GREY

I loosened my grip on Cody's head, and we all stared out at the glimmering logo of Boardport Market, its patterned glow sheening against the night. The four of us climbed from Dash's car and sauntered to the building's entrance, automatic double doors sliding apart in casual welcome.

The moment we were inside, Brayden beelined for the aisle marked Artisanal Breads & Seasoning. Dash, Cody, and I followed behind, the din of gilded shopping bins and plastic cards clattering out from an array of cash registers and self-checkout lanes.

We turned the corner, Brayden already scanning the breads for the latest expiry date—

"I hate working with that...that jerk!"

What? "Did you guys hear that?" I asked, Dash and Cody nodding in unison as Brayden's eyes remained fixed on the loaf of bread he cradled in his hands.

"Henry," came a softer voice. "I know he can be difficult to work with. But please, you can't let him scare you. Your photography work has been exceptional."

Photography work?

"...I know that voice," Cody whispered to me and Dash, beckoning us closer to the end of the aisle.

"August is ambitious, Henry," the voice continued. "Neither of us can deny that. But so are you. And even he can't pretend that your photos are anything less than top notch."

"That's Mrs. Cabot," I breathed, Cody nodding.

Tiptoeing to a rack of herbal blends stacked in front of me, I peered my head around the edge, spotting the tall and slender form of my English Lit teacher, her arms wrapped around a guy who wore a loose orange hoodie and an off-center baseball cap.

"August is a dick," Henry mused, sniffling once before wincing at Mrs. Cabot's disapproving stare. "Sorry."

"Why don't we focus on what really matters here," Mrs. Cabot said. "We normally don't announce this type of thing too early, but it looks like your work on Illogic's local artists might be up for an award. I've been to several meetings, and all the higher-ups agree. Just keep working, alright? I should have another Whiteface article soon, and we can headline it with whatever shots you can get of Browning Heights over the next few days."

He nodded once. "Thanks, Regina."

"Don't mention it. Now go—I've still got some calls to make. My husband thinks I'm out shopping." She chuckled at Henry as he sauntered off.

"Who do you guys think she's gonna call?" I turned to Dash and Cody.

"If it really is Whiteface, that'd be—"

"Jacquarious, dear?"

Dash, Cody, and I gasped in unison at Mrs. Cabot's words.

"What's wrong?" she spoke into the phone. "Darling, you sound scared. Is something the matter?"

I leaned forward from the aisle's edge, but Dash caught my shoulder. "Grey, don't—she'll see you."

"If you're sure you're alright, then I could use your help," Mrs. Cabot carried on. "It's about Whiteface," she whispered.

My eyes popped even wider. "This is insane—Jacquarious knows Whiteface?"

"It makes sense," Dash said. "Whoever it is probably lives in Browning Heights."

"I need another article," Mrs. Cabot mused. "I talked it over with Warren, and we think the paper needs more extensive coverage of the bloody words the killer's been leaving at the crime scene. A few of our analysts found a local rag in Browning Heights, claiming some kids might have a picture of the original poem." She stepped back and forth, fidgeting with a bag of gourmet pretzels. "Jacquarious? Are you still there? I can't—what?" She dropped the pretzels. "Tell me where you are? I'm headed to my car, and I'll be there soon." She turned on her heel and sprinted down the aisle.

"Guys," I whispered. "What just happened?"

"Whatever it is," Dash sidled up beside me, "I think Jacquarious is in danger."

"Then we...we should follow Mrs. Cabot, right?"

Dash sighed. "Yeah, Grey." He turned, facing the other end of the aisle with a grave look of determination. "We're following her."