The clock above the main entrance read 12:17 PM when Lisa pushed through the heavy doors that led to the second floor library.

  Behind her, Mia followed quietly, her steps still uncertain after what they’d both witnessed during the Game. Lisa had found her crouched in the corner of Amir’s safe room, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes wide and unfocused. It had taken several minutes of gentle persuasion before Mia would even respond to her name.

  Now, as they stepped into the library’s open expanse, Lisa felt some of the tension in her shoulders begin to ease. The space stretched wide before them, two stories of polished wood shelves reaching toward a vaulted ceiling painted with faded murals of classical scenes. Tall windows along the eastern wall let in streams of afternoon sun that cut through the dust motes floating lazily in the air. That familiar smell of old paper and binding glue wrapped around them... yes, it felt almost at home.

  At the circulation desk, Mrs. Greaves looked up and smiled warmly. Her grey hair was pinned back, and a beaded chain hung around her neck where glasses should have been. She’d been at Westridge longer than most of the teachers, and had the kind of calm, unflappable presence that made students feel safe even on the worst days. Except during bells, of course.

  “Girls,” she said softly, her voice carrying just enough to reach them without disturbing the handful of other students scattered throughout the stacks. “Working on something for class?”

  “Research project,” Lisa replied, which wasn’t entirely untrue.

  Mrs. Greaves nodded, then turned her attention to Mia with a more appraising glance. “And what about you, dear? You must have plenty of eyes on you already. Do you need help finding anything special?”

  Mia moved uncomfortably, her tone polite but clipped. “Just studying with Lisa, ma’am.”

  The librarian’s eyes squinted as if something had briefly bothered her vision. She opened the top drawer of her desk and drew out a small tin, slipping one of its contents into her mouth. “Mints?” she offered.

  Both girls shook their heads quickly. “No, thank you,” Lisa said with a polite smile, and Mia echoed her.

  “Suit yourselves.” Mrs. Greaves tucked the tin away and returned to her cataloging work. Taking that as their cue, the girls moved deeper into the library in search of a place to settle.

  They found a quiet corner near the back of the main floor, where two wooden desks had been pushed together to create a small study area. The location was perfect, tucked between the biography section and a tall window that overlooked the school’s back courtyard, with enough privacy that they could talk without being overheard.

  Mia sank into one of the chairs with a soft sigh, dropping her bag to the floor. For a while she just stared at her hands, fingers running light along the edge of the table.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured at last, so quiet Lisa almost missed it.

  “Sorry?” Lisa pulled out the chair beside her and sat down. “For what?”

  Mia shook her head. “I knew Juno was in trouble… I could hear it. But I just… I couldn’t move. My legs wouldn’t work. And I kept thinking… if only Daryl was here, he’d know what to do.”

  Lisa’s hand rested on the desk between them, but she stayed quiet, giving Mia room.

  “We were just friends, before all this,” Mia said. “But the Game changed everything. He wanted more, and I…” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t stop him.” She tightened her grip on the table, then loosened again. “Now I don’t even know what we were. I don’t know anything anymore... except that I miss him.”

  A tear slipped down her cheek, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand.

  Lisa’s voice was soft. “Where’d he go?”

  Mia gave a small shrug, eyes still lowered. “Who knows… Out of town, maybe. Anywhere the bus would take him. I know he lives with his dad, but his dad’s a drunk.”

  Lisa reached across and closed her hand gently over Mia’s. “You care about him. That’s not something to feel sorry for.”

  Mia pressed her lips together, nodding faintly, though her eyes stayed wet. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Mia let out a shaky little breath.

  “Oh well,” she murmured, trying to steady her voice. “We should probably start on the assignment, right?”

  She opened her bag and pulled out her notebook and the sheet for English, the paper trembling just slightly in her hands.

  Lisa moved closer, arranging her own materials on the desk. “Maybe we should just start with the basics,” she suggested softly, pulling her pen free. “Get something on the page before we overthink it. If that’s okay with you.”

  Mia nodded and jotted it down. The low afternoon sun settled over her face, turning it faintly gold. Lisa paused to look at her. And she understood it then. Why Daryl had wanted to run away with her. Why he had stood in the rain that morning, desperate, offering anywhere but here.

  It was about these quiet moments, when Mia looked almost peaceful. The way she looked when she wasn’t counting the minutes until the next bell.

  Moments like this, Lisa thought, just might be worth risking everything.

  “Comparative analysis of Gothic themes in nineteenth-century literature,” Mia read aloud. “Minimum five sources, including primary texts and scholarly articles.”

  Lisa blinked, as if surfacing from somewhere far away. “Hm?” she muttered.

  Mia gave her a quick look, one eyebrow raised. “Our task,” she said gently, tapping the assignment sheet. “We should start with the basics.”

  Lisa nodded, pulling her notebook closer.

  For the next ten minutes, they worked in silence, methodically searching through the library’s database for relevant sources and taking notes on their findings. The routine academic work seemed to help Mia relax, her breathing becoming more even as she focused on the familiar task of research and citation.

  But Lisa’s mind kept drifting to the weight of Calder’s book in her bag. Finally, she reached down and pulled it out, setting it carefully on the desk between them. The embossed bell tower on the cover caught the sun, making the gold lettering seem to shimmer with its own inner glow. “Wailing Green: Founding Families and Their Legacy” by Edwin J. Calder.

  Mia looked up from her notebook, her pen freezing mid-sentence as her eyes settled on the book. “Where did you get that?”

  “From Calder,” Lisa said, opening it to the dedication page. “He gave it to me at our meeting today. Said it might help me understand what’s happening.”

  Mia’s expression changed from curiosity to something approaching alarm. “Lisa, you shouldn’t accept things from him. It’s dangerous.”

  “How come?”

  “Did you have it with you during the bell?” Mia’s voice had an urgency that made Lisa turn.

  She nodded slowly. “Yeah, it was in my bag the whole time. Why?”

  Mia leaned closer, dropping her voice. “Theo thinks some of the stuff teachers give out can be anchors. Or traps. Things that make you more visible to Moners… or tie you to them.” She gestured at the book with her pen. “What exactly did he say it was for?”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “He told me it’s about the town’s history. That if I looked at it the right way, maybe I’d figure out what questions to ask.” Lisa pointed toward the dedication page and turned it so Mia could see. “Look at this.”

  Mia murmured the inscription under her breath: “…who asked the right questions before I could answer them.” She glanced up. “Who’s Eleanor?”

  “I don’t know. Calder mentioned her when we met. Said she was his niece. About our age, I think.” Lisa traced the letters with her fingertip.

  Two male voices suddenly intruded on their quiet conversation. Lisa looked up to see a pair of boys approaching their study area. Seniors, by the look of them, both wearing the kind of confident smirks that immediately set her on edge.

  “Hey there, ladies,” the taller one said, leaning against the side of their desk. He had sandy brown hair and wore a letterman jacket that looked like it had seen better days. “I’m Shawn, this is Travis. We’re starting up a new faction. More organized than those other groups, better resources. You two interested in joining something that actually has a future?”

  Mia looked up at them with barely concealed annoyance. “No thank you. We’re busy.”

  “Come on,” Travis added, his grin widening. “Strength in numbers, right? Especially with everything that’s been happening. We’ve got plans, real strategies for—”

  “We said no,” Lisa interrupted firmly. “Please don’t bother us.”

  Shawn’s expression changed, his friendly mask slipping away. “Hey, we were just being nice. No need to get all defensive about it.”

  “Yeah,” Travis said, his tone turning a little nasty. “We were kidding anyway. Wouldn’t want uglies in our party.”

  Mia’s head snapped up, her eyes flashing with anger. “Uglies? That’s rich, coming from someone who barely even left his house this week. Yeah, I know you, Travis Miller. Your sister told me you still sleep with the light on. Guess that makes you real scary.”

  Lisa stuck out her tongue, feeling childish but satisfyingly defiant, and just a little proud of Mia.

  The boys muttered something under their breath and walked away, their footsteps echoing on the polished floor. Mrs. Greaves looked up from her desk with a slight frown, but returned to her work when she saw the boys moving on.

  Lisa turned her attention back to the book, flipping through its pages. “I’ve been trying to find information about this Eleanor, but there’s no mention of her anywhere in here. The book talks about founding families, early settlers, town development, but nothing about anyone named like her.”

  She paused, looking at the publication information. “It was published Thirteen years ago. Maybe she was a student here? I thought about looking through the graduation yearbooks, but I don’t even know what years to check.”

  Mia leaned over to examine the dedication page again. “Look at the wording,” she said thoughtfully. “‘Who asked the right questions before I could answer them.’ It’s written in past tense, like she’s already gone.”

  “You think he wrote this after something happened to her?”

  “Maybe. And if she was asking the same questions you’re trying to figure out...” Mia trailed off, then looked up at Lisa, her eyes suddenly lighting. “Wait, how long’s Calder been teaching?”

  Lisa thought back to that first dreadful moment. “Twenty-three years. He went out of his way to mention it.”

  Mia’s eyes widened as understanding dawned on her face. “That’s it. That’s why he came here in the first place. Because of her.” She grabbed Lisa’s arm. “Whatever happened to Eleanor, it had to be around that time. Early on… maybe even before he started teaching.”

  Lisa felt a surge of excitement that matched Mia’s. “That’s actually brilliant. So we’re looking at, what, twenty to twenty-five years ago?”

  “Exactly. And if she was fifteen when she went missing...”

  “Then she would have been a sophomore. Like us.” Lisa stood up, her academic project temporarily forgotten. “The yearbooks go back decades. They should be in the archives section.”

  They gathered their materials and made their way toward the back corner of the library, where the older reference materials were housed. The archives section was quieter than the rest of the library, with older wooden shelves that creaked when you pulled books from them. The yearbooks were arranged chronologically, their shelves showing the progression of Westridge High’s changing logo designs over the decades.

  Lisa’s finger traced along them until she found what they were looking for. She pulled out several volumes, the covers showing the typical high school design evolution, from formal portraits to more casual layouts, from conservative fonts to bold, experimental typography.

  “Here,” she said, setting the books on a nearby reading table. “1999 through 2004.”

  Mia spread them open, immediately flipping to the sophomore class pages. Row after row of student portraits looked back at them. Young faces frozen in time, some smiling confidently, others looking awkward or uncertain in the way that only high school yearbook photos could capture.

  “Eleanor… Eleanor…” Mia muttered as she scanned the names beneath each photo. “Eleanor Adams, Eleanor Davis, Eleanor Robinson…”

  Lisa was working through a different yearbook, checking not just the class photos but also the club pages, sports teams, and candid shots scattered throughout. “Here’s Eleanor Parker in 2000,” she said. “And Eleanor Anderson in 2001…”

  “Eleanor Kim, Eleanor Peterson, Eleanor Walsh…” Mia continued, flipping the pages faster. “That’s eight already, and not one Calder.”

  Lisa frowned, looking across their collection of yearbooks. “Maybe she wasn’t a student here? Or maybe Calder isn’t her real name?”

  “Wait,” Mia said, pausing at one of the sophomore class pages from 2002. Her finger hovered over a particular photo. “Lisa, take a look at this.”

  Lisa leaned over to see where Mia was pointing. The photo showed a girl with shoulder-length dark hair and bright grey eyes, but there was something about her facial structure, the shape of her nose and the way she held her mouth...

  “She looks like you,” Mia said quietly. “I mean, the hair and eyes are different, but the face…”

  Lisa stared at the photograph, feeling an odd chill run down her spine. The resemblance was subtle but unmistakable. Something in the bone structure, the slight tilt of the chin, the way the eyebrows curved. “Eleanor Manson,” she read from the caption below.

  Her eyes moved to the photos arranged around Eleanor’s, taking in the other students from what must have been the same homeroom or class. And then she froze.

  Two photos down from Eleanor Manson was a young woman with auburn hair and bright eyes, smiling confidently at the camera. The name beneath read ‘Marcy Durbin.’

  “That’s... that’s my mom,” Lisa whispered, her voice barely audible.

  Mia’s head snapped up. “What?”

  Lisa’s finger moved to another photo in the same row. A boy with messy brown hair and an awkward smile. “Daniel Driver. That’s my dad.”

  They stared at the yearbook page in stunned silence. Lisa’s parents, twenty-three years younger, looking back at them from the same class as an Eleanor who bore an unsettling resemblance to Lisa herself.

  “I thought your last name was Bell,” Mia said slowly.

  “It is. Dad must have changed it.” Lisa’s voice trembled. “But this doesn’t make sense. They never told me they went to school here. They never mentioned Westridge, or this town, or—” She broke off, looking again at Eleanor Manson’s photo. The girl who looked like…

  “Lisa—” Mia reached out, concerned.

  “They lied to me,” Lisa said, her voice hardening. “Or at least, didn’t tell me the whole truth.”

  They said it was Dad’s job, that it couldn’t be helped. But what if they were running? And now they’ve stopped running, and she’s the one who has to—

  She couldn’t finish the thought.

  Mia squeezed her shoulder. “We don’t know what this means yet. Let’s find out more before we jump to conclusions.”

  Lisa took a shaky breath. She stood up, holding the yearbook. “I need to ask someone about this.”

  She walked toward the circulation desk, Mia trailing behind her. Mrs. Greaves looked up with her usual smile as they approached.

  “Mrs. Greaves,” Lisa said, setting the yearbook on the counter and opening it to the class page. “I’m doing research on students from the early 2000s. Could you tell me anything about these people? Specifically about Eleanor Manson?”

  Mrs. Greaves leaned forward, squinting at the page. Her hand came up to her face, fingers patting around her chest and neck with an odd, repetitive gesture. “Oh dear,” she muttered. “I’m afraid I can’t see anything without my glasses. I seem to have misplaced them again.”

  Her hands continued moving, reaching and patting in a pattern that made Lisa’s skin crawl. It reminded her of something. Multiple limbs searching, multiple eyes trying to focus.

  “I always lose the darn things,” Greaves continued, her voice pleasant but distant. “My sisters used to laugh at me. Said I needed to carry spare pairs, one in each hand, one hanging around my neck.” She chuckled softly. “But even then, I’d manage to lose them all somehow.”

  Lisa watched the librarian’s hands move. Gary had picked up a pair of glasses from the lobby floor. Mrs. Greaves’ glasses.

  “Without my spectacles, these old eyes just can’t make out the details,” Mrs. Greaves said, her smile still warm but her eyes unfocused. “Perhaps you could come back tomorrow? I’m sure they’ll turn up by then.”

  “Sure,” Lisa managed. “Thank you anyway.”

  They returned to their table in silence. Lisa sank into her chair, the yearbook open in front of her, staring at the three faces.

  “We have four minutes before the lunch meeting,” Mia said quietly, checking her phone. “Theo said all groups have to be there.”

  Lisa nodded, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from her parents’ young faces. They’d been here. They’d known Eleanor. And now Lisa was here, caught in the same nightmare they’d somehow escaped.

  “What do you think happened to her?” Mia asked softly.

  Lisa’s finger traced Eleanor Manson’s face in the photograph. “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”

  She pulled out her own phone and took pictures of the yearbook page, making sure to capture all three photos clearly. Evidence. Proof that this connection was real, not just her imagination.

  “We should go,” Mia said. “The meeting—”

  “I know.” Lisa closed the yearbook and stood, slipping her phone back into her bag.

  As they headed toward the door, Lisa glanced back at Mrs. Greaves. The librarian was still at her desk, her hands moving in that odd pattern, reaching for glasses that were no longer there.

  Reaching with too many invisible hands.

  Lisa shivered and followed Mia out into the hallway, toward whatever waited for them at the King’s court.