RACHEL

There was a break-in at The Gardens. Someone—or something—broke in, got into some of the exhibits, and disappeared without taking anything. Cassie's mom is completely baffled. I try not to think about it too much.

Other than that, it's been a quiet but tense few days. We've spent most of the time combing the woods, checking abandoned buildings—anywhere David could be camping out. He's elusive, and we still don't have a clue where he's hiding.

Marco's been giving me those looks—the kind that make me want to hide, to shrink away. I'm not ready to face him yet.

Cassie's been extra supportive. She's always there, always listening, always understanding. Her warm eyes are always full of reassurance, and her presence has a calming effect, like her gentle hands are trying to hold me together when I feel like I might break. I'm lucky to have her as a friend, but it doesn't make me feel any less guilty. I can't shake the feeling that I've let everyone down,

What is David planning? When will we know?

On top of everything else, today's the first day of school. Senior year. I should be excited, looking forward to my last year of high school. Prom, graduation, all those milestones that are supposed to matter. But it just feels like one more thing on the ever-growing pile of everything I'm juggling—like another thing I have to pretend to care about when it feels so far from the reality I'm living.

I get ready on autopilot, not really feeling the excitement. My fingers move through the motions—slipping on my clothes, brushing my hair into place—but it all feels distant. I force a smile for my mom while she gushes about how this is my last first day of school. Her voice wavers with emotion, and her hands flutter around her face like she might cry. She's practically in tears, all proud of her little girl.

Oh, Mom, if only you knew what your little girl was really up to.

How I might not even make it through senior year alive. The weight of it presses down on me, and I shove it aside, trying to focus on the day ahead.

The high school's not far from home, and since I don't have a car, I usually walk. Normally, I walk with Marco—if he doesn't sleep in and make us both late. But I don't even know if he'll want to today.

To my surprise, when I step out the front door, Marco's already sitting on his porch, waiting. His long legs are stretched out in front of him, elbows resting casually on his knees, eyes on the street like he's been there a while. Was he waiting for me? The thought hits me suddenly, and my heart gives a little lurch, a mix of nervousness and something else—something I don't want to admit.

I start walking toward him, the weight of the morning heavy in my chest. When he looks over and catches my eyes, that instant connection makes my stomach flip. It's like nothing's changed, even though everything else feels different. I try to push the nerves building in my chest—the apology I've been avoiding. It's hard for me to do, especially now.

He stands up and stretches, and for a moment, I just watch him, my thoughts swirling. Marco raises an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "First day and you're already late? Tsk, tsk, Blondie," he teases, the familiar lilt in his voice making something twist in my chest.

I roll my eyes, but a small, reluctant smile pulls at my lips. It feels… normal. For a second, the weight of everything—David, the danger, the argument—fades into the background.

"You know I like to make an entrance," I reply, trying to keep my voice light, but the guilt still gnaws at me, biting at the edges of my words.

"As you should," Marco answers, his tone teasing but warm. "It's not every day you grace us mere mortals with your glorious presence." He pauses, eyes flicking over me as if trying to measure something unspoken between us.

I laugh, but it comes out a little too quick, a little too relieved. It's not much, but it feels like a small, fragile step in the right direction—toward something that isn't the tension that's been hanging between us for days.

We start walking toward school, side by side. The silence feels thick, like there's a weight between us—too many things unsaid, too much left hanging. The breeze stirs the leaves in the trees, and the hum of distant traffic filters through the quiet. Our backpacks thump gently with each step, a steady reminder of the heaviness between us, of everything we haven't said yet.

"Look, Marco, I—"

"Rach, I want—"

We speak at the same time, and then stop, both of us awkwardly glancing at each other.

"Sorry, you go—"

"Oh, you first—"

This is ridiculous. Why are we so awkward? It's never been like this before.

I feel the heat rising in my cheeks, the words stuck behind a lump in my throat. I don't know why it feels so hard to say. But I can't keep avoiding it.

"Marco, I…" My voice falters, and I hesitate, swallowing the knot in my stomach. This is harder than I thought. But I can't put it off any longer. I draw in a slow breath, trying to steady myself. "I'm sorry. I've been an idiot. I let David get into my head, and I listened to everything he said without thinking about how it was affecting the people who care about me. I pushed you away when I should've stayed close. I should've trusted the team—and you—more."

There's a long pause. My heart beats louder in my chest as I wait for him to say something, anything. But I can't look at him. Not yet. I keep my gaze straight ahead, hoping the weight of my words won't collapse the fragile bridge I'm trying to build.

Finally, Marco speaks, his voice quieter than usual, almost… hesitant. "Rach, I'm sorry, too. I was a jerk. I yelled at you, I blamed you, and I shouldn't have. You didn't deserve that. I was frustrated about everything, and instead of being there for you, I just… lost it. I said things I didn't mean. Things that weren't even true. This isn't your fault. David isn't your fault. I should've listened. I shouldn't have let it go that far."

I feel the guilt settle deeper in my chest, like a weight I can't shake off, but it's also a relief. He's not still angry, not the way I feared. He's just been hurt, too.

"No, Marco, you were right," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "He manipulated me, he lied to me, and I guess… part of me knew that. I knew something wasn't right and I should've stopped it, but I didn't. And I can give you a hundred excuses, but honestly? I was just stupid. I got caught up in everything David was telling me, all his lies. I thought I could help him, but I should've known better. I should've been more cautious. I'm sorry I didn't see that sooner. You were right. I was wrong."

There's another long pause, one that stretches between us, but the tension feels different now. It's not gone, not entirely, but it's softened, like the air before a storm breaks. I know it won't be fixed in one conversation, but it's a start. One small, fragile step toward putting things right.

Marco clears his throat, and then his voice shifts, light and teasing, the kind of tone he always uses when things get too serious. "Rach," he says, "I need to record this day in history. Rachel Berenson admitting that she's wrong and I'm right? That's a once-in-a-lifetime event."

I know him too well to not see this coming. He's always been the one to turn to humor when things get heavy, and I can't help but shake my head, a smile tugging at my lips despite myself.

He pulls an imaginary notepad out of his pocket, mimicking the motion of writing. "Let's see… August 23, 1999: Witnessed the impossible. Rachel confirmed Marco was right. Alerted the press."

I roll my eyes, but laughter bubbles up. "Oh, please. Are you done?"

"Not even close," he grins, completely unfazed. "This is groundbreaking stuff. Future generations will want to know exactly what happened. I'll have to do interviews, write a memoir—The Day Rachel Listened. Maybe even a miniseries."

I laugh, shaking my head. "Yeah, well, don't get used to it. It's never happening again."

His grin widens. "Oh, I know. That's why I'm savoring it."

I don't know how he does it, but I can feel the biggest smile I've had in months stretching across my face. It feels strange, but good—like I'm remembering how to feel human again.

Marco looks lighter too, like some invisible weight has lifted off his shoulders. His usual sharp wit is still there, but his brown eyes are softer now, less guarded. There's a quiet strength in him now that wasn't always there. He nudges my shoulder playfully, and I feel a warmth spread through me at the contact—simple, but familiar.

We walk on for a few more steps, the awkwardness between us starting to fade. It's not fixed, not yet, but maybe this is the beginning of something better. Maybe we can both heal from this—together.

As we round the corner to the school, we both stop dead in our tracks. The front lawn is packed with students, more than you'd normally see even before the first bell. Everyone's talking at once, their voices blending into a dull roar of confusion and excitement.

For a moment, we just stand there, processing.

"What's going on?" I mutter, scanning the crowd. There's a buzz in the air, like everyone knows something big happened.

Marco squints toward the front of the building. "Looks like someone threw a party and forgot to invite us."

We push through the throng of students, and I catch snippets of conversation.

"—the whole place is trashed—"

"—never seen anything like it—"

"—said they spray-painted the walls—"

I grab the arm of a girl walking past. "What happened?"

She glances at me, eyes wide with a mix of shock and exhilaration. "Someone broke in last night and totally wrecked the place. The teachers aren't letting anyone in."

"Wrecked?" I echo, my stomach tightening. "How bad is it?"

"Bad," she says, then hurries off to join her friends.

Marco glances at me, his brow furrowed. "Sounds like we missed a hell of a party."

I don't answer. Something about this doesn't feel random. My mind is racing, piecing together worst-case scenarios, but I keep my face neutral. No need to freak out until we know more.

The loudspeaker crackles to life, announcing that school is officially closed for the day while they investigate the damage. The buses will be running shortly to take everyone home.

The teachers are stationed near the main doors, herding kids away, but they're not guarding everywhere.

"Come on," I say, pulling Marco toward the side of the building. "Let's see for ourselves."

We round the corner, the buzz of distant chatter from the crowd still drifting in the air behind us. There's a small classroom window just ahead—shattered open, offering us a way in.

I glance at Marco, a silent question in my eyes. He gives a slight nod, and I move toward it, careful not to attract attention.

As I approach the window, my heart speeds up. I can see wreckage inside, a glimpse of overturned desks and broken furniture. There's something off about it. Something violent.

Marco follows closely behind me, keeping watch as I carefully slip one leg through the window and slide inside. I land with a soft thud, immediately hit by the smell of spray paint and the sharp tang of destruction. The room is in complete disarray—papers scattered across the floor, desks and chairs shattered to pieces, graffiti splashed across the walls. It feels like it's been hit by a storm.

"Whoa," Marco mutters, climbing in after me. He lands beside me, his eyes scanning the room. "This isn't just some dumb prank."

"I know," I say quietly, my gaze moving to the walls. There's something strange about the way everything is torn apart. It doesn't feel like a bunch of kids let loose for fun.

We move cautiously through the room, stepping over debris as we head toward the open door to the hallway. The walls seem to close in as the tension builds. There's a heaviness in the air, thick with something I can't quite name.

As we step into the hallway, the damage becomes even more apparent. The lockers are dented, their doors crumpled like they've been smashed in with brute force. More graffiti stains the walls, but it's something else that makes my blood run cold. Jagged, deep slashes gouge the lockers, leaving marks that cut through metal as if it were paper, carving lines that don't fit with the rest of the destruction. I stop dead, my breath catching in my throat. The slashes are too precise, too intentional, too… animalistic.

"Claw marks," I whisper, my voice barely above a breath. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as Marco's eyes follow mine. His face goes dark, and a grim understanding settles in.

"It's him," Marco mutters, his voice so low it's barely audible. "Figures. He's not exactly subtle."

I nod, the chill creeping deeper into my bones. "David."

We continue down the hallway, the atmosphere thick and suffocating. Every shattered locker, every torn piece of paper screams David's name. The destruction isn't random—it never is with him.

I'm so focused on piecing it together that I almost don't notice when Marco stops short.

"Rach, hold up," he says, his voice low and tight.

"What is it?"

"Nothing." He steps in front of me, his hand landing lightly on my arm, but there's nothing casual about the move. His fingers are firm, and his eyes flick to the wall before settling back on me, his face carefully blank. "It's just more graffiti. Let's go."

I feel my chest tighten, the weight of his hesitation settling in. Marco doesn't get rattled easily. If he's trying to play it cool, something's off.

"Marco," I say slowly, trying to push past him. His grip tightens just enough to hold me in place.

"Seriously," he says, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "It doesn't matter."

It's a lie, and we both know it.

"Marco," I warn, my patience thinning. "Let me see."

He hesitates, his jaw clenching. "Rach—"

I don't let him finish. I shove his hand off and step around him, my eyes snapping to the wall.

The breath rushes out of me.

R-

I MISS YOU. SEE YOU SOON.

LOVE, D

The words are slashed into the wall like a wound, the red paint still fresh. My pulse roars in my ears, drowning everything else out. It's him. David.

Marco swears softly behind me. "Rachel—"

But I can't move, can't look away. It's not just a threat—it's a game, a sick, twisted game. He signed it like it's some kind of love letter, mocking, taunting, closing in.

A chill slithers through me, settling in my chest like ice.

Marco steps closer, his voice low but firm. "He's trying to get in your head. That's all this is. He wants you rattled."

I swallow, the dryness of my throat making it harder to breathe. "Yeah? Well, it worked." My voice barely rises above a whisper.

Marco steps back in front of me, his hands finding my arms and gently but firmly gripping them, pulling me closer. His proximity is comforting, but it doesn't stop the storm inside me.

"Then we make him regret it," Marco says, his voice sharp, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. "He picked the wrong fight. We'll take him down. Together."

I nod absently, but my eyes stay glued to the message, the red paint glinting under the dim light. Marco tilts his head, his grip on my arms tightening just a fraction, pulling me from the message and toward him. His gaze locks onto mine, intense and unwavering.

"Rach," he says, his voice softer now, more urgent. "Look at me."

I finally tear my eyes away from the wall, meeting his gaze. His eyes are dark with determination, his presence a quiet strength I can feel deep in my bones.

"You're not alone in this," he says quietly, his voice fierce but steady. "We're in this together."

I nod, and as Marco turns to leave, his arm slips around my shoulders, pulling me closer. The warmth of his touch is a small comfort, grounding me for a moment, but I can't shake the tension coiling in my chest.

I glance over my shoulder, my eyes locking on the message once more. The red paint glints under the dim light, each word a promise of what's coming.

I want to believe Marco's right—that David won't win. But I know him too well. He's far from finished. And the next move is his.