JACQUARIOUS

Officer Longchamp hadn't said much during the drive back to school. He'd muttered something about checking in with forensics before dropping me off to pick up my car, and he'd told me to call if anything changed.

I'd promised I would, shoulders squared as I emerged from his cruiser and climbed inside my own vehicle.

He'd followed me home. By the time we made it there, the light had started to bend—too bright and too brittle, like the sky itself was holding its breath.

Officer Longchamp watched as I trekked across my front lawn and made it inside to the foyer.

The door clicked shut behind me, and I lingered in the narrow hallway, trying to breathe past the ache in my chest. The house was too quiet. The faint hum of the fridge, the clink of dishes in the kitchen—it all felt muffled, overtaken in an unkindly hush.

High-heeled feet clicked through the kitchen, the fiery sizzle of liquid grease sparking in the distance.

I jumped, the warm and comforting smell of spice and lemon sugar filling the air.

"Mom?" I called. "Are you cooking?"

She chuckled. "Well, someone had to. Couldn't just leave your teammates to starve standing out there in the cold."

Huh? "What do you mean?" I strode into the kitchen, and my jaw dropped to the floor.

"Told you he'd freak out," Cody whispered, my shoulders slumping the moment I stepped into the light.

They were all there.

Grey.

Dash.

Brayden.

Cody.

Perched in the kitchen like they'd been waiting for hours. Grey had one knee up on the barstool, absently peeling the label off a Gatorade bottle. Dash sat low, legs sprawled like he'd meant to get comfortable and failed halfway through. Brayden leaned against the fridge, palming a mound of white powder inside a measuring cup.

Cody was by the window, barely a shadow against the late-afternoon glare. His silhouette cut clean through the room like a blade.

"There are lemon bars on the counter," my mom said from the stove, stirring a long metallic ladle through the rippling waves of what looked to be thick and spicy minestrone. "You could've told me you wanted to have friends over, you know."

I gulped. "Wha—Mom, you made all this?"

She smiled. "Your friends helped. Especially Brayden—he really knows his way around the kitchen."

"Nowhere near as good as you, Mrs. Afryka," Brayden mused.

"Well," Mom said. "Nowhere near as well."

A faint smirk parted Cody's lips.

"Jacquarious, if you've had your fill of standing there, would you mind getting the rosemary? It's in the cabinet right behind the three boys sitting in my kitchen who you keep ignoring."

"Whom," Brayden whispered, wincing as my mom shot him a playful look. "Sorry."

Mom capped the soup and set an array of five glass bowls at the edge of the stove. "I have to run—one of my clients requested a last-minute meeting. But you're all more than welcome to stay over for dinner once I get back. And enjoy the minestrone." She grabbed her purse from the countertop to sling over her shoulder, then strutted for the front door, swinging wide the russet oak and slamming it shut behind her.

I shifted on my feet, the floor cold beneath my sneakers as I hazarded a glance at my guests. "I...I didn't know you guys were coming."

Dash sighed. "We were worried about you, man."

"Yeah." Brayden's eyes fell. "What Coach said was freaky. But it looked like...like it really set you off."

I gulped. "It just...reminded me of...stuff."

"You know who wrote the poem," Grey breathed. "Don't you?"

I backed into the wall. "Y-yeah."

"Who is it, man?" Grey pressed. "Come on—tell us."

"It's...it's not gonna help," I tried.

Brayden set the cup of sugar down on the countertop. "Just let us help. There's strength in numbers. We can back you up tracking this guy down—"

"You can't help," I trilled. "DeWayne wrote it. It was for this...class we took last semester."

Dash stood from the barstool, taking a step closer to me. "A class? He wrote that sicko poem for a class?"

"Final project," I mused. "...He wrote it about me."

"Bro, what the f—"

My phone zinged against my thigh, its throbbing buzz like a sledgehammer as my back pressed even firmer against the wall.

My heart stuttered a terrified beat, sweat pooling at the nape of my neck. I let the moment stretch—the guys didn't move, didn't speak; but they were watching now, their eyes flickering back and forth between each other and sweeping toward me.

With trembling fingers, I retrieved the phone from my pocket. The first message blinked back at me, stark against the screen.

I know who you are...Whiteface.

I nearly dropped the phone, slippery beads of sweat condensing at my fingertips. I barely realized I had taken a step sideways, my body angled toward the front door, until I saw Grey's narrowed eyes on me.

"You good?" he asked, his words sharp and alert.

I glanced back at the phone, staring at the words, trying to make sense of them. The pixels on the screen felt like they were sinking into my skin, burning the words BLOCKED NUMBER into my brain. The room seemed to shrink, the walls pressing tighter, the softness of the air whirlpooling away in a chasm of shadowed horror.

Another buzz.

I saw Longchamp follow you home. Consider yourself exposed if you go to the cops.

I staggered to my left, felt blood rushing to my skull as the kitchen lights threatened to swirl—the room, to spin.

The phone buzzed again.

Hard.

Violent.

As if it were trying to split itself open inside my palm.

You have one hour. Get to US & The World. Or tomorrow, you're making headlines.

"Jacquarious," Brayden tried. "Talk to us, man. Please."

I gulped hard, the waves of terror seeming for a moment to retreat as I looked up at him—at all of them. "Guys," I whispered. "I...I gotta go."

"Jac," Grey pleaded, eyebrows sinking. "Can you please just quit running off every five minutes? Whatever's going on, just let us in."

"We...we wanna be there for you too," Cody whispered.

I sighed. "You guys don't underst—"

"Then tell us!" Grey screamed.

I lowered my head, shuffling to the front door.

Grey sprinted over to me, Dash and Brayden following.

"Jac, wait!"

I pulled open the door, surges of wind blasting inside from the airy and unforgiving night.

"Jacquarious," Dash said, his words coming out like an order. "This doesn't make any sense. Just slow down for a sec. Whatever you're trying to—"

"Let him go."

Dash and Brayden turned in unison, but Grey's gaze remained squarely and stonily on me.

"Cody," Grey shook his head, still glaring forward. "What're you even—?"

"Let. Him. Go." The words were firm, authoritative.

Grey gulped.

"Please," Cody added. "He's obviously got a lot on his mind right now." He sighed. "And he knows where to find us."

Grey stared at me, eyes lidded with uncertainty, anxiety.

Even still, he stepped away, lining next to Dash and Brayden.

I didn't thank Cody; I couldn't. The words stuck like thorns in my throat. All I could do was reach for the door, slip outside into the thick umbers overfilling the porchway.

The wind outside was sharp, biting at my cheeks, threading cold fingers through the back of my hoodie. Trees hissing quietly above, my shoes scraped the pavement in uneven steps.

But I didn't stop.

Not when the porch light behind me flickered. Not when the rustle of fallen leaves chirped from my lawn's scattered fringes. Not even when my phone buzzed again, still thrumming in my hand like it wanted to scream.

I didn't look back, only forward.

My car's headlights blinked, flickering on with the press of the key fob.

I gripped the door handle, exhaling a tacit breath, deigning at last to the final message that had blipped onto my phone.

Clock's ticking, rockstar. Can't wait to chat.