"It doesn't pay to make predictions
Sleeping on an unmade bed
Finding out wherever there is comfort there is pain
Only one step away
Like four seasons in one day"
— Crowded House

"I don't understand," said Mark Jefferson. It was Wednesday morning, the 28th of May, and instead of giving the soon-to-be graduating students career counseling, here he was sitting in the principal's office like a schoolboy called to the carpet.

Principal Wells stared back at him, the obvious line between his brows dismantling all attempts at a neutral expression. Should've known it was serious; bald bastard greeted me at the door without even a whiff of brandy on him.

"It's a temporary measure," Wells finally stated. "Only until this issue dies down."

"Principal Wells, you must know that Ms. Watson's allegations are..." Jefferson grasped for words. "Baseless and without merit, dismissed almost two decades ago. At best, they're the misguided attempts of a young reporter tilting at windmills. At worst, she's instigating a witch-hunt!" He leaned forward. "To put me on administrative leave now is to cast doubt on my innocence and harm my reputation. I beg you—please reconsider!"

He realized he was drumming his heels rapidly on the carpet, and forced himself to stop.

If Wells noticed, he gave no sign. Steepling his fingers on the desk, he said, "It's not that simple, nor is the decision entirely up to me. The Board of Trustees has debated the matter after several parents raised concerns—"

"I'm not accused of any crime!"

"No, you're not. Not yet."

Jefferson looked back at him, stunned. "W-what are you saying?"

Wells sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Mr. Jefferson, I happen to be a good friend of Megan's father, Jared Weaver. We used to teach in the same academy, and I know him to be a man of sound judgment.

"After he read Ms. Watson's article, he went and found his daughter's diary. He didn't share the contents with me, but he was quite emphatic in saying that the allegations against you need...serious investigation. That diary is now on its way to the police."

Jefferson's hand tightened around the armrests.

Wells laid his palms against his desk, like he meant to launch himself at Jefferson. "Do you understand the gravity of all this, Mr. Jefferson? As we speak, Ms. Watson's article is being picked up and circulated by Oregon news outlets—and likely beyond. So until you're fully cleared, I need you to keep a low profile. Like you, this school has a reputation to protect."

"I'd like to speak with Sean Prescott," Jefferson said, sotto voce.

"Mr. Prescott is seeing to Nathan, who is on medical leave. He asked not to be disturbed and has left the matter to the Board. This is what we've decided." Wells leaned back in his chair. "You should probably collect your things and go home, Mr. Jefferson. And please be warned—reporters will soon be knocking on your door. I suggest not talking to them. I also suggest getting a good lawyer."

Jefferson stalked out of the principal's office, shaking with fury. His feet led him into the main lobby, and he looked neither left nor right as he headed for his office down the hall. Milling students parted for him as he passed. Perhaps bad news and good gossip travel faster than the sparrow flies.

(Crow. You mean as the crow flies.)

Several students looked at him askance, but here and there, he spied a look of glee.

All this because of that meddling cunt Juliet Watson! If I ever get my hands on her—

But there's no getting rid of her now. If something were to happen to her, I'd be the first suspect! I have no choice—demeaning as it sounds, I need Prescott's backing to survive this —

Prescott. Jefferson halted before his door as he fully realized his predicament.

If I'm useless to him now, what reason does he have to keep me around? If he knew that the diary was with the police, would he consider me a liability? Would he make me disappear?

Suddenly, the walls around him had crept closer. He wiped absently at the cold sweat on his brow. Would someone be waiting at his home, gun in hand, ready to bury him at sea?

He had to leave Arcadia Bay. Escape now; plan later. First to the Dark Room to collect his things. Then, disappear.

Without another glance at his office, Jefferson turned and fled to the exit.

Juliet could hardly believe her ears when she heard the news. She had to ask Alyssa to repeat it, slowly.

Grinning, the other girl took her by the shoulders. "Wells. Suspended. Jefferson. We won't be seeing him starting today."

"You're absolutely, positively sure?" Juliet demanded.

"This has gotta be the first time I got a scoop ahead of you. Totes sure, Jules. I got the lowdown straight from Well's secretary, Delores. She's typing up the formal announcement like, right now." She squeezed Juliet's shoulders. "Good job taking a bad guy down, Xtreme Reporter. Now, I gotta go tell Stella."

Juliet realized she was shaking as she hurried down the hallway. She thought this would be a brutal, protracted war; she'd never expected things to move this fast. But the parents—the parents' fear for their kids had won the day.

And I lit the match for that powder keg! If only I could've seen his face!

Brimming with triumph, she shoved the main doors open and stepped into the late morning sunshine. At the bottom of the front steps, Hayden and Warren sat together talking.

Spotting her, Hayden cracked a smile and jumped to his feet. "We just heard something friggin' amazing!"

"Is it true?" Warren asked, getting up as well. "Jefferson's really gone?"

Screeching in laughter, Juliet threw her arms around them. "We got him, boys!"

"For real?!" Hayden laughed, lifting her off her feet with his hug.

Warren grinned as he rubbed the back of his head. "I can't believe it. Both Nathan and Jefferson, out of Blackwell."

"And everyone's safe!" Juliet added. "Now that people know, those two are toast! We're so fucking awesome!"

"We gotta celebrate!" Hayden announced. "I'm throwing an after-school party at my place, and the whole crew's gotta be there! Let's round up the others!"

They found Kate quickly enough in the music room, practicing the Polovtsian Dances. She had barely put her violin down when Juliet took her by the shoulders and told her the news.

"Oh, thank Jesus!" Hands on her heart, Kate jumped up and down, annoying every other musician in the room.

"Hey!" Warren called from the door. "Let's go get Brooke!"

They tore through the campus towards the dormitory. And even before Juliet could reach for the knob of the front doors, they opened and Brooke was standing there, wearing a rare, slanted smile.

"Heard all about it on the Blackwell forums," she said. "Glad they booted his ass. Good job, Watson."

If the news could tempt this hermit crab out of her room, Juliet knew she'd made it. Laughing, she pulled Brooke into a hug, and for once the girl didn't resist.

"We're gonna throw a victory party at Hayden's after school!" Juliet declared. "You're coming with!"

Brooke looked like she'd been asked to chop onions. "Forget it. I gotta keep working on decrypting that file—"

"No excuses! You're going if we have to drag you there!"

"Heya, what's got you guys so worked up?"

Juliet looked up to see Dana coming down the hall towards them. Sweet, beautiful, innocent Dana, who had no idea what she and the rest of the crew had gone through this past month.

Releasing Brooke, she threw her arms around her bewildered bestie. "Girl, you gotta come to our party after classes! I've got loads to tell you!"

But first, Juliet grabbed her phone, dialed Rachel's number, and waited for her to pick up.

She waited a long time.

The day had not been kind to Sean Prescott.

He weighed his options as he sat behind the desk of his enormous study. The news article had, admittedly, blindsided him. He chided himself for not paying attention, but supervising the Theater and seeing to his son's health had proved too distracting. If he'd known, he'd have shut down the reporter and the publisher before they had the chance to go to print.

Now there was talk of the police getting involved. Skinner had messaged him earlier to say that even the FBI had taken note, connecting the dots between missing girls in places Jefferson had taught. It was an unmitigated disaster.

Sean emptied his lungs as he sank deeper into his chair. He missed smoking.

With Jefferson's mantle of respectability gone, it was time to cut and cut cleanly. Jefferson was now a threat to be neutralized lest the law caught him first. He gave Skinner the order before turning his attention to other matters.

He was reading the doctor's report on Nathan's condition when his phone rang. Not the cellphone in his pocket, no; the hidden one, in the false bottom of the empty chest in his bookcase.

Sean didn't hesitate to retrieve it, but neither did he hurry. Only one man would call that phone, and Sean knew why. He'd long formulated and rehearsed his answers, but one could only prepare so much for this conversation.

He picked up the phone. "Hello, Mr. Morten."

The voice on the other end was deep, sonorous, and dark. "Mr. Prescott, wonderful to speak with you again. I take it that the weather in Arcadia Bay is pleasant this time of year?"

"It's nothing to complain about." Sean derided small talk, but he also knew that wasting time was the privilege of the rich and mighty. Men like Henrik Morten, if that was even his real name.

"Excellent. It's surely an improvement over Norway, where spring can still seem like winter. But such is life, the good with the bad."

"Quite." Sean cleared his throat, wondering if this was enough chit-chat. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Morten?"

"Yes, to business. I don't get bad news often, Mr. Prescott, but when I do, I act on it quickly. I've received unsettling reports from our data center. It seems someone has managed to breach our digital fortress."

A tremor pulsed through Sean's chest. The laptop. "Was anything stolen?"

"The perpetrator managed to copy several files. They are well encrypted, but highly critical. They contain details on the Bacchanalia."

"Unfortunate. I take it you've traced the culprit."

"We are close. The trail led to a cyber-criminal from Arizona. We've since interrogated him and have ascertained he was just an accomplice. He doesn't know the perpetrator's true identity—few in their line of work do. But he did share something interesting—his own trace told him that this person lives in Oregon. Your state, Mr. Prescott."

Sean realized that he was walking—prowling around his study, as if he were knocking down invisible fences penning him in. "That seems a mere coincidence."

"In our line of work, coincidences are signs. Coincidences are divine messengers that we ignore at our peril." There was the sound of shuffling paper. "I decided to have a look at Oregon—specifically, your town. Check the weather, you might say. And what should I see from our satellite's eye? A Theater, right in the heart of Arcadia Bay's forest."

Sean paused by the tall windows to compose himself. "I see."

"This, Mr. Prescott, is a clear violation of our trust. When we inducted you into Dionysus, we expected your full loyalty and adherence to our laws."

"I did not order the hack," Sean replied in measured tones. "I admit that I had the Theater constructed. You're aware by now it's already near completion, so I would have no need for further information about it. As for my reasons, I discovered that the witch is active once more in Arcadia Bay. My life was in danger, and I couldn't wait for Dionysus's consent. That's why I forged ahead with the Theater."

"You employed one of our builders to construct it? Mr. Edward Burrows, correct?"

"Yes."

"We haven't been able to contact him for several days now."

"Here's what I know. On the night of May 11th, Saturday, someone broke into the construction site and stole Burrows's laptop. We believe this was the witch's doing. Burrows got nervous and fled. He may have gone off-grid, or perhaps the witch got him."

Morten said nothing for a moment. "Regardless," he said, "we will find Burrows soon enough. As for this theft..."

"I assure you I provided adequate security."

"The best money can buy, I'm sure. But this is no ordinary burglary. It is indeed likely the Incarnate is on to you."

"She is targeting me, Mr. Morten. I hope we won't minimize the danger I face."

"Oh, calm yourself, Mr. Prescott. We are of Dionysus. It's unseemly to tremble before such beings, not after what we've accomplished over the years. The matter will be dealt with.

"Now, how far along are you with the construction of the Theater?"

Prescott mentally calculated. "It will be finished within two weeks' time."

"Well and good. Then we must hasten to find this Incarnate and ensure our plans move forward. Dionysus will assist you. The Twins are now en route to Arcadia Bay."

For a moment, an icy hand wrapped itself around Sean's heart. "Mr. Morten, this town is under my authority—we had an agreement."

"You will run your town as you like, Mr. Prescott. My associates will simply help find the Incarnate before she can do any further harm. They will neutralize the hacker and recover our lost assets. As you Americans would say, it's win-win."

"I need assurance that I will retain full control here."

There was a soft sigh from the other end; Sean felt the tiniest crack of thinning ice beneath him.

"Mr. Prescott, do understand that this entire matter could have been avoided had you been more forthcoming. I have not forgotten that we need you in this endeavor, even as you need us. But all actions have consequences, and now you see, extreme actions invite dire consequences. We will have our Bacchanalia. Whether you will be part of it is up to you.

"Shall I expect your full cooperation when the Twins arrive?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. Then neither of us has anything to worry about. Enjoy your day, Mr. Prescott. From one cup we drink."

"Hail Dionysus."

Sean slipped the phone into his pocket and stared out the window. He thought he could reason with Mr. Morten, but he was wrong. That velvet glove he'd been offered concealed a mailed fist.

From the window, he had a clear view of his garden. Nathan was lying on the bench, his head on his mother's lap while she read him a book. The doctors had allowed him to come home after a week of intense observation, citing that rest would be good for his state of mind. Watching him, Sean was once again reminded that his boy was far from what could be deemed a Prescott.

But then, he too had once been like Nathan—was far worse, even. And he'd conquered his weaknesses. So by whatever means, he would shape his son into the man he needed to be. Their future depended on it.

Beyond the garden wall, he spied the roofs of the houses and shops that made up Arcadia Bay. His family's town, handed down through generations. Every inch of it paid for by Prescott blood.

And Morten thinks he can send his thugs to tell me what to do? Here, in my home?

"We'll see about that."

"Chloe, are you here?"

David stormed up the steps till got to Chloe's door, then rapped his fist against it a few times. "Chloe, I'm coming in, and you'd better—"

He threw the door open to reveal a tossed, dust-covered room, closet open and bed disheveled, but no Chloe. Fuming, he stepped through to look for some sign that his step-daughter had snuck in, perhaps even a clue to her whereabouts. But he found no trace of either her or the laptop, nothing but the slant of afternoon sun turning the dust into fool's gold.

David grit his teeth. He had loads of questions for Chloe, starting with if she had anything to do with that Photography teacher getting benched from Blackwell. That guy seemed pretty close to Prescott—was he the drug mule? He'd asked Chloe, but she never once answered his messages.

Then there was the matter of the stolen laptop and the drug list. Chloe owed him a lot for his silence and now she was days past their deadline.

He turned at the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. "David?" Joyce called. "Is Chloe back?" Joyce came to stand at the threshold, looking about in mute dismay.

David shook his head. "I don't know what else I have to do to get through to her, Joyce. Every time I think we're making progress, she does something to set it all back. Nothing works."

"She gets that stubbornness from me, I'm sorry to say," his wife replied.

"But it isn't right, what she's doing. She needs to come home. She can't keep worrying you—worrying us like this." He faced the window to look out into the street below. "I wish I could make her see the harm she's doing. But I don't know how else I can keep her under control."

Joyce came to stand beside him and laid a hand on his arm. "I don't know either, and I'm her mother. But remembering how I was when I was a young 'un, maybe it hasn't to do with control."

"What do you mean?"

"Try to grab a handful of sand, it just flows through the cracks in your grip. But if you let it sit on your palm, it stays. David, maybe you've gripped Chloe a bit too tightly. Nothin' you tried's worked, right? Maybe it's time you tried somethin' else."

"Like what? Letting her do as she likes? She'll end up in jail or worse, Joyce."

His wife shook her head. "Chloe already does whatever she likes, despite what we've done. But there's one thing you haven't tried, David. You haven't trusted her to do what's right."

"Trust? How can I trust her if she keeps pulling stunts like this?"

"I know my daughter well enough to know when she's going through a rough patch, and given Rachel's silence, I reckon it's the same with her."

"So you're saying we should just wait and see?"

"Wait and trust, David. Trust that Chloe's working through whatever she's working through. It's the only thing you haven't tried."

David shook his head in bewilderment. He had no idea where to begin with trust, something that he'd always thought had to be earned, not given.

One thing was certain: whatever trouble Chloe bought with that laptop, she was in over her head. And at some point, it would come down to him and Joyce to bail her out.

Max sat quietly on their living room couch, one hand clenched into a tight ball on her lap, her phone all but fused to her ear, doing her best to ignore her parents and grandparents chatting over ice cream in the kitchen. This was the second time she'd tried calling Rachel today; she'd lost count of how many times she'd called and messaged both her and Chloe over the weekend—to no avail. She'd never imagined how being ignored by them could drive her to tears.

But every time she picked up her phone to try again, hope fluttered in her chest. Maybe this time. Maybe.

Her heart leaped when the line stopped ringing and Rachel's voice came through. "Hello, Max." Her voice sounded low and hoarse, like she'd been smoking too much. But after days of silence, to Max it was like talking to an angel.

"Rachel! Oh, thank God you picked up. How are you?"

There was a long pause, followed by a dry, empty laugh. "About as well as you can expect, I guess?"

"Rachel," Max said gently, "please talk to me. What happened?"

"Everything that could possibly go wrong, did." Rachel let out a long, slow breath. "You get to say I told you so, Max."

"I don't want to say that. I just want you two to be okay."

"We're not, Max. We're very not okay. We haven't talked since that night."

"Okay." Max drew in a breath and released it. "I think we can turn this around, Rachel. You've been together three years. I'm sure you can get through this."

Again that empty laugh. It hurt Max to hear it, knowing it was rooted in Rachel's suffering. Something Max wished she could reach with her hands, to hold and heal.

"Max, I don't think that's going to work. Things are different this time. I found out—"

"Rachel, it's Chloe. She's the kindest, most loyal person there is—"

"Is she really, Max? Is she? Sometimes it's like I don't know her."

Max shook her head, forgetting Rachel couldn't see her. "You do. I know you're hurting, and yes, Chloe can be stubborn, but she's also forgiving. Take it from someone who left her for five years—she still took me back. And remember, she learns about all this six months from now, but she never stops looking for you.

"You guys have to start talking again. You have to open up. I want to help, but you have to take the first step, Rachel."

Silence from the other end.

"Rachel," Max cajoled. "We need her. You need her. We can't do this without her."

Finally, Rachel said, "I'll try, Max. For these last three years, I'll try."

Chloe squinted at the rearview mirror of her parked truck, examining her face closely. Her left eye, which by all rights should still be a lumpy, black and blue mess, was now the faded yellow of water-stained paper. The ache from her ribs had vanished—she could twist her body around without trouble. The bump on her head when she fell on the pavement—gone like it was never there. Even her knuckles no longer sported the cuts and bruises she got from punching Frank.

She had no explanation for it—a week hadn't even gone by, yet most of her injuries had healed. And she'd never been a fast healer. The one time she broke her wrist took three months to mend. Maybe the beating she took wasn't as bad as she thought?

Not that I could tell from when I was taking it, she thought, leaning back on the driver's seat and resting her eyes. Best not to dwell on it. Got bigger fish to fry today.

That fish was Rachel's first and only attempt at contact in days, a text that said: We should talk.

The message almost drove Chloe to bite down on her hand again. When she didn't reply for a long time, another message came in: For Max.

Fucking dirty trick, Chloe seethed. She fired back: 1 hour, lighthouse parking lot. They wanted her to talk, fine. But they'd regret it.

The late afternoon sun was almost touching the treeline as she sat and waited in the parking lot. The air was quiet and still, the silence broken intermittently by distant traffic and the rattle of a passing train. Chloe hated the silence; it made her thoughts that much louder.

It had been a hard, hateful few days alone, but she would have preferred it no other way. After her encounter with Frank, she had managed to drive herself to the edge of Culmination Park before she couldn't take it anymore. She had stopped her truck inside the park's entrance before passing out from agony and exhaustion.

The eastern mountains were turning pre-dawn pink when she woke up. She discovered she could open her injured eye. Her ribs still ached when turned but at least it no longer hurt to breathe. She managed to pick herself up and drive home.

It was only when she sat on her bed, wan and bleary-eyed, that she realized there was no way in hell she could stay. She couldn't face her mother with a black eye and a burst lip. She couldn't face David without the laptop or Frank's drug list.

She couldn't even lie in her own bed, not when the sheets carried that familiar sweet jasmine scent. Rachel's scent. All these years, that smell that greeted her each time she laid her head on her pillow had faded to the back of her mind. Now it stood out like a sleep demon, driving away any chance for rest.

No, she couldn't stay here. She packed up some clothes, grabbed her stash, and left.

Staying in the junkyard was again out of the question—every memento screamed Rachel's name, every corner housed her shadow. The couch bent under the weight of memories—torrid kisses, hands stealing into each other's shorts, Rachel's urgent whispers: "I'm yours, I'm yours."

Chloe slammed her head against the steering wheel to stop the memory.

So no, not the hideout. Not the Aerie, not their secret beach. Chloe wound up here, in the parking lot of a tourist trap that hardly anyone goes to anymore. But even then, she knew she couldn't stay here long—she was almost out of cash, food, and bottled water.

For the nth time this week, Chloe found herself wishing Max was here. Max would know what to do, would cajole, plead, bribe, or threaten her to take care of herself. Max would make her feel wanted again.

But then, Max had taken Rachel's side. Max had kept an ugly secret from her—and for what? Because her best friend thought so little of her that she wouldn't be able to handle the truth? Like she was some little kid they had to pacify with lies?

I shouldn't have agreed to meet, Choe thought, even if it's for Max. But the possibility of never seeing Max's face again terrified her beyond words.

She thought of smoking a joint, then decided against it. She needed a clear head if she was confronting Rachel.

It was six in the evening when the wind suddenly picked up, forcing Chloe to grab her beanie to keep it from flying off her head. Annoyed, she looked out the driver's side window to see Rachel standing in the middle of the parking lot, some ten feet away.

For those first few moments, silence stretched between them. Rachel had her hair down, strands of it still blowing in the wind. She wore her army jacket from the last time they met, her hands stuffed into its pockets and the zipper up to ward off the chill. Her gaze stayed neutral, but her lips formed a hard, grim line, and though Chloe hated every inch of her, she also ached to hold her in her arms, to kiss her and ease that stern mouth. She gritted her teeth and swallowed that desire down.

"Took you long enough," Chloe spat. "You stop to suck him off first or what?"

Even as she said it, she wanted to grab the words from midair and stuff them back into her mouth. A flicker of pain surfaced in Rachel's gaze then submerged just as quickly.

"I told you," she replied. "I broke it off with Frank a long time ago."

"Wow, that's so considerate of you. I'm touched."

"I didn't want to hurt you, Chloe."

"Really?" Chloe slid out of the driver's seat to face Rachel fully. "News flash: we're not here because of what you want, Rachel. We got here because of what you did."

"I didn't come here to fight either."

"I don't really care why you came here."

Rachel pulled in a deep breath. "I want to talk. About everything that happened. I want to listen to what you have to say, and there are some things I want to say, too. I want to clear the air before things get any worse."

I want. The words burned inside Chloe's ears, and her response came boiling out of her.

"I want, I want!" Chloe repeated savagely. "FUCK WHAT YOU WANT! You got everything you ever asked for! You got your cheap drugs. You got a whole town kissing your ass. You got Max eating out of your hand. You got Frank wrapped around your fucking finger. You wanted everyone to love you, and they did! For three years, you played your games without giving a shit about the consequences. Well, Rachel, play stupid games, win stupid prizes. I'm so fucking sick of what you want, I'm sick of your act, and I'm sick of you!"

Chloe paused to catch her breath, and she saw, at last, the end of Rachel's patience; her nostrils flared, eyes lit up like stoked embers, but her voice remained low as she said, "Is that why you lied about my mother all this time?"

For a moment, Chloe thought she misheard. "I—what?"

"You heard me." Rachel approached, her words in cadence with her steps. "You met my mom. You knew what my dad did. And you kept it from me."

She pulled her right hand out of her pocket and held out a piece of paper. Chloe didn't want to take it; it felt like it was laced with poison. But her hand acted on its own again, snatching the letter and opening it up.

Dear Frank,

Please burn this letter once you've finished reading.

Thank you for saving Chloe and me from Damon. I can never repay you for that bravery nor can I truly understand your loss.

I'm going away now. Either I beat this dragon or it beats me, but I won't do it here, not where my daughter can see.

She's in a good place; I won't snatch that away. It's the last thing I can do as a mother—even if it's just an illusion, people can never be happy without lies, can they? I spoke to Chloe and asked her not to tell Rachel what James did here. I want to ask the same of you: please, keep this a secret. I have no way to pay you; I can only ask for your mercy.

James thought to inject me with enough heroin to get me addicted again. Good on him, he understands addiction. What he never understood was my resolve.

Thank you for all you've done. For believing in me. You're a good man and a good friend.

Sincerely,

Sera

The letter fell from Chloe's nerveless fingers. It had been a year since she'd last thought of Sera, had finally buried the memory in the back of her head. Now a hole was gaping in her guts, and suddenly she wanted to be anywhere but here, doing anything but having this conversation.

A breeze caught the letter before it touched the ground and brought it back to Rachel's hand.

"There was one thing I both wanted and needed, Chloe," she said. "To meet my mother. To understand her reasons for doing what she did. And you let my dad take that from me. You helped him."

She refolded the letter and put it back in her jacket pocket, not once taking her eyes from Chloe. "You made me think my mother chose to abandon me all over again. You let me believe my father was a good man. You let me live in his house for three—whole—years! Why?"

Chloe pulled herself together long enough to come up with a reply. "Isn't it obvious?" she shot back. "I was sparing you what I went through! I did it because I cared!"

"You kept all that from me because you thought it was what's best for me? Do you know how fucking condescending that is? Like I can't choose my life for myself?"

"Do you know what it's like to live without your dad?"

"Do you know what it's like to live with my dad? He chose everything for me, Chloe. My home, my friends, my college, my future—everything according to what he wants! He wanted my mom out of the picture you and let him do it! What, did he pay you off?"

Chloe roared back, "I didn't do any of this for him, I did it for you! I did it so you'd be happy! Which was a waste of my time, because you're never happy with anything! Nothing's ever enough for you—I'm not enough for you! Which I guess is why you had to go find someone else to fuck!"

"It wasn't supposed to go that far with Frank—it was a business deal and it got out of hand! I was trying to earn us a way out of this shithole!"

"What, I'm supposed to be grateful you did that? You and your fucking stories! So that's why we didn't leave Arcadia Bay? So you could screw your way through a bag of dicks first and grab their cash before ditching this whole place and me with it?"

"At least I tried to get us out of here! And don't even start with me not wanting to leave. You didn't even give a shit anymore. You came up with every retarded excuse to make us stay—everything from me finishing school to you keeping your job!"

"Excuse me for being a burden! What, did you think I got a job because I was bored? One of us had to earn some honest cash so we could go, and it sure as hell wasn't you!"

"And you say I've got fucking stories! You used that job as a reason to stay. Every time I tried to talk about leaving you always changed the subject! You never planned to leave—you never wanted to leave! You're so married to your memories here—you didn't want to let go of Arcadia Bay even though you were drowning in it! You were all talk, Chloe! What, did you think that Max would come save you someday? Is that why you didn't want to go? You were waiting for her to come back for you, is that it?"

"Don't you bring Max into this! You manipulated her like you did everyone else! You better take a long hard look at yourself, Rachel, 'coz you've wound up just like your dad!"

Rachel's single sharp laugh was like a dagger turned on herself. "That's rich coming from someone who lied for him for three years. What about my mom, Chloe? How do you know she's not dead from an overdose? What if she died alone and I never even got the chance to meet her?"

"She didn't want to be found, Rachel!"

"Would you have ever told me? Or would you have kept my dad's secret forever? Would I have lived my whole life never knowing my dad was a criminal?"

"Would you have told me about Frank?!"

Thunder cracked above them, the voice of an angry god. A brief glance told Chloe that, throughout their conversation, dark clouds had gathered above the town, promising rain and long, cold nights ahead.

Chloe's gaze fell back to Rachel. "How could you do this to me?" she whispered brokenly. "I had nobody on my side but you. I trusted you." She dropped her chin, hair hiding her eyes. "I let you inside me, for fuck's sake. "

"I—" Rachel swallowed, seemingly unable to complete her thoughts. What more could she say?

"I know I fucked up," Rachel finally said. "I was going to come clean after we'd finished things with Jefferson and Prescott. I promised Max I would. She isn't to blame. After all my mistakes, I—"

"Mistakes?" Chloe raised her head, eyes turning sleek. "What do you mean, 'mistakes?'"

Again, Rachel fell silent, her gaze falling to her shoes—completely unlike her. Chloe felt the hairs on her neck stand on end. She straightened up. "Who else was there?"

"Chloe, it didn't go far—"

"WHO ELSE, RACHEL?"

Rachel took a breath. When she finally raised her eyes to meet Chloe's, her cheeks were ashen, and tears stood in her eyes.

"Jefferson."

The world swayed. All the strength drained from Choe's legs as she reached for the truck behind her to stay on her feet. Rachel's face was blurring before her, and again her stomach roiled with bile. Of all people—Jefferson?

"Who the fuck are you, Rachel?" she whispered. "I don't even know you. Three goddamn years together and I don't know you."

"You and me both," Rachel said, her voice cracking. When she shrugged, that tiny movement finally caused the tears to spill down her face. "I guess this makes us just two more liars in Arcadia Bay."

"Yeah," Chloe whispered, shutting her eyes as her own tears fell. "I guess so."

She could hear her own pulse in the silence that followed. Neither of them moved as the minutes lengthened. Both understood that if they spoke, it would be the end. No more secrets to spill, no more stories to tell. Nothing but the unknown, terrifying days ahead without each other.

But still, it had to end.

"So," Chloe said, fighting the hitch in her breath. "That's it, then."

"Yeah, that's it." Rachel nodded, and Chloe saw that, for all her lies, those tears at least were real. "Goodbye, Chloe."

Rachel turned and walked away, leaving her alone in the parking lot. The seabirds called one more time before flying out past the lighthouse, and a deep hush fell as the clouds converged upon Arcadia Bay.