Who'll bear the lantern?
I, said the Crow,
Hang the lantern on my bough,
Shine on poor Cock Robin.

—

Heather Duke wished she hadn't turned down King David's offer of a date at Heather's funeral. David Harper, Remington College man. Deigning to choose little old her. She should have felt honored, but she hated the Remington parties and freaked out at the thought of any of those guys laying so much as a finger on her. Wrinkling her clothes, touching her skin, and worse. She wanted to vomit at the thought.

And she was through with vomiting.

David was fairly tall and muscular and played some sort of sport; she'd tuned Heather out when she boasted about him and had no idea which one. He could have protected her.

How funny, wasn't it? She was finally popular, the girl every news network in town and beyond wanted to talk to, the girl who told Heather McNamara and others what to do and they did it. And it was all going to be snatched away from her when Veronica and her asshole boyfriend murdered her. Probably because she knew their secret now.

She wished like hell she hadn't teased Veronica before. She'd known Heather McNamara's prediction referenced Veronica, but she'd pictured a quarrel and the sharp side of Veronica's tongue, some accident or Veronica just knowing more about the death than she let on. How stupid of her not to assume the worst. She couldn't go to the cops and say, 'My psychic powers, which are real, told me that Veronica and her filthy boyfriend are murderers and I'm their next target' - or could she?

She needed a bodyguard. She grabbed her lunch tray and made Heather McNamara come with her to sit with Kurt and Ram. They were the biggest and strongest guys on the football team, probably the biggest and strongest in Westerburg. Duke had known both boys since pre-kindergarten; vaguely remembered playing in sandpits with them and such. If you couldn't trust guys you'd known that long, who could you trust? And if anything about that rumor about Veronica's double date with Kurt and Ram and what she'd done with both of them was true, maybe she'd score a point in stealing Kurt away from Veronica.

"When's the next game?" Duke asked Kurt. "I can't wait to, like, cheer you on."

"Football season's over," she heard back. Duke stopped herself from flushing red like a little kid while Kurt and Ram laughed and high-fived each other at her ignorance.

"I think we should hang out more," Duke said. "Are you free tonight?"

She felt affronted to see the boys confer with each other, as if they weren't convinced her offer was the best possible one. They whispered Veronica's name and talked about Heather Number Three as if Duke couldn't hear them.

Duke hated it when people called the Heathers with numbers. Heather Chandler had always been Number One, Heather McNamara two, making Duke the pathetic last place winner. If Veronica had the same name as the rest of them, Duke thought she'd probably have been bumped up to the new number two. No one would dare to topple Heather Chandler from her pedestal as One. Duke thought of the note in her bedroom drawer, the one with 'If I Die Please Open This' written on it. She'd get her posthumous revenge if nothing else.

The boys turned back to her. "Sure, let's double," Kurt said. "Can you get us on TV?"

"Just - Ram, can we go somewhere nice instead of the way it was the other night?" Heather McNamara asked pleadingly.

"I'll tell you a secret," Duke said. "I think Veronica and her boyfriend might try pranking you guys, you know, like the way he got you on his first day of school. I don't think Veronica likes what you've said about her lately. All you guys have to do is be prepared, okay? And don't tell a single word to her."

Fragments of a plan began to slip into place. And Duke smiled and flirted at, after all, the promising prospect of a date with the most popular guy in Westerburg. It was fitting. She and Kurt would have a lovely long night together.

—

Heather Chandler felt like a movie star: big sunglasses to hide her face, anonymizing jeans and jacket and dyed hair. People barely looked at or noticed her, which she tried not to be annoyed at since she supposed it was what she wanted. She wished she wasn't on foot. Her wedge heels were starting to hurt.

That and the glass cuts on her face, and the bruises on her arms. Special abilities to heal such things would've come in handy.

She eventually hunted J.D. down in the Snappy Snack Shack, leaning against the wall with a bulging grocery bag and a slushie in hand, drinking like he wanted to give himself an excuse to stay longer.

"So is it you or your dad who gets off on the film of the demolition that killed your mom?" she said.

She saw a tightening grip, overstretched knuckles, narrowing eyes, and darkened face, a network of tensing muscle and veins under skin like a clay mask in the process of cracking open. Heather played him like she'd play a violin if she owned one. And if she actually knew how to play violin, as opposed to more interesting instruments. "You picked a public place for this. Smart choice," he grated.

"Don't flatter yourself," Heather said. "I'm actually not scared you'll fly into a misogynistic rage and strangle me to death. I'm a people person, I know these things."

"You're a sapient piranha," J.D. complimented her.

Heather mock-bowed. "Eat or be eaten."

But J.D. didn't seem disposed to keep talking. He froze up, looked away, and would've run if Heather hadn't blocked the only exit for him. So she elaborated further. "If all I knew of your dad was he yelled at you for a busted TV, who cares? Most parents would do that, except for mine, of course; they'd buy me a new one. But there's more to it than that. Those videos are fucked up. You ever watch the library one?"

His voice was quieter than she'd ever heard from him before, and broken down into fragments of sentences at a time. He still didn't dare to look at her. "Most of them are normal. Don't care. Don't need to watch. I was already there that time. I stay out of his way. It's fucked up and it's done. Makes no difference."

"It makes a difference all right. You should pay more attention," Heather needled. "I could help you, for the right price, of course. Speaking of attention, you're in deep shit."

Truth be told, Heather was herself discomfited to see her ex-best friend Veronica, her fucking betraying murdering traitor best friend, walking into the Snappy Snack Shack. No doubt darling Veronica had come in quest of her errant boyfriend, the boyfriend that Heather had distracted away from her. Heather bent down and pretended to look at the dairy-free cheese squeezes, like she was just another stranger who definitely wasn't talking to the weirdo in black over there.

But Veronica had always had brains. She saw Heather. She dropped her cherry stick, then and there. Two and two added up to four-and-a-half.

"Heather?"