Above everything, Mark Jefferson hated being told what to do.

At his most polite, he would pointedly ignore suggestions from models and other photographers on how to set up a shot. He brooked no interference when it came to editing his photos. He had repeatedly claimed that an artist—at least one of his caliber—needed complete control of the creative process. Else what was the goddamn point of it all? He might as well have been a corporate stooge, a shill for jewelry and perfume companies.

An artist without control is no artist at all. Even if it meant he would commit mistakes, they would be his mistakes.

Jefferson's last mistake was named Suzie, whom he had met while conducting lectures in Chicago. She was 22, a folk singer, Bohemian, lived in her car, and was never content to stay in one place for too long. She had long crinkly hair, an angular face and the sad, drooping eyes of a Basset hound. She smoked an obnoxious amount of marijuana, so much that her mouth smelled of it at all times.

She was also curiously innocent, believing that people were inherently good and the universe was just. So the serene look on her face when he finally took her picture, right when she was caught in that liminal state between sleeping and waking, was nothing short of exquisite. So was her expression of panic and alarm when he returned from his lab and found her wide awake, struggling with her bindings, and baying to be released. He couldn't resist snapping another picture before he had to do the inevitable. Clearly, she had developed a resistance to sedatives long before she'd met him. Fucking druggies.

He tripled the dosage for the final injection. Her terror died with her.

Later, he stuffed her into a body bag, drove to a landfill, and buried her during the wee hours of that autumn morning. Three weeks later, he was doing lectures at Portland State University. That was when Sean Prescott caught him.

Jefferson received Prescott's invitation to meet up and explore the possibility of a teaching job. Jefferson knew little of Prescott then, other than that he came from old money, was a real estate mogul, and also hailed from Arcadia Bay but had moved to Florida years before. It was also rumored that Prescott had spent his early youth in some kind of sanitarium. The idea of working with such a mysterious patron seemed interesting, so he agreed to meet at Prescott's office.

Jefferson disliked Prescott from the instant they met. Everything about the man was hard lines: his hair, his black glasses, his jaw, even the cut of his suit reminded Jefferson of the granite facade of the man's office. Prescott's eyes were too small for his face and he spoke with a barely-there lisp. But all these belied the menacing energy the elder man wielded when he smiled, when he shook hands.

The first thing Prescott did when Jefferson sat before his immense oaken desk was to lay down a series of photographs on the polished wooden surface. "You can keep those," Prescott said, smiling. "I have plenty."

Every photo had clearly been shot with a telephoto lens. The first one showed Suzie entering his rented Chicago home. The second featured Jefferson dragging a body bag into the trunk of his car. The third showed him digging a large hole in the ground with a shovel. The last one showed him kneeling beside the body bag, which had been unzipped slightly to reveal Suzie's ashen face as Jefferson laid a final kiss on her forehead.

Jefferson's blood burned hot before running cold. His eyes drifted to the fountain pen in the marble holder as he contemplated the chances of stabbing Prescott in the throat and escaping from the building. Then he caught the older man's gaze and realized Prescott had read his intent.

"I would rethink any rash action, Mr. Jefferson," Prescott said. "It's ill-advised and also unnecessary. I only wish to ascertain we understand each other. And it seems we do."

Jefferson's fingers constricted around the wooden armrests so hard he thought they would splinter. "How long have you been following me?"

"A while. I monitored your career closely after I learned of your...early indiscretion in Seattle." He gave a deferential nod. "Let's just say I admire your work."

"What do you want?"

Prescott walked to his side and leaned against the edge of his desk. "As I said in my invitation, I need someone with your skills. I represent certain interests in Arcadia Bay, and I need someone to act on my behalf." He tapped his index finger against the desk. "I'm offering you a job, Jefferson. At Blackwell Academy. Full pay and benefits. You will start at once, of course."

"My agreement with Portland State—"

"I think you'll find that the most binding agreements can't be read through a pile of money. Moreover, you will be better compensated in my Academy, and in the long run, you'll see that working for me will yield benefits beyond monetary reward."

"...And what exactly will you have me do at your university? It's the middle of the school year."

"Why, exactly what you've been doing all along." Prescott spread his hands. "That and one or two other things, as I see fit. You will serve as a guidance counselor until the next school year, where you may start teaching Photography."

"How long shall I be tied to this job of yours?"

Prescott stood up and made his way to the wide window behind his desk. Despite himself, Jefferson was astounded that the mogul would turn his back on him. "Until you complete our main objective. After that, you are free to go. As free as air."

"What objective?"

The older man held himself very still, then spoke his next words in a careful, measured pace. "I want someone found in Arcadia Bay. A teen-aged girl. It is imperative that I find her quickly, before she realizes her full significance."

"You must have an army of private detectives under payroll. What makes you think I can help?

Prescott fixed him a cold stare, unblinking and impatient. "I'd rather you not play coy. We both know you work by gaining your subject's trust. That's your specialty, and that's what I need. I am playing a most dangerous game and I need unorthodox ways of defending myself.

"Those are all the details you'll need for now. I'll explain more once you are settled in Arcadia Bay."

"And after I complete this job, what then?"

Prescott gestured to the photos. "Once our business is complete, you can have all the raw files. Everything that has been buried stays buried."

Watching Prescott's large frame blocking the sunlight from the window, Jefferson did not for one second believe that the man would keep his word. But at the moment, he saw no way out of it. It was not so much the blackmail that cowed him—it was Prescott's uncanny lack of fear, despite not having a bodyguard or a weapon nearby. Jefferson realized he would have to bide his time until he could find out what sort of demon possessed this man.

"I suppose I have no choice, then," he said.

Prescott's smile turned absolutely feral.

"You're goddamn right you don't."

And so, Prescott brought Jefferson's perfectly-ordered world to an end. Jefferson was reminded of that every day he stepped inside Blackwell Academy. The despair crawled into every aspect of his life; for months, he thought he could never create art again.

But a week later, Prescott came to him with a young man in tow. "This is my son, Nathan. I would like you to teach him photography. His doctor said art might do his temperament good."

The boy was sullen and mostly uncooperative. It took a while to get past his defenses, but before long, Jefferson had the Prescott scion at his beck and call. Their relationship allowed Jefferson to fill the Dark Room with more comforts and expensive instruments than what the boy's father had allowed for. Soon the Dark Room began to feel more like home than his own house in town.

Then Nathan introduced him to Kelly Davis, an incoming senior who was also interested in photography. She had clear, curious eyes and café au lait skin. For the first time in months, Jefferson gave a genuine smile.

That Saturday night found Jefferson hard at work in the Dark Room, mulling over the list he'd received that day from Sheriff Skinner. This was the list of every girl that fit the profile they'd culled from Prescott and the footprints on the beach: mid to late teens, around five foot five, roughly a hundred and ten pounds. That narrowed down their list to 47 girls in and around Arcadia Bay. Still quite a number, and he had yet to round up and verify their correct addresses.

He was gratified that Rachel Amber made the list. At least the attention he'd paid her these past few weeks wouldn't go to waste.

His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of his burner phone. Prescott again. Steeling himself, Jefferson picked up.

"I need you to take pictures of the site," Prescott said the moment he answered. "I have business out of town, so I can't inspect it myself."

Jefferson fought to keep his breathing steady. It was outrageous—outrageous—to be reduced to the level of errand boy. "Mr. Prescott, surely Sheriff Skinner is more suited for something so—"

"Those are not the kinds of shots I hired him for," Prescott said. "Go up there tomorrow morning, survey the site, and give me an update. With pictures. And remind Burrows he needs to complete the project in three weeks. No excuses."

"But how will I even get there? My car isn't designed to—"

"I have a truck scheduled to make a delivery tomorrow at dawn. They have instructions to pick you up and take you back. Meet with them at the main road and hitch a ride."

Jefferson bit his lip until he tasted copper. Keeping his voice level, he said, "Fine. Is there anything else you need?"

Prescott hesitated. "I'm emailing you something," he said. "Have a look at it. It's video surveillance footage from a convenience store in town."

"And what's special about it?"

"Clearly you've been down in that hole too long," Prescott growled. "There's been another anomaly—a miniature tornado in the store parking lot. Blatant and public. It's like she's taunting me."

Jefferson's email notification dinged. He reached over to his laptop and clicked on it with hardly a thought but didn't bother to open the attached file.

"The surveillance footage doesn't give a lot to go on," Prescott went on. "There's no angle showing who caused the tornado. But we have the video of the store at the time the incident took place. Look at it and see if you can find some clues. Work with Skinner if you need to. That will be all." Before Jefferson could get another word in, Prescott dropped the call.

Jefferson grabbed his own wrist to stop his hand from hurling the phone against the wall. He shut his eyes and wrestled his temper back down. Alright. I'm alright.

Tonight, he would lock up the Dark Room, drive home, shower, listen to some jazz, and take a pill to get to sleep. The video could wait. He had an early start tomorrow.

That night he dreamed of his hands around Prescott's soft, pliable neck.

That Sunday morning at dawn, with only his laptop bag and a camera in tow, Jefferson drove up Arcadia Drive and past the lighthouse until he reached the town limits. There, he parked by the roadside and waited.

Minutes before dawn, a Ford construction truck stopped to pick him up. It didn't help his mood that the driver, a sturdily-built Minnesotan with a penchant for snacking on blueberries, kept up the banter for the entire fifteen-minute drive through the misty woods.

Jefferson didn't particularly enjoy the wilds, but he disliked the Arcadia Bay forest in particular. The place seemed haunted. There was something sinister in how little daylight pierced the canopy, in how the trees bunched together like prison bars. Hadn't this wood partially burned down a few years back? One couldn't tell based on the sheer number of trees here.

The dirt road they took was partially hidden from the main highway by bushes and a copse of trees. The path wound through the wood and up the hill before sloping down into a valley. It was only at this point that a No Trespassing sign appeared in the fog. Five minutes later, they arrived at a clearing cordoned off by a wire fence. Here, at last, was the site.

Burrows greeted him at the gate and waved the security guards off. "Great to have you here, sir," he said, grasping Jefferson's hand. "I want to let you know right off the bat that we're on schedule. Mr. Prescott's got nothing to worry about." That last bit carried a touch of nervousness.

"Great, great," Jefferson muttered, unslinging his camera as he stepped over the rebar and wooden frames. The sooner he was done with this, the sooner he could get back home.

Burrows began rattling off some constraints they were facing in terms of logistics, but Jefferson paid no heed. He snapped pictures of the hole that had been dug into the soil, the men planting little yellow markers on the surrounding grounds, and the construction materials being stockpiled at the corner. After ten minutes, he felt he had taken enough material to satisfy the old bastard.

Jefferson then paused to look down into the hole the workers had excavated. It was only three feet deep, yet it struck him at how real it made all this craziness seem. They were actually doing this. Bad enough that Prescott wouldn't be able to keep this secret from the courts or the Native Americans for long.

But once Dionysus found out—what then? If Prescott went down, would he take me with him? The thought sent an icy ripple down his spine.

The men had yet to unload all of the construction materials from the truck, so he had time to spare. Then he remembered his other task. Turning to Burrows, he said, "Alright if I sit down in your office? I need to make a call."

Burrows perked up. "Of course! And if it's for Mr. Prescott, I hope you'll tell him how well things are going around here?"

Jefferson merely smiled and nodded before making his way to the nearby shack with the red door. Inside the hastily-built office was a workman's desk and a plastic chair. Good enough. At least the place had a generator.

Jefferson pulled a seat and took out his laptop. The browser was still opened to his inbox—thankfully, he had downloaded the attachment the night before.

The zip file contained two movie files. The first one was labeled 5 HOURS OF THIS. Upon double-clicking, it showed a fuzzy video of the parking lot of a convenience store. The timestamp indicated this happened on 04-24-12 12:06:12.

As Jefferson watched, the wind began to pick up at the center of the lot, turning into a tornado that quickly rose past the roofs of the nearby cars. It remained stationary for the rest of the video, which would fast forward to various points in time, showing a small crowd of people gathering around and throwing garbage into it for fun.

Intriguing. So far, their quarry showed an incredible ability to control the weather. Pity there had been no sign of anyone nearby when the tornado was created. The camera had been badly positioned; whoever it was that created this anomaly, they were well out of frame.

Jefferson closed the video and moved on to the next one entitled STORE INTERIOR. The footage was a bit clearer this time, showing a bird's eye view of a brightly lit-counter with a curly-haired attendant at the register. There was only one other person in the store, a young man with a skateboard under one arm, inspecting some paperbacks on a shelf. The time stamp read 04-24-12 12:06:09.

At 12:08:02, the automatic doors slid open and an androgynous young woman strolled in. She wore a beanie, a white tank top, a pair of dirty jeans, and suspenders that hung loosely from her waist. The girl looked much like one of those tiresome faux punk bitches he'd met way back in his Seattle days.

He watched as she marched to the counter, bought two packs of cigarettes, paid, and left.

Jefferson sighed. Prescott was not exaggerating when he said there was not much to go on. Standing up, he pulled out his phone and dialed Sheriff Skinner. It took a few tries; the signal was terrible out here in the middle of nowhere.

Skinner answered on the third ring. "The hell you want?"

They stuck to their practice of never using their names or titles while out in public. "Just to ask a few questions. Did our benefactor send you a couple of surveillance videos recently?"

"Yeah. Turns out he found a tornado in town, or some such."

"I'm reviewing the footage now. One of the people in the store interests me. Tall girl, blue hair with pink highlights, wears a tank top..."

"Yeah, I know her. Chloe Price. Lives on Cedar Drive." The old man gave a yawn. "Known her type my whole career, sent more than a few of 'em into juvenile. An insubordinate high school drop-out with a dead-end job and zero drive to get anywhere, like that rube mother of hers. If she's the witch we're looking for, I'll eat my badge."

"She doesn't fit the profile?"

"Nah, way too tall for the footprint we lifted. It ain't her."

"If you say so," said Jefferson. He knew this would be a waste of time. "Anything else you can tell me?"

"Next to nothing. Her social circle's pathetic. I've seen her hanging around James Amber's kid and that's it."

Jefferson halted, eyes gleaming. "You don't say. Are they close?"

"Not a sliver of daylight between them. That's all I have. If there's nothing else, I've work to do."

Jefferson thanked him and hung up. He smiled as he sat back down in front of his laptop and replayed the indoor surveillance video. Once again the image of Chloe Price strolling into the store played across the screen. Jefferson watched her purchase two packs of cigarettes, pocket one, and unwrap the other. He played the video again. And again.

Once he had finished studying the video he wrote down a word in a text file: Pall Malls.

Ms. Price opened up the Marlboro pack the instant she laid hands on it. But she pocketed the Pall Malls. Because they were for someone else. Someone who could've been waiting for her outside. Someone who could've been bored enough to leave their mark in the parking lot in the form of a miniature whirlwind. Whom did he know fit such a mercurial disposition?

When Jefferson finally exited the office, it was already mid-morning. But he felt his time was no longer felt wasted—he had a lead. And as before, Rachel Amber was now his number one priority for a private photoshoot.

He passed the workmen as they went about their business. He even felt cheerful enough to nod to Burrows as he passed him.

At the gate, he paused to throw a look over his shoulder. For some reason, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched.

A series of throaty caws rang from somewhere in the trees. A shiver far colder than the morning air crawled down Jefferson's spine. He hurried up the passenger's side and shut the door.

Noting his pallor, the driver asked, "You okay?"

"Perfectly fine," said Jefferson. "I'd like to get back now, if you please."

The driver shrugged and started the truck.

Far above the site, unseen by all present, a flock of ravens fled from the treetops as a white drone passed overhead. It pointed a single dark eye down at the construction site as it buzzed higher into the sky.

"Is this going to take much longer?" Chloe asked.

Brooke raised her head from her tablet to glower at them all. "Like the drone's gonna go faster with all of you crowding around me like this."

All four of them were gathered beside Chloe's truck where it was parked at the foothills. The moment Chloe and Rachel had spotted Jefferson, they had hurried back to wake Max, break camp, and drive all the way to the Blackwell Dormitory. Rachel had rushed in, emerging several minutes later with a bleary-eyed and grumpy Brooke in tow. Chloe had no idea how Rachel convinced her to come, but she knew why they needed her.

"Sorry," said Max, backing away to sit on the truck's front bumper. Chloe shuffled in place, then thought better of standing around and moved to sit beside Max.

Only Rachel didn't budge. She stood before Brooke with her arms locked together, her mouth a staid line. Even Brooke seemed reluctant to utter a sharp word to her.

"You're sure they won't catch sight of it?" Rachel asked.

"Can't guarantee that," Brooke replied, fiddling with the controls of her tablet. "I'm staying far away enough so they won't be able to hear the HiFly, but if someone looks up, they'll have no problem seeing it. It's not like we disguised it as a pelican or anything. Whoa, shit—I think I see him."

Chloe couldn't help rubbernecking at the tablet even as Rachel slipped beside Brooke. Sure enough, the drone's camera showed a tiny figure in a dark suit walking toward the gate of the construction site and hopping into a truck.

Rachel's eyes narrowed to slits. "Could we get a bird's eye view of the place?"

"Already on it." Brooke maneuvered the drone higher, snapping photos as it rose.

Chloe settled back down on the truck's bumper. Beside her, Max was watching the forest, as if she expected Jefferson himself to suddenly emerge from the trees.

"Hey Maximus," Chloe nudged her, and Max gave a little jump. "You alright?"

"Yeah," Max replied, rubbing her arms as if she were chilled. "Sorry, just the thought of Jefferson close by..."

"I hear ya. But it looks like we're getting the drop on him this time, so try to relax, okay?"

"Mm-hm." Max hesitated, then leaned towards her until their shoulders touched. Even when they were kids, Max always drew comfort just from touching her. "What about you, Chloe? How are you feeling?"

"Me? I'm cool." Chloe threw a look back at the pair beside the truck and dropped her voice. "Actually, it's Rach I'm worried about."

"What do you mean?"

"I've never seen her like this, Max. Never known her to walk blindly into a forest and find crazy shit like what we saw. Honestly, it's making me nervous."

Max nodded. "I think this whole thing's got us all on edge. We're finding out that there's so much we don't know." She turned her gaze back to the treeline, propping her chin on her hand. "Why was he out there, Chloe? And what're they building?"

"No idea. But I promise, we're going to find out."

They sat quietly for a few moments, each warmed by the other's nearness. Looking for a distraction, Chloe reached for the cigarette pack in her pocket, then remembered that Max didn't like the smell of smoke and put it back. But that left her keenly aware of the growing silence, and she felt she needed to fill it in with something.

Last night's dream drifted back to her.

"Hey, Max?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you had any...weird dreams recently?"

Max blinked, her chin lifting from her palm. "Weird dreams? H-how do you mean, weird?"

"Yeah, weird, like—" Chloe froze where she sat, looking at nothing, mouth working to spit out the next word. Max leaned away, breaking contact with her shoulder; Chloe instantly missed her touch. She turned to find her best friend staring at the ground. Was she imagining it, or was Max blushing?

"Yo, Max, you okay?"

If anything, Max's cheeks grew even rosier. "Uh, yeah, totally fine! S-so, what kind of dreams do you mean, Chloe?"

Chloe shrugged. "Well, you know..." She focused on the faraway trees, trying to grasp the faded visions she had from the night before. Her father, telling her things as they descended deep underground. "Like...

"Like?"

"...Escalators," Chloe finally blurted out.

Max stared at her. "Escalators?"

"Yeah, uh, nevermind. I'm being stupid." Cursing herself, Chloe stabbed her cigarette into the side of her truck. "It's not important."

Before either of them could say another word, Rachel appeared at Chloe's side.

"We're done here," she said, nodding to Brooke. "She's bringing the drone back now. We've got pics, but it's hard to look at them on a tablet."

"I got a big-ass monitor back at the dorm," Brooke said, climbing onto the back of the truck. "We can study the shots there. Unless you guys wanna stick around for the view, that is."

Few words were exchanged on the drive back to Blackwell. To Rachel, it felt like an eternity. She tapped her foot against the truck's floor as Chloe wove through the town's side streets. Brooke, who sat in the back playing Candy Crush, complained about the bumpy ride, so Chloe made a game out of hitting every pothole she could find.

Rachel paid them little attention. In her mind, she was replaying the same scene over and over: Jefferson walking around in a construction camp in the middle of the woods, an image so incongruent it seemed like a fantasy.

Chloe said something, snapping Rachel out of her reverie. "Sorry?"

"I said, how did you know that the construction site was going to be there, Rach?"

Rachel shook her head, tried to refocus. "I didn't. I didn't know what we were going to find."

"Huh." Chloe turned the wheel sharply left, eliciting an annoyed grunt from Brooke. "So what made you go out there in the first place? It's like you were hypnotized or something. Freaked me the fuck out."

"I'm sorry, Chloe. I wish I could explain it." She frowned, trying to recall the sensation. "When I woke up this morning I...I felt strange. There was this dull ache—a pressure." She placed a hand over her chest. "Like something was pounding on me, right here. When I went outside to get some air, I heard that terrible noise."

"You sure heard it way before I did."

Rachel nodded. "Like I said, it was so strange." She looked and found Max gazing at her wide-eyed. "Did anything like this ever happen to you?"

The brunette thought for a moment. "I've had visions before," she responded slowly. "Mostly they focused on the storm that hit Arcadia Bay. Sometimes in the woods I'd see a spectral doe. But nothing quite like what you experienced."

Chloe glanced at her. "Magic deer, Max? You mean like the one you said helped you when we were kids?"

Max blinked, gaze turning inward as she recalled something. "Wowzers, that right, Chloe! A doe did come to me back when I got lost in the forest!"

Rachel eyed her, half smiling. "You attract a magic doe? Is that like your spirit animal?"

"I'm not sure what it means."

"None of us have any idea what any of this means," groused Chloe as she skidded into the Academy parking lot. "So I sure hope those pictures we took will give us some answers."

They filed out of the truck, made their way past the gymnasium and across the front lawn, only to stop dead in their tracks at the wall separating the dorms from the school proper.

"Shit," muttered Choe, flattening against the wall. "I forgot that my step-douche's on duty today."

Rachel peered over the brick wall to see David Madsen, eyes glued to his clipboard, marching straight towards the school lawn.

"Well that's just great," Brook grumbled. "Not likely that Robocop over there'll let non-students into the dorms."

Rachel exchanged glances with Chloe, who nodded. "I'll distract him," Chloe said. "You guys circle around. We can meet up later."

"I'm not getting caught on your account, Price!" said Brooke.

"You won't—just follow Rachel and you'll be fine!" So saying, Chloe lit up a cigarette and stepped out from behind the wall, saying, "Yo."

"Chloe." David's gruff and weary voice made it clear he was not up for some shit today. "What are you doing here? Do you realize you're trespassing?"

"Whoa, give it a rest, Major Payne. I'm not out to cause trouble. I'm just here to see Rachel."

Rachel motioned to Max and Brook to follow, and staying low, they crept along the wall till they reached the end, then made a U-turn into the principal's driveway. She caught sight of David, mustache twitching, hands on his hips with his back towards them, as he glared down at Chloe, who was lighting a cigarette.

"Well, you're not one now!" he barked. "Are you trying to get me fired? You can't smoke on school grounds!"

"Hey, like you said, I'm not a student, so I don't have to give a shit about the rules."

Blowing Chloe a kiss, Rachel ushered Max and Brooke past the principal's house and on to the dorms. Within minutes, they were in Brooke's room, watching as she copied the files from her tablet to her computer.

Now that she had some time, Rachel took a moment to look around Brooke's dorm. Every square inch of it was adorned with her interest: books by Neil Gaiman and Madeline L'Engle littered her bed and nightstand, while posters of robot competitions and hi-tech drones covered her walls. Max was examining a cactus growing in a tiny pot by the window. On a different table, a laptop was downloading a torrent file. Meanwhile, Brooke tapped away at her desktop next to Max. And she hadn't lied—the monitor was easily 20 inches wide.

"You know," Brooke remarked, "for a day you said might never come, the day you needed my help came by pretty fast."

"No kidding," Rachel sighed. "But we had to know what's going on."

"Well, anyway, I helped you out just like I said. So now we're square."

"Yeah, looks like it. Thanks, Brooke. We couldn't have done this without you."

"Don't mention it. And by that, I mean don't ever mention it. Last thing I need is to give my mom an excuse to drag me back home to Salem." Brooke frowned at the image rendered on the screen, then wheeled back her swivel chair. "It's done. So, what's this look like to you?"

Rachel and Max converged at the desktop, peering down at the image together.

It was an aerial view of the fenced-in construction site—a perfect square bounded by a chain-link fence, a series of huts, and piles of wood. And at the center of it all gaped that shallow, shell-shaped hole. It had been dug in such a way that wide steps gradually descended into the earth.

It seemed familiar to Rachel. And for some reason, looking at it hurt. She soon turned her eyes away.

"Rachel?" said Max's, voice full of gentle concern.

"I'm alright." But she could barely hide the inexplicable rage from her voice. When will any of this start making sense?

Brooke hummed. "You know who'd be interested in this? Juliet. I think she wrote an article about something like this. Property rights and land ownership involving the Prescotts."

Max blinked. "Wait...the Prescotts? They've got something to do with this?"

"That's something you have to ask Juliet. She's the one who reported—hey, Rachel, where are you going? Didn't you want a copy of these files?"

Rachel was already out the door. "Sorry, I need some air."

"Um, give them to me," Max said as the door closed behind her.

Rachel stalked down the hall to the stairs, eyes locked forward, acknowledging any greetings sent her way with only the briefest of smiles. She turned the corner, headed down the stairs, and was soon standing outside the dormitory entrance.

What does all this craziness mean? What does it have to do with me? Why did that image disturb me so much? It was beyond surreal. But the sight of that hole, carved out like a bullet wound on the earth, clung to her mind and wouldn't leave.

The dorm grounds were deserted at this time, nothing but tiny shadows beneath the trees and benches to keep her company. Everyone had gone off to hang with friends and family for the last day of the weekend. Small favors. In another life, she'd be doing the same, perhaps crawling into bed with Chloe and smoking up some thunderclouds.

Or perhaps not. After all, wasn't she supposed to be dead at this time, thanks to her own cavalcade of fucked-up choices? Maybe that's what all this is—her quietly freaking out knowing the consequences of her own actions.

Rachel sank down onto the steps, pressing a hand to her face. Enough. Get a grip. Just focus on finding a way past this and everything will be back to normal.

She desperately wanted a joint, but cigarettes will have to do. She reached into her pocket for her case, then froze, breath catching in her throat.

Some forty feet away, Mark Jefferson was knocking on the door of the principal's quarters. He spotted her immediately after she saw him. He hesitated, then, seeing no forthcoming response from Wells, ambled toward her instead.

Rachel forced her breathing to slow and her thoughts to align. You knew this was going to happen at some point; you can't avoid him forever. But you got this. He's not in control anymore—you are.

She put on a sunny, smiling mask. She was nothing if not an actress.

"Well if it isn't my favorite person in all of Blackwell," Jefferson said when he was within earshot. His smile was friendly, devoid of malice. Rachel marveled at his opacity even as it made her bowels revolt.

She stood and placed a self-deprecating hand on her chest. "I was thinking I might be somewhat less than a favorite, considering how I flaked on you last week."

He stopped a few feet away from the dormitory steps, close enough to be heard while maintaining a respectful distance, as if she might bolt if he got too close. She didn't miss how he glanced up at the windows to check for prying eyes.

"Whatever your reasons are," he said in a low voice. "I'm sure they're more important than an impromptu photo session with an old hipster like me."

You are absolutely right, you sickening piece of shit, Rachel didn't say.

"Thanks for understanding, Mr. Jefferson. It really was something that I needed to handle right then and there."

"Of course, not a problem. It's too bad though—it was such a gorgeous Sunday. The lighting then was indescribable. One should grab such opportunities whenever possible, as they may never come again." He smiled at her.

Rachel held his gaze. "I suppose you're right," she sighed. "It'd be sad if great opportunities passed me by. Like that phone call last Wednesday."

Jefferson blinked. "Phone call?"

"From Marcello. The magazine in LA. He never called."

They stared at each other.

"Oh, of course." Jefferson nodded. "Marcello's a busy man. I'm sure he has his own reasons for postponing."

"I'm sure they're good ones."

"Indeed." Jefferson took a step closer to her. "I should call and remind him. You should just be patient, my dear. You'll get your chance. As long as you have me in your corner, I'm sure you'll go very far."

Rachel felt the bile crawling its way up her stomach and wondered just how she could have fallen for his sleazy bullshit. Then Max's face flashed through her mind and inspiration struck.

"Thank you, that's very encouraging. You've always been encouraging to me, Mr. Jefferson. Which is why I made this week all about broadening my horizons."

Jefferson paused, confused. Rachel went on, "I caught the eye of a talented photographer from Seattle. We're hooking up soon to discuss a future project."

She savored the astonished look on his face before it submerged into a blankness. "I'm glad for you then," he said. "I'm sure they can help you find your way."

"Oh, totally. The way forward has never been clearer."

"So long as you're happy." Again, Jefferson glanced up at the windows. His hand inched into his coat pocket and Rachel's imagination sprang into overdrive. Did he have a syringe in there? Would he be stupid enough to take her by force, right here in public?

I should kill you right now. The thought came so clear, it was like someone had shone a torch in her mind. It'd be the easiest thing to call up a tornado and throw you into the air. No one's watching. I'll tell them you jumped from the top floor. I'll even cry at your funeral, you disgusting shitbag motherfucker.

Jefferson took a step closer. Rachel's hand left the railing, fingers tingling, ready to command. The air stirred around his legs like an agitated viper.

Rachel jumped as the doors behind her swung open. "Hey, I got the files. We should go meet—"

She turned to see Max frozen in place, one hand holding the door open, the other clutching a flash drive with a swinging bunny keychain. "Max..."

But Max wasn't looking at her. Her gaze was locked onto the man standing at the foot of the steps, who was gazing back at her with bemused interest.

"Well, I see we have an intruder on the grounds," Jefferson's voiced had switched to his usual amiable tone. "Max, isn't it? I'm Mark Jefferson. I teach here in Blackwell." He held out his hand to shake hers. But Max merely stared at him, transfixed, mouth agape, all color draining from her face.

Rachel forced herself to act. "Oh, thanks for getting that for me, Max." She grasped the hand carrying the flash drive and pulled Max along with her. "Sorry, Mr. Jefferson, gotta rush. Someone's waiting for us with the engine running. Catch you later!"

Jefferson let his hand drift down as they brushed past him. Rachel could still feel his eyes on them as they marched lockstep across the grounds and past the principal's quarters. Only when they reached the university's front lawn did Rachel dare to speak. "Max, you okay?"

Max kept her eyes straight ahead and didn't answer. Her face remained slack, her limp hand clammy in Rachel's grasp. Rachel gripped her tighter, hoping to reassure her. "I'm sorry that happened. Don't worry—we'll be out of here in a minute."

She wondered if she could ever tell Max she had been seconds away from committing murder.

They found Chloe at the parking lot, smoking as she leaned against her truck. She grinned when she saw them approach. "There you are," she said, "I was starting to think—"

A look of alarm crossed her face when she caught Max's expression. The cigarette fell from her fingers as she rushed forward.

"Chloe..." Max released Rachel's hand and in two steps she was in Chloe's arms.

"Shh, it's okay. I got you." Chloe smoothed Max's hair, then glanced towards Rachel and demanded, "What happened?"

Rachel swallowed a lump in her throat. "We bumped into Jefferson on the way here. He caught us off-guard, and Max..."

Chloe's lips pulled back from her teeth. "If he touched her—"

She moved to disentangle herself but Max tightened her hold. "Chloe, no!"

"But—"

"I'm fine. I'm going to be fine. Just stay here with me. Please?"

Chloe clamped her mouth shut, then sighed and held Max closer. In response, Max rested her head against her neck and fought to control her breathing.

Rachel watched them for a moment, then took a step closer and placed her hand on the small of Max's back, pressing her gently into Chloe's embrace. The softest breeze caressed Max's hair. Rachel hoped it would comfort her friend, even only a little. She once told Max she couldn't imagine what it was like to suffer through what she did, but it turned out she didn't have to imagine at all. Max was suffering still, right before her eyes.

I'm so sorry, Rachel thought. But I swear to you, Max, we won't let him harm you, ever.

As if hearing her thoughts, Chloe's hand sought hers, their fingers linking like a closed circuit. They stood together in the parking lot and waited for Max to recover.

In his office late that night, Jefferson sat hunched over his desk in his Blackwell Academy office, poring over one student application after another.

His memory served him well. An application form bore the exact name and picture he was looking for.

Maxine Caulfield, born on September 21, 1995. A native of Arcadia Bay, currently studying in Seattle. A mediocre student with an interest in and purported talent for photography.

"Max Caulfield," Jefferson muttered to himself. Her height, her build—it all matched their profile. But more than that, he recalled that look on her face. It was a look he'd seen on many a girl, a look of mortal terror, deeper and more profound than simply being caught where she shouldn't be.

She must be the reason Rachel never went to see him that weekend.

Rachel was still his prime suspect, based on his previous conclusions. But he couldn't erase the look on Max's face from his mind. Perhaps she's the one...?

"Max Caulfield," he said, relishing the name. "Who are you, really?" With his phone, he took a photo of her application, then slipped it back onto the pile.

Tomorrow, he would endorse Ms. Caulfield as a prime candidate for Blackwell University.

She deserved a bright future, after all.