.

I lift out the paper work, the remains of a weak, amateur investigation into the disappearance of a girlfriend. It almost feels pointless as I flick through the pages.

A photograph tumbles out. It's old and worn but as soon as I pick it up, I feel the familiar creases.

It's a picture of the two of us. Me, in my crown beanie, trying my best not to make my smile look uncomfortable. And Betty in her cheerleading outfit, leaning in and pressing a kiss to my cheek.

She had insisted on taking that picture, telling me it was a memory. I had glowered at her, but it had been impossible to say no. Especially when her face was glowing and her eyes were alight with excitement.

Maybe they should have put this photograph on her missing poster. Betty Cooper, disappeared on September 6th, 2018, and Jughead Jones, the boy who has since disappeared inside himself.

"Where are you, Betty?" I hear my voice croak as I whisper out the words. In that split second, my brain tells me that it's too late for me to ever ever find out.

No. I scramble together the sheets of paper and shove them into a nearby backpack. Without thinking, I grab the poloroid camera and the tape recorder and throw them in too.

It's never too late.

I fold up the photograph and join it with the missing poster in my pocket, throwing my now empty box aside.

I grab my beanie in my fist, standing up resolutely. My hand snatches the strap of the backpack and I swing it over my shoulder.

If the police aren't going to solve this, someone has got to step up.

I stride towards the door of the trailer and march outside, feeling my hear beat quicken and my determination rise.

I'm going to find out what happened to Betty Cooper.

And I shove my hat on top of my head.