A/N: Picture is roughly what bakery looks like.

Change is hard at first, messy in the middle, and gorgeous at the end. - Unknown 

In the quiet town of Willow Creek, life was seemingly idyllic. Neighbours greeted one another while mowing lawns. Kids played in the streets until dusk, and families enjoyed barbecues on warm summer nights. Laughter echoed as children played tag, their squeals of joy filling the air. The smell of grilled burgers and BBQ sauce drew families together around picnic tables, sharing stories of their week.

Life was simple and predictable... until, it wasn't.

Willow Creek changed irrevocably when it happened – when Miranda disappeared into thin air, taking with her the illusion of safety and innocence that once defined our sleepy town.

The town clung to its Victorian roots, as if time had decided to stand still in Southeastern Ontario. Each building, be it a home or a bustling shop, donned the same appearance rose of the Victorian era, paying homage to a bygone time. The very essence of the town felt like a step into a novel set in the heart of England, and yet, the map declared us Canadians.

Their age was a point of pride, like shiny buttons on a gentleman's coat. But not every part of this odd town fared well well. The streets felt divided.

In the poorer East, neglected buildings wore ivy and weeds like old scars. Here lived the forgotten, in RVs and trailers that had seen better days.

In stark contrast, the West was pristine—a picture-perfect paradise. Picket fences surrounded lush lawns. Children played under ancient willow trees, while grand two-story homes with grand porches lined the streets.

Then there was the middle ground, my home next to Jonathan Reeves, my best friend since infancy.

Mine was not a manor to rival the West's, nor a cottage to match the East's humility. Yet, In the mornings, you could still catch the sweet smell of my mother’s brown sugar cinnamon waffles drifting out the windows, and in the evenings, the laughter of my father's jovial laughter had echoed through each room. It was a sanctuary, offering order amid life's chaos.

It all started with her, Miranda Hutchins.

Miranda was the undisputed sweetheart of Willow Creek.

Everyone in Willow Creek seemed to adore her. She had long, golden hair that caught the light like it belonged in a shampoo ad, and eyes so green they almost glowed.

To the town, she was perfect, like some kind of angel dropped into our small, quiet streets. She represented everything people wished for: charm, beauty, confidence.

But for Jonathan and me, Miranda was merely another face. Her "appeal" held no sway over us. We saw beyond the practiced facade. Her smile, often directed our way, carried a subtle sneer. It was a look that clearly communicated her perceived superiority. She acted as if she was on a different plane of existence.

We simply did not belong in the neat little boxes she and her friends had created. These boxes were defined by popularity and conformity.

They had their perfect little world. We were not a part of it. We were different. We didn't play by their rules. So, we were relegated to the fringes.

Miranda’s charm was lost on us. It meant nothing. Her perceived status was irrelevant.

I didn’t mind much. I liked being on my own, wandering in my head, thinking about things most people ignored. Shadows, secrets, even death—they fascinated me. Of course, that only added to my reputation as the “weird kid,” but I wore that title like armour.

Jonathan was different. He kept me grounded. He knew what it felt like to stand on the outside looking in, and he never made me feel strange for being myself. In a town where everyone else seemed polished and perfect, Jon was my safe place.

Miranda, on the other hand, never missed a chance. She made sure I remembered exactly where she believed I belonged—at the very bottom of the social ladder. She’d usually offer a snide remark. Or she’d roll her eyes dramatically. Her friends would giggle. They thought they were so clever. They agreed with her every cruel word. Her popularity made her feel untouchable. She used it to make others feel small. She enjoyed the power it gave her.

But I had my escape.

I had my mother's bakery to retreat to, the sweet scents of sugar and flour or savoury sandwiches offering comfort, and my books, which whisked me away to places where being different was celebrated.

I remember the day Miranda Hutchins first spoke to me as if it were a scene from a movie.

We had grown up together, yet for some reason, neither of us had approached the other. Until this day.

It was one of those crisp autumn afternoons where the leaves danced in the wind. The air was filled with the sweet scent of decay, hinting at the approaching winter, and the sun painted the world in warm, golden hues as it descended towards the horizon.

I sat on a bench outside the local K-8 school, a place that had seen us both grow from wide-eyed kindergarteners to the complex creatures of early adolescence.

Lost in thought, I barely heard her footsteps approaching.

Miranda's entourage trailed her like a cloud of eager bees, buzzing with excitement to follow their queen. She had a way of moving that was both graceful and predatory, a gazelle with the eyes of a cat.

Ever since she started hanging out with Kirsty, she acted like she was in control of everyone.

"Hey, Harley," she said, her voice sweet but dripping with malice. "What's the deal with you and Jonathan? Are you two an item, or is he just slumming it?"

A cold knot twisted in my stomach. I forced a neutral look as I looked at her. "We're just friends," I muttered, hoping the conversation would end there.

Her green eyes sparkled. "A friend? Oh, honey, he could do so much better than hang out with someone like you." Those words stung, but I'd mastered the art of hiding my feelings. I nodded and retreated into my thoughts, watching shadows stretch as daylight faded.

As Miranda's laughter faded away, Jonathan appeared beside me, his hand resting gently on my shoulder, a silent comfort. "Don't let her get to you," he whispered. "You know she just wants to stir up drama."

He was the only one who knew the real me, the one that the others didn't care to see.

Together, we walked home that day in silence, the setting sun painting the town in hues of amber and crimson.

I stole a glance at Jonathan, his profile etched against the fading light. His eyes, a profound shade of blue that often reminded me of the ocean on a stormy night, and I wondered what he was thinking as we made our way through the familiar paths towards our houses.

The sun dipped behind the rooftops, and a chill settled in the air. "Thanks," I whispered.

"You know," he said, "sometimes being different is what makes us special." Jonathan had a way of making me feel accepted. He showed me that what others saw as flaws could actually be beautiful.

"Yeah," he nodded, a slight smile forming. "Remember, Harley, it's the weird ones who change the world."

"Maybe being different is just a unique kind of gift," I replied.

"Perhaps," he said, his eyes bright, "it's what makes us extraordinary."

Being different wasn't a flaw, but rather a gift wrapped in the guise of strangeness.

We would always support each other, two misfits forging our own paths.

With a shared smile, we parted ways, his encouraging words lingering long after he stepped into the darkness.

Maybe, just maybe, we weren't so odd after all. Maybe we were just two puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together, creating a picture that no one else could see.

And maybe being a little peculiar wasn’t such a bad thing.

It even came with perks—like our Crime Nights.

Each Friday evening, Jonathan and I would transform into a dynamic duo of armchair detectives, our eyes glued to the flickering screen as we munched on a smorgasbord of snacks, from popcorn and pretzels to some of my mom's homemade snacks and baked goods.

Sitting side by side on the couch, the fabric molded to the shapes of our bodies from countless nights spent there, we shared our theories in hushed whispers, careful not to interrupt the show.

Crime Nights were ours. They evolved from childhood curiosity into an unbreakable bond, often stretching into Crime Weekends. Those moments were sacred, our little ritual, and we cherished every one.

Jonathan practically lived at our house. His toothbrush sat beside mine in the bathroom, slightly bent from overuse. A drawer in my dresser held his spare clothes, which always smelled faintly of his body spray.

Hours would slip by as we raced to solve each case before the characters on screen. We'd yawn and stretch, but the thrill kept us alert. Sure, we loved proving we were smarter than the detectives on TV, but mostly we enjoyed each other's company. Jonathan's laugh was my favourite sound, especially when I completely missed an obvious clue.

My mom didn't bat an eye; she knew us better than anyone. We'd been joined at the hip since our first wobbly steps.

Our parents were classmates, which built an effortless trust between us. It felt as natural as breathing. We were like two detectives on an endless stakeout. The air was filled with buttery popcorn, or freshly baked cookies and brownies, and the soft scent of cinnamon candles making it feel like we were on a never-ending stakeout.

Outside, the world grew quiet, the street lamps casting a warm glow through the windows that were framed by a velvet curtain.

As the credits rolled and the mystery was neatly tied up with a bow, we'd sit back, satisfied, our eyes reflecting the afterglow of the screen. We'd exchange triumphant smiles or good-natured jabs, depending on who had guessed right, and then we'd start all over again. Because that's what best friends did.

Saturday mornings always began the same way—with sounds from the kitchen. Pans clanged, bacon sizzled, and pancakes sent their sweet smell throughout the house. One scent was always missing though: coffee. Mom knew the bitter smell made me sick, so she'd make her pot before sunrise, letting it fade before I woke up.

I'd stumble into the kitchen half-asleep, and she'd hand me a cold glass of apple juice with a warm smile.

At breakfast, the table was full of our favourites. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, warming our faces.

I understood that our ritual meant more than just solving mysteries. It was about connection—those quiet moments between laughs when our hearts would race together as we neared each show's climax. I couldn't imagine life without Jonathan. He wasn't just my friend; he was my chosen family.

In a world that often made us feel like outsiders, we'd created our own space where being different was exactly right.

I often found myself thinking about him, even on a day like today, as I sat in my mother's bakery.

I sat in our nook, a small booth painted Robin Egg Blue, just like the walls. It felt cozy, a perfect escape from the world's noise. I had come here since childhood. My mom's bakery was my refuge. No matter the chaos around me, I found peace here.

I glanced around, soaking in the familiar sights and smells. The glass case held vibrant cupcakes, flaky croissants dusted with powdered sugar, and fruit-filled pies, among other desserts. The old cash register with its brass handle sat proudly in front of vintage baking tools hanging on the walls. Sweet vanilla and cinnamon scents filled the air, wrapping me like a warm blanket. The yeasty aroma of fresh bread took me back to mornings spent kneading dough with Mom.

The rhythmic whir of the mixer, the occasional ding of the timer, and the sizzle of butter in the pans. The sound of the doorbell chimed cheerfully as customers came and went, bringing with them a gentle chatter. The rustle of plastic bags and the clink of change on the marble countertop added to the comforting soundtrack of the place. It was music to my ears, a familiar tune that brought a smile to my face every time.

It was all so comforting and familiar, like a warm hug on a cold day.

This place meant more than pastries and bread. It wasn't just a business; it was a part of me. It held memories—laughs, tears, and countless moments shared with Jonathan.

How could such an ordinary spot hold so much magic? I wondered.

But somehow, it did.

Most of Mom's ingredients came from the garden behind our house. I could still see her there, dirt under her fingernails, watering her plants with that infectious smile of hers. As a kid, I'd follow her through the rows, hunting for the perfect tomato like it was buried treasure. Those weren't just gardening sessions—they were our time to connect, filling baskets while we filled each other in on our days.

"Food tastes better when you grow it yourself," Mom always said. She was right. Every herb carried more flavour, every berry burst with more sweetness. Good soil made good food, and you could taste the difference in every bite.

Before any baking began, Mom would visit her garden first. I can still hear her laughing as she tossed fresh berries into mixing bowls. "From garden to table," she'd announce, eyes bright with pride.

Her baked goods carried more than flavour—they held memories. Rosemary bread meant Sunday dinners with the whole family. Berry pies meant lazy summer afternoons spent picking fruit until our fingers turned purple. This was tradition, passed down through generations of women who understood that food was love made visible.

We'd gather around our kitchen table, eager for the first taste. Mom would slice into warm loaves, and we'd all reach for pieces, steam still rising.

Looking around the dining room now, I felt proud of what we'd built together. The robin's egg blue paint—my choice when I was just a babe—made the white marble tables pop. Mom had recreated a piece of Paris right here in our small southeastern town.

The idea started with my grandparents' wedding gift: a honeymoon trip to France. Mom and Dad spent a week wandering cobblestone streets, tasting pastries, and falling in love with the elegance of Parisian bakeries. That trip planted a seed that grew into Mom's dream.

She'd transformed that dream into reality with Dad's help. He had a background in construction before starting his bike shop.

The crystal chandelier cast warm light across polished tables that Mom cleaned obsessively. Wall sconces created cozy pools of light, while upstairs offered intimate seating for couples and special occasions.

Stepping inside felt like entering a museum or a grand castle.

The decor was intricate. Carved wood booths invited customers to sit, while columns stood strong, supporting the structure. Filigree accents on the walls and ceiling added elegance.

"Harley!" Mom, Avril, called, breaking my concentration.

I looked up and spotted Jonathan at the door. I smiled and waved him over.

"Hey! Sorry, I was lost in my English assignment. I didn't notice you came in."

"It's fine. I wasn't waiting long." His smile brightened his face, those cute dimples showing. I couldn't help but grin back.

I took a bite of my warm, gooey chocolate chip muffin. Comfort food at its best. The rich chocolate melted on my tongue, making everything feel perfect. I offered him a piece, and he took a bite too.

This was a normal occurrence for us. He was the only person I'd share my food with.

Anyone else better make sure to count their fingers in the morning.

Just kidding. Or am I? No, I'm totally kidding.

"What topic are you doing yours on?" he asked, leaning closer, curiosity sparkling in his eyes.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" I teased, nudging him playfully. "Just kidding. My paper's about the murders and disappearances in this town," I said, my tone shifting. "I found out there are so many young girls who have gone missing or been murdered here."

Jonathan's smile vanished, replaced by a serious expression. "That's dark. Why that topic?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. It just feels important. These stories need telling. They aren't just statistics; they were real people."

He nodded. "Yeah, I get that. It's easy to forget. But it's clear you really care."

"Of course I do. It's about more than just a grade." I paused. "And it's kind of a reminder of how fragile life can be. Makes you appreciate the little things."

Jonathan looked thoughtful for a moment. "Like muffins?"

"Exactly."

Willow Creek looked charming from the outside. But it was becoming abundantly clear that beneath that beauty, darkness lurked.

Jon and I huddled in a booth, my laptop illuminating our faces as we dug into the town's eerie past. We sifted through old newspapers and police files. Decades of unsolved mysteries stared back at us, a chilling tale unfolding.

Faded pages revealed a grim pattern. Young girls had vanished. Others faced horrific fates, their stories bearing signs of foul play. As we pieced together timelines, a heavy truth emerged—Willow Creek hid secrets darker than we imagined.

The pattern was clear once you knew where to look. Girls aged sixteen to twenty-five would simply vanish. Sometimes their bodies turned up months, or years, later in the woods on the edge of town. Sometimes they never turned up at all. The police files read like a broken record—no witnesses, no suspects, no leads.

Jon's widening eyes mirrored my disbelief at the scale of tragedy lurking in these quaint streets.

What struck me most was how the community responded. Or rather, how it didn't respond. Each disappearance was treated as an isolated incident. Families were quietly told their daughters had "run away" or met with "unfortunate accidents." The local newspaper buried these stories on page six, between ads for farm equipment and church potluck dinners.

This was Canadian small-town politeness taken to a deadly extreme. Don't make waves. Don't ask uncomfortable questions. Keep the tourism money flowing and the property values stable. Meanwhile, someone—or something—continued hunting.

The townspeople had learned to live with it. Parents kept their daughters close after dark. The local paper barely covered the cases anymore. It was as if Willow Creek had collectively decided that some truths were too uncomfortable to face.

"Two hundred years of this," Jon whispered. "How does an entire town just... ignore it?"

I understood his shock, but it didn't surprise me. I'd been drawn to society's dark corners since childhood.

People often asked me why I cared so much about death and violence. Teachers would frown when I chose serial killers for history projects. Classmates whispered that I was weird, maybe even dangerous. They didn't understand that studying darkness doesn't make you dark. If anything, it makes you more aware of the light.

They misunderstood my fascination. I wasn't drawn to the violence itself—the blood made me queasy, and I could barely watch horror movies without covering my eyes.

As a kid, while my classmates traded hockey cards, I collected newspaper clippings about unsolved murders. My bedroom walls were covered with timelines and suspect lists instead of boy band posters. My parents worried I was becoming too dark, too serious for someone so young. They didn't realize I was trying to make sense of a world that seemed randomly cruel.

They came to accept that it was one of my selective interests.

But it wasn't just the thrill that drew me in. I wanted to unravel the psychology behind these actions. What fueled their darkness? This curiosity shaped how I viewed the world. It wasn't about glorifying violence; it was about confronting the unsettling truths of human nature.

But even in my obsession, I never lost sight of death's finality. I understood that the people I read about were gone and would never return. That knowledge only intensified my fascination.

Society teaches us that monsters are easy to spot. We imagine killers as wild-eyed strangers lurking in shadows. But the truth is more unsettling. Evil often wears a familiar face. It sits beside you in church, serves your coffee, teaches your children. This realisation shaped how I saw the world—with healthy suspicion beneath polite smiles.

My childhood was spent in dusty library corners, reading about criminal minds while other kids played video games. I studied Greek myths where gods committed terrible acts out of jealousy and rage. Norse legends where heroes fell to their own pride and anger. These stories weren't just entertainment—they were warnings about human nature that we'd somehow forgotten.

The mythology spoke to me because it didn't pretend people were purely good or evil. Characters made choices that led them down dark paths. They faced consequences. They struggled with the same emotions we all carry—envy, fear, the hunger for power.

Through it all, I didn't just want to learn. I wanted to understand. I wanted to know why some people were drawn to darkness while others shied away. This journey was not just about fascination; it was about finding my place in a world that often felt overwhelming. I was searching for answers, hoping to make sense of the chaos around me.

The first recorded disappearance was that of sixteen-year-old Alexandra Huxley. A haunting black-and-white photo accompanied the report. In it, a young girl with long dark hair and forest green eyes stared back. Alexandra vanished on her way home from school in 1842. She was never seen again, and her body was never found.

Her case marked the start of a troubling trend. Since the 1840s, over a hundred women and girls have gone missing. Some were later discovered murdered, while others vanished without a trace.

What happened to them? Where did they go?

Each disappearance added to the growing mystery surrounding this troubling pattern. The community mourned. Families were shattered.

The stories of these women and girls were more than just names on a list. They were daughters, sisters, and friends. Each individual had dreams, hopes, and lives that were abruptly interrupted.

Jon leaned closer, his gaze glued to the screen. "This is insane," he murmured. "Why haven't we heard about this?"

I shrugged. "I have no idea, but it feels like the town is hiding something. The authorities seem more interested in covering it up than investigating. It's as if they're afraid."

"Do you think it's a cult? Or maybe a random killer?"

I paused, considering. "I honestly don't know," I said slowly. "But it feels like we're missing pieces of the puzzle. There's something sinister at play. We need to uncover the truth."

I dug into my backpack and pulled out a duotang filled with papers. "What are you up to?" he asked, intrigued. "I'm making a timeline," I replied, grabbing a pen and jotting down names. "I want to see if there are any patterns."

As I scanned the names, I found no links. Each girl was different. Whoever was behind this had no specific type. It was a common trait in a killer's modus operandi. I sighed. "It's odd. Some had blonde hair, others brown, red, or black. Blue, green, brown eyes. What's the motive here?"

Jon looked thoughtful. "With how long this has been happening, it's clear more than one person is involved. But how many? A cult like I suggested? Or just random abductions?"

It was clear that this had been going on for too long for just one person to be behind it. But how many were involved? Was it a cult, as Jon suggested? Or were these just random abductions and murders? The latter seemed too far-fetched. What could anyone gain from targeting a small town and abducting or killing young women?

"None of them have been solved?" he asked quietly. I shook my head. "That's what drew me in. It not only threatens us, but these women need someone to fight for them. They deserve a voice."

I could see him listening intently, as he always did. That was another reason we got along so well; he was a great listener. Even if the topic didn't spark his interest, he made you feel as if it was the most important thing at that moment. His eyes lit up, and he leaned in, hanging on every word.

"DNA testing has advanced," I said, "but without a theory, solving the earlier disappearances is impossible. Our best hope lies in the last fifty years—if they are still alive." He laughed, shaking his head. "I wish I'd known this sooner. If only it weren't a solo project."

"I figured you might say that. That's why I asked Mr. Haggerty if we could team up. I assured him you wouldn't distract me. You bring out the best in me."

I glanced up. He was already staring at me, his blue eyes bright and almost pleading. "In everything," I said.

"I'm surprised," he replied.

"Why's that?"

"I just don't think he likes me much."

"Why do you think that?"

"You're his favourite student, but I get a strange vibe from him."

"A vibe?"

"Yeah, a vibe. I can't explain it. But you told me to trust my instincts."

And, I had.

I always believed that instinct was our body's warning system. It guided us in small ways, like checking if doors were locked or sensing if someone was following us. Trusting those instincts could mean the difference between life and death.

Mr. Haggerty was a new teacher at Willow Creek Institute, only here a year, yet, he had charmed many students. The girls especially had a soft spot for him. They would blush and giggle as he walked past. He was undeniably attractive, with dark brown hair slicked back and piercing blue-grey eyes that seemed to look right through you. But he was a teacher, here to educate, not to indulge in fantasies.

"I suppose you should. Just because I don't feel it doesn't mean your feelings aren't valid," I said, watching him smile. "But he agreed to let us work together."

I tensed for a moment as he hugged me. Hugs weren't my thing; they often felt suffocating. Yet with Jon, it was different. He had a talent for lightening the mood.

He always respected my space, never pushing me to share more than I was comfortable with. That was rare. Most people thought sharing was mandatory. But Jon got it. He truly saw me.

I reflected on my small circle: my mom, Jon, and my dad before he passed. They were my exceptions.

He draped his arm around my shoulder as I rested my head against it. "What do you think of the new kid?" he asked.

"I'm not sure. He seems fine. Kind of quiet," I replied.

Jon nodded. Today marked the arrival of Damon Johnston. It felt odd to welcome someone so late in the year, halfway through the second semester. Yet, there was something about him reminded me of myself. He was silent, broody, and seemed to like dressing in dark colours.

"Are you hungry?" Jon asked, a playful grin on his face. My stomach growled in response. I laughed at the timing, and Jon joined in.

"How about some honey garlic chicken wings and potato wedges?"

"That sounds perfect," I replied.

Jon always knew my favourites. In Willow Creek, our dining options were limited. We often ventured to the mall, where there was Mickey D's and Burger King, alongside Tim Hortons. But our preferred spot? The pizza shop near Just Bake It.

The other restaurants offered a variety—Chinese, Indian, Caribbean—but we indulged in those only occasionally.

My mom capitalized on the bakery's size, a former restaurant. She had a dedicated section for savoury treats—sandwiches on homemade bread, meat and vegetable patties, and even savoury waffles. Many of these recipes were inspired by her childhood, blending her Jamaican father's heritage with her English and French-Canadian mother's roots.

Despite this, I had been craving honey garlic wings for some time.

Technically we weren't supposed to bring outdoor food inside. But, it was very rare that we did.

Besides my mom made things that could only be found in her shop.

I mean... How many places sell honey garlic wings? Plenty. It might not taste the same as our local pizza shop but...

So, it wasn't like we were talking away business from my mom. There were plenty of regulars who came for her savoury options; having been introduced to or missing certain flavours.

A young man approached me shortly after he left, holding an envelope. I squinted to see it better.

"Are you Harley Masterson?" he asked.

I chuckled; My parents thought naming me after my dad's favourite motorcycle was clever. Harleys were always his choice. With Quinn as my middle name, one could say I was also named after the iconic DC anti-hero. Yet, my parents claimed it meant "intelligent," a trait they hoped I would embody.

"Um. Yeah, that's me." He handed me the envelope and walked away.

That's weird. I didn't know mail could be delivered anywhere other than home. Unless it was a subpoena, divorce, or custody papers. None of which this could possibly be.

Curiosity piqued, I tore open the envelope, my mind racing with possibilities of what lay inside.

It was a letter.

My dearest Harley,

As I sit here, pen in hand, staring at the blank page before me, my mind wanders to you. The time we spend apart only draws me closer to you.

Just hearing your name fills me with the greatest warmth I've ever known.

I notice the way you look at me. Your hazel eyes shine a little brighter. The way you smile when you think I'm not watching. The way you play with your silky auburn hair, trying to control those wild strands. It's innocent yet seductive, and it leaves me breathless.

You are my wife, my heart, my everything. I dream of marrying you, of building a family together. A life filled with love, laughter, and adventure.

I crave your touch and want to feel your arms around me. I want to get lost in your eyes and find my way into your heart.

Without you, my days lack warmth. But with you, my world shines brighter than the sun. It's as if the universe brought us together—two souls meant to find peace in each other's arms.

As I write this, I know our love will endure. We will face challenges together, hand in hand. With you by my side, nothing is impossible.

Love,

Your Secret Admirer

A secret admirer? It felt eerie, unsettling even. Probably just a prank from some kid at school. Why would anyone bother to write something like that for me? I scanned the crowd. No one was paying attention. They were absorbed in conversations, their meals, or lost in their screens.

Just a joke, I reassured myself. Just a silly game for a laugh.

Hearing the doorbell chime, I turned to see who had entered. Jon was back with our food. I quickly shoved the letter under my butt, then faced my laptop as if nothing had happened.

"Sorry for taking so long," he said, setting the bags down on our table. "I hope you're hungry."

Just then, my stomach rumbled, causing Jon to chuckle. "I'll take that as a yes," he said, his grin wide and infectious. I nodded, already salivating over the honey garlic chicken wings and crispy potato wedges.

These moments felt good. Simple. Familiar. They provided comfort amid the chaos of life in our small town.

Jon pulled out the containers and set them down between us. We each grabbed a wing, the steaming aroma filling the air.

Before I even took a bite, I knew what to expect. The owners knew us from our many visits, and we always got the same thing. They knew I liked extra honey garlic sauce, and my wedges thickly cut so they didn't get too crispy.

"So, did anything happen while I was gone?" he asked, licking excess sauce off his finger.

"What? No!" I shot back, a little too defensively.

"Chill," he said, laughing. "I was only kidding."

"I know," I replied, joining his laughter, but reluctantly. The letter felt like it was burning a hole through my pants, demanding attention. Should I show it to him? He'd probably reach the same conclusion I had—just another joke from one of the students at our school.

I must've zoned out because the next thing I knew, something sticky touched my nose. I blinked and saw Jon, struggling to contain his laughter. His eyes sparkled with mischief.

"What did you do?" I asked. I felt my nose and, when my hand came back into view, it was covered in honey garlic sauce. "No, you didn't. Oh, I'm going to get you back for that. Just you wait."

It's always nice to keep someone guessing, isn't it? The thrill of the surprise is half the fun.

Jon smirked, "Oooh. I'm so scared."

"Oh, you will be," I shot back, biting into a potato wedge. We both erupted in laughter.

"What's the plan for the assignment? Where do you want to meet?" Jon asked.

"We can get a lot done here after school. If we need more time, we can go to my place or check the archives for what we can't find online," I replied.

"Sounds good," Jon said.

"Awesome!"

The rest of the evening flew by as we hung out in the bakery, savouring our treats until it closed.

We waited for my mom to finish locking up, and then she drove us home, dropping Jonathan off next door.

Once home, I didn't waste any time. I rushed to my room, already thinking about the town's mysteries. Hours slipped by as I scrolled through articles about the local crimes. I fought to keep my eyes open, but the desk almost became my pillow.

Finally, I shut my laptop. The bed called my name, and I gladly answered.

Tomorrow was Friday. That meant one thing: CRIME NIGHT!

And I had a feeling it would spill over into a crime weekend, just like always.

I couldn't wait.

If only I had known what tomorrow would bring.

Alexandra Huxley