Note:

Welcome to the sequel to Tip of the Iceberg!

21-year-old Max Caulfield sat on the couch in the living room of her small apartment in the Pearl District of Portland. She had just returned from a long day of classes at Portland State University, where she was studying photography in the college of arts. Now, she just wanted to relax a little bit before working on the big term project that was due the middle of next month.

Max took her cell phone out of her pocket and turned on the screen. A shudder went through her body when she saw the date on the home screen. It read October 11, 2016.

This is it, she thought. It was the three-year anniversary of the giant tornado that devastated Arcadia Bay, where she had grown up and later returned to attend the prestigious Blackwell Academy for her senior year. What an adventure that had been. If the huge storm wasn't enough, she and her then-recently-reunited best friend Chloe had uncovered the biggest, most heinous criminal operation in the small town's history. Masterminded by her art teacher, the famous photographer Mark Jefferson, Max would've fallen victim herself had she not possessed mysterious time-travel powers. In fact, something in her mind told her that it was those powers that had caused the storm.

But the powers were gone now, and no strange weather phenomena had happened since. There was no way she could ever know for sure, only the horrifying thought that still occasionally crept into the back of her mind. She shut it out as best as she could.

Max's thoughts wandered to her friend Chloe. The week after the storm had brought them closer than ever as they journeyed across the state, escaping from a madman hungry for revenge. They had narrowly escaped with their lives, but Jefferson remained on the lam and was now on every authorities' most-wanted list. Max tried to not to think about him. He's a wanted man. He's not going to try anything in a crowded city like this. And no way he's going back to Arcadia, where everyone knows what he looks like.

During the rest of her year at Blackwell, she visited her friend as often as her schedule would permit, sometimes sneaking off campus at night to hang out and smoke pot and drink beer. When that wasn't possible, they kept in constant touch via phone calls, text messages and social media. They were making up for lost time, and Max had promised that this time, they really would be forever.

So much for that, she sighed. Once again, now in her junior year of college, she had failed to hold up her end of the bargain. Sure, she didn't just leave without a word and not talk to Chloe again this time, but still, she should probably be calling her best friend more than once every few weeks. For a while, Chloe called much more often, but Max was always busy with something. She had asked to visit, too, but the timing never worked out. Recently, their communication had been even more infrequent. It had been a couple of months since they had last talked.

I should call her right now, Max decided. She hit "Call" on her phone.

"Hi, it's Chloe—"

"Chloe!" Max exclaimed.

"—I'm not here right now. So, uhh, leave a message at the tone, I guess. Or not. Do whatever you want."

Oh, Max realized, it's just her voicemail. She tried not to worry. She's probably busy or sleeping, she rationalized. I'll just call again later.

After she finished a quick dinner of a ham sandwich and salad, she tried calling a second time. Once again, it went to voicemail.

Max tried her best to let it go for now as she began her term project.

The next morning, Max had all but forgotten about her anxiety the previous day as she boarded the light rail to campus. It was unusually warm for mid-October and there was not a cloud in the sky. Max loved days like this, when no matter how she was feeling, the weather would always lift her spirits.

When she arrived home that evening, however, she thought about Chloe once more. I'd better call again.

Still there was no answer.

Max turned on the radio. She liked to listen to the news the old-fashioned way while she did her schoolwork. The guitar riffs of an old rock piece faded away as the station cut to the news anchor. He rambled for a few minutes about local sports, road closures and community events. The next part, though, caught Max's full attention:

"It was three years ago when the freak twister wiped out the little coastal town of Arcadia Bay. But that storm overshadowed something even more sinister, a criminal operation that for months operated right under the residents' noses. Blackwell Academy art teacher and former renowned photographer Mark Jefferson was allegedly the perpetrator of a plot to drug unsuspecting teenage girls and assault and photograph them in compromising positions. One girl, whose name we are withholding out of respect for the victim's family, overdosed on the sedatives and passed away. Jefferson was arrested on October 16, 2013 in Portland, but escaped federal custody the next morning and has been on the run ever since. Recently, the FBI has announced that it has received tips from anonymous citizens that he may be back in the Portland area. The authorities are looking into every tip they get and closely surveilling the region. Jefferson is forty-one years old, five-foot-ten, and is believed to weigh one hundred sixty pounds with short brown hair and thick-framed glasses. If you see him, you are asked to call nine-one-one immediately. Residents are cautioned not to approach him under any circumstances. He is likely armed and definitely dangerous."

Max shut off the radio. "Whoa," she muttered aloud. She knew that tracking down anyone in this city is like finding a needle in a haystack, but if anyone could do it, it would be Jefferson. The time she and Chloe had spent fleeing from him had taught her never to underestimate his abilities.

After learning of the worrying news, Max tried to live as normally as she could, and not think about the dangerous fugitive that may be in town. She thought about telling her parents about the news report she had heard, but decided not to worry them. As planned weeks ago, she took a Saturday trip with a college friend out to the Columbia Gorge for some hiking and sightseeing. She had seen Multnomah falls more times than she could count, but it still never failed to take her breath away. Refreshed and relaxed, that night, Jefferson was the last thing on her mind as she drifted off into a deep slumber.

Almost as soon as she had fallen asleep, it felt, Max was awoken by a knock at her door. She groggily checked her bedside clock radio. 8:17 a.m. What could anybody possibly want with her this early on a Sunday?

Then it hit her. Oh, shit. She jerked awake. As much as she knew rationally that there was no way Jefferson could've known where she lived, her heart started pounding all the same. Phone in hand and ready to dial 9-1-1 at a moment's notice, a terrified Max slowly crept toward the door. There was another series of knocks, louder this time.

"Open up!" a voice commanded. "Open up! This is the police!"

Max tiptoed nervously toward the door. The police? What could they possibly want with her? This isn't about the Jefferson thing, is it? Is this guy really legit? She attached the chain on the door and opened it a crack. Standing on the other wise was a man of about thirty and a slim six feet tall.

"'Morning, miss. Sorry to interrupt you so early. I'm Officer Jennings of the PPB." He slipped his badge and ID through the door so Max could have a look. "Last night, there was a break-in and robbery in this building. Is it okay if I ask you some questions?"

Max breathed a sigh of relief. Of course this was a completely unrelated case; not everything revolved around her. "Of course," she said. "Just let me take off the chain."

After asking a few questions, Jennings got up and gave Max his card. After getting an assurance from Max to contact him should she remember anything else, the officer left. Max went back to bed, but couldn't sleep anymore. Even though it wasn't her apartment that got robbed, the incident reminded her of how vulnerable she could be in the face of a dangerous criminal.

The following day felt like any typical Monday for Max. As usual, she headed to the library after classes to study and work on her assignments. This time, however, she stayed much later than normal to work on her big term project. Unable to find a group to work with, she had had no choice but to undertake the assignment alone. By the time she got up from her seat in one corner of the quiet reading room, it was after eight p.m. Only a few students remained in the large space, hunched over their books and computers. Outside, it was dark, and Max couldn't see any sign of activity in the main quad.

She didn't feel like cooking that night, so Max walked to one of her favorite places on campus for a slice of pizza and a soda. The streets felt eerily quiet as she stepped out of the small restaurant, her hunger satiated. She headed for the light rail stop.

As Max walked through a particularly dark area of the campus, all of a sudden, she felt a large hand roughly clasp her mouth. Her assailant's other hand grabbed her by the arm. She tried to scream, but all that came out was a muffled hiss.