The Breakfast Club, what was left of it, hadn't made any attempt to reunite since Claire Standish's death in the winter of 1984. Each had their own reasons, even apart from the massive fallout that befell Shermer in the weeks that followed.

Brian Johnson lay on his dorm room bed, shifting his eyes back and forth from the paper in his hand to the white ceiling above him.

He'd read it already, but knew he'd have to read it again to really process what it said, to accept that it was even real. His thoughts, however, were getting the best of him. He hated feeling this way. He rarely allowed himself the privilege of free thinking. He preferred focus. As he'd delved into college he came to discover about himself that it wasn't truly an oppression set upon him by his parents, but instead was a genuine state of mind that he'd grown into on his own.

He glanced at the letter again, catching only the words "…we can't keep running..." in his sight before looking away. No. He couldn't do this. He couldn't afford time and precious mind power on this. Finals were coming up. Finals mattered. The past didn't. But even as those words went through his head he knew he didn't really believe it. As much as he wanted to put the Breakfast Club out of his mind, he never really could.

Biting at his thumbnail, Brian sat up with a start. This is ridiculous, he thought, being afraid to read something. But that wasn't it, either. It was the thinking that scared him. He had spent the last three years building up mental blocks in his mind against what had happened.

With a deep, haggard breath, Brian lifted the paper to his eye line again, determined to get it over with.

Brian,

You have to know that we can't keep running from this.

On the 22nd. We're going back. You have to be there, and I know you will be. Andrew will be. I will be. John will be. We've gotta talk about this shit. Can you honestly say that you've slept through the night even once since that day? We've gotta fix this. I can't take it anymore, Brian. We're either going to figure out who did it or come to find out what we've known all along. I don't care how long it takes. I've been living like shit for three fucking years, Brian. You're doing your big boy college thing, but I know the truth. I know you're just as fucked as me. I'm sure Andrew and John are too. John probably the most.

-Allison R.

P.S. Don't bother trying to write me back, the return address is a phony.

He exhaled a breath he didn't realize he was holding as he crumpled the paper up into his fist. In the lines Allison had written he felt he'd traveled through years of time. And he felt sick to his stomach.

He flung himself from his bed, scrambling across the tile to the small trashcan he kept beneath his desk, just in time for his roommate to walk in and witness him vomiting violently.

"Whoa, Brian, what's the matter?" Brian could barely hear Gil's shaking, nervous voice over the sound of his own retching.

"It's fine," Brian finally managed to gasp the words out. But it wasn't fine. Nothing was. Nothing had been for years. His nausea turned to anger and he couldn't help himself from growling, "Nothing's ever going to fix it."

"Brian," Gil sounded even more shaken now, "Brian, what're you talkin' about, buddy?"

Brian spat one last time into the trashcan, sat back against his desk and tried to steady his breathing. Gil was still frozen in the doorway, frightened to see Brian Johnson in such a state. Brian's demeanor had been stable and quiet over the three years they'd known each other. Brian was always the same. But here, crumpled on the floor, smelling of vomit and sweat, Brian seemed to Gil unhinged. Gil knew right away this wasn't a sickness that had overtaken him, but a plague of his mind.

They remained in these positions for several minutes before Gil finally got brave enough to enter their shared room.

Brian didn't even look at him. Instead he was staring straight ahead at the wall, trying to sift through the muddied pool of thoughts in his head. The imagery flashing in his mind threatened to make him sick again. He gripped his khakis and held them tightly, letting himself ride the horrible waves of memories. He saw her, he saw Claire. She was there, tangled in a sheet. There was so much blood. Those sheets are ruined. Those sheets are ruined.

And Brian began to sob.

They never caught the killer because the killer was never determined. Not by a court of law, at least. Everyone in Shermer had come to their own conclusion, though: John Bender had done it. Of course it had to be him. Everyone in Shermer knew about the Benders. Ned Bender was an alcoholic. It was no secret that he'd been beating his wife and son for years. Violence was in John Bender's blood. That's what they would say. Brian didn't believe it at first. Not because John was his friend, but because he knew how John felt about Claire. It wasn't love, it was something else. Something deeper and more complex. The change in John that came with Claire's death was obvious even to people who didn't know him.

The police interrogated Allison, Andrew, Brian and John relentlessly for weeks. Brian had been arrested and released several times over the course of a month. Each time a new piece of evidence was discovered they grabbed one of the four who were there when it happened. John was in and out more than the other three combined, though. Word around town eventually had police convinced he was involved and, soon enough, even Brian began to wonder if it really had been John to do it. Brian grew to resent John, and quickly to resent Allison and Andrew too. They'd put him through this. He never would have been at that fucking hotel had it not been for the goddamn Breakfast Club.

Brian suddenly screamed a long, ghastly howl. Gil ran for get help.