Ariella and Arkus were cuddling on the couch when the end of the afternoon came to be.
A glum, horrible darkness was lingering over them both, neither of them able to focus on the TV show, neither of them able to fully enjoy one another’s intimate presences as usual. A thick, ruthless cloud of bereavement had fallen onto them hard, their minds preoccupied with Tammy and their hearts feeling pained with every mournful beat.
When sunset came around, the two of them ignored every ring of the doorbell, paying the trick-or-treaters no attention. Eventually, Arkus drifted to sleep, lying crookedly on the arm of the couch, Ariella wrapped snugly around him. She rested gingerly on his chest, savoring every inhalation of his, every whiff of his scent, every feeling of warmth from his smooth, gentle touch. Though now, beyond Arkus’s embrace and the loss of Tammy, she could only think of the Halloween party at school—where Rodney would arrive to meet her, where Zane might make a cocky appearance, and where Ariella wanted and needed to be.
Her phone made a ping from the coffee table.
She glanced over at it warily, praying it wasn’t a text from a restricted number.
When she grabbed her phone and opened the text, she let out a breath of relief, seeing that it was from Rodney.
I’m in my classroom. Come meet up with me and we’ll go from there.
Ariella nodded to herself, sliding the phone into her jacket pocket and leaning over Arkus, preparing to crawl off the couch. She paused, hunching down and giving him a soft, tender kiss, then quietly stepped away, cautiously sliding his keys from his pocket as she did.
She moved to the hallway, collected one of her father’s shotguns, and returned to the living room, placing it on the coffee table for easy reach, just in case.
“I love you,” Ariella whispered, shifting his bangs aside.
After a final, loving stare, she turned on her heel and left the house as silently as she could.
Quite honestly, she knew she’d have a better chance of succeeding if she had her friends close by—but after what happened to Tammy, Arkus and Jaxson finally needed to be left alone.
Ariella, however, was meant to be there.
Just as Zane said, some people had safe lives while others were born in the fire and destined to stay there—and it seemed nobody knew that truth greater than Ariella herself.
She climbed into Arkus’s truck, started the engine, and drove off to Gates Mill University—where the main building was positively swamped with college students, parking lots jam-packed, music blaring, neon lights coasting across the scene of the gym, hundreds of arrivals, nearly all of them in costume.
Ariella drove past the main building, cruising down the road that led toward the parking lot outside of the health wing, parking the truck as close to the building as she could.
And inside the health wing—every hallway and every room was dark, all except for Rodney’s classroom, where he sat behind his besk, patiently flipping through a book and waiting for Ariella to arrive. He’d been in his classroom all day, not even bothering to leave for lunch or dinner, as his appetite had completely abandoned him since last night.
After sitting by his lonesome for a while, Rodney straightened up and stretched, reaching his feet and heading across the empty clearing around his desk. He approached the door to the hallway and opened it, greeted by only darkness, glancing outside before stepping out.
Rodney yawned and scratched his head as he wandered down the blackened hall, rounding a corner and vanishing into the men’s bathroom. Minutes later, he emerged again, sighing and preparing his walk back to the classroom.
A scraping sound caught his ear.
Rodney stopped on a dime, his breath cut thin, slowly turning and eyeing the darkness behind him, seeing no hint of movement.
His heart began to pound, his expression going stony, and he gulped anxiously, facing away and preparing to quicken his pace back to—
“ Agh —!”
A horrid riiip shot across Rodney’s left arm—tearing the skin as blood spurted out, staining the rolled-up sleeve of his once white button-up.
Rodney quickly scrambled back and clasped his bleeding arm, his heart hammering as a shadowy figure drew slowly near, approaching him with a toothy curved object at hand, long matted hair and wide-brimmed hat barely visible in the darkness.
Instantly possessed by adrenaline—Rodney whipped around and broke into a run, speeding around the corner and leaving a thin trail of blood spots in his wake, Cutthroat’s wicked eyes narrowing as he followed the professer with haste.
Ariella entered the building’s side entrance, marching down the hall from the opposite direction and opening Rodney’s classroom door. Unlike the hallways and the rest of the building, the inside of his classroom was illuminated and well-lit, the windows across all darkened, but Rodney was nowhere to be seen.
Ariella made a face, marching across the class and peering into the podcast room, which was also empty, save for what remained of the recording equipment.
“Rodney…?” Ariella called out, heading toward the door again.
“AGH—!”
The scream echoed down the halls as Cutthroat slashed at Rodney again—tearing another wound into his side. The professor bled profusely, hand viselike around his wounded arm, blood forming tiny puddles at his feet, face twisted up in pain and disgust as the Cutthroat Killer strode toward him, slowly backing him to a corner.
Ariella’s heart jolted, a striking fear shooting up and down her like lightning. She was certain she’d heard a scream from the hallways—one from a voice she knew well.
Glancing around frantically, her eyes landed on the katana above the chalkboard. She shoved the rolling chair toward it, stepped upward, and yanked the blade from its scabbard with a faint shiiing , hurriedly leaping down and rushing out of the room.
“Oh… well… done ,” Rodney rasped furiously, cocking his head and clenching his teeth, his visage warped into an expression of anger, a face of pure disdain that was reserved only for the man before him. “Finally… finally got me. You managed to corner an old man alone and slice him apart… good… for… you . Big… big man.”
Cutthroat glided toward him with a dark, ominous presence, his eyes shining with an equal searing hatred to Rodney’s, the two of them glaring heatedly into one another.
Ariella approached from the far hall, pressing herself to the wall and watching from around the corner. She squinted and gazed through the darkness, clutching the katana and trying desperately to swallow the rampant terror rising inside.
Rodney spat at the floor before the killer, stepping back toward the wall near the corner. “Are you proud? All you’ve killed… a fucking massacre in your wake. Are you proud …?”
“You deserve it,” Cuthroat rumbled in a low, scratchy voice. “You knew… what she was doing… and you didn’t do a damn thing . You deserve it— and so did she .”
“I didn’t know—you fucking ignorant waste of space, of course I didn’t know!” Rodney snarled with a throaty rasp. “You’re just a spineless fucking child who can’t own up to your own damn actions! And this is it— this is how you carry that temper-tantrum over into adulthood. Kick, and scream, and cry—lash out at the world because oh poor you, you never got your ass kissed like you wanted —!”
“You treated him like a fucking king— and you treated me like I was nothing but a goddamn fuck-up! ” Cutthroat exclaimed.
Rodney tilted his head, ignoring his lightheadedness and sparing the killer a sarcastic pitying sort of look. “Oh, well… poor, poor you. So misunderstood. Clearly , I was wrong… looking at you now …”
“Shut up,” Cutthroat snarled, gripping the branch-saw backward and raising it threateningly.
“You know why? You know why , Harley?” Rodney hissed, inching back as Cutthroat slowly moved forward. “Because your brother showed me promise . He actually fucking tried —and all you ever did was drag him down and bitch and whine! And that’s not what you do, Harley—that’s just not what you do! You take whatever the world gives you— and you just fucking make something of it !”
Cutthroat grinded his teeth and drew closer.
“You act like I beat you or something,” Rodney growled with a mad, breathless laugh, his head beginning to spin. “But, no… the worst you ever got from me was mild disappointment. And that was enough, huh?”
Cutthroat came dangerously close, raising his weapon.
“That was enough,” Rodney glowered in a weakening rasp, managing a faint nod, his energy vanishing, giving the Cutthroat Killer the nastiest look he could muster. “To turn you… into a spineless… fucking… coward .”
Cutthroat raised his hand, lunging forward to strike—Rodney rearing back and snapping his eyes shut, inhaling sharply and preparing for the worst—
CLANK.
The katana’s blade sliced the air and caught the branch-saw by the teeth—and she moved forward, fighting against the killer’s strength and shoving the sword firmly into the saw—then she whipped the katana to the side, slinging the saw out of Cutthroat’s grasp and sending it clattering down the hallway.
Cutthroat staggered back—Ariella tightening her grasp on the sword and stepping to the side, standing in front of Rodney and leering into the killer.
Everything fell still for a moment.
Cutthroat merely stared at her, Ariella glaring at him, Rodney watching in awe, back pressed against the wall.
Everyone’s heart thrashing with vibrant anticipation—everyone’s adrenaline spiked—Cutthroat slowly withdrew, taking mild steps backward and collecting his weapon from the ground. He stared at Ariella for a moment longer, then turned and marched around the corner, vanishing into the darkness with his tattered overcoat shifting at his wake.
There was a long, tense pause following his departure.
Rodney let out a drained cloud of breath, a faint moan escaping him, sliding downward and collapsing to the floor.
Ariella wheeled around, hurriedly moving to his side and kneeling next to him. Rodney sat crookedly against the wall, still grasping his bloody arm, crimson pooling beneath him as he slowly lowered his head.
“No—hey—Rodney, look at me,” Ariella gasped urgently, grasping his head and lightly smacking his face. “Stay awake. Stay awake! ”
Rodney groaned, Ariella quickly shedding her jacket and leaning over him, coiling the sleeves around him and sealing the larger wound shut.
“Ariella…” Rodney exhaled.
“Shh—don’t talk,” Ariella responded, spotting the smaller wound on his arm and glimpsing around for something else to use, but she had nothing else.
Then, she stared down at the katana lying beside her—with a long handle, white underneath, a thin black string coiled tightly around it in a stylish criss-cross manner. Ariella flipped her pocketknife open and sawed at the handle until the string loosened, yanking it off and draping it around Rodney’s arm numerous times. Several layers later, she finally managed to cover the second injury, tying the strings tightly and making him wince.
“Okay… okay…” Ariella breathed, thoroughly rushed.
She pulled out her phone and prepared to make a call—
Rodney clasped her phone and held it tight, meeting her gaze with a tired, yet severe visage.
Ariella returned the stare, totally baffled. “I have to call 911—”
“No,” Rodney rasped. “Not yet…”
“Why not?!” Ariella panted, blowing her hair from her eyes and giving him a bewildered look. “I d— I don’t want you to die! ”
“I’m not ,” Rodney said roughly, cracking a weak smile. “Thanks to you…”
“I have to—you have to go t—!”
“Ariella,” Rodney said somberly, his expression softening in a way that hardly looked like the man who just faced the Cutthroat Killer. “He didn’t just… come here… for me.”
Ariella narrowed her eyes at him strangely.
Rodney’s face took on a sense of seriousness again. “Zane won’t… have the chance… to walk free… if we just… wait… a little bit longer.”
Ariella slowly took back, instantly understanding.
“We wait,” she uttered. “We wait for him to kill Zane… before we call…”
Rodney nodded exhaustedly. He slowly raised his hand, pressing a finger gently to his lips.
“And… we don’t tell… a soul.”
Ariella gnawed her lip, scanning over him and feeling terribly conflicted. “I don’t… are you… are you gonna last that long…?”
“Aaagh… I pulled through the last time he tried to kill me,” Rodney moaned with a croaking laugh. “I ain’t going anywhere…”
Ariella felt hot tears beginning to form as her worry overwhelmed her, inhaling deeply and wiping her eyes.
Rodney observed her expression of concern, then gently clasped her hand, giving her another warm, tired smile.
“Oh, I wanna tell you… everything…” he breathed faintly. “You… sweet… little angel…”
“Come on,” Ariella said, tightening her grasp on his hand and grabbing his uninjured arm, easefully levering him upright. He leaned on the wall, allowing her to collect the katana before slowly escorting him down the hall. “Come on…”
She kept a vigilant eye on the darkness around her the whole way, Rodney’s hand clamped onto her shoulder as they walked, sword hanging by her side.
When she reached the classroom, she carefully guided him to his desk before swiftly crossing the room again—locking both entrances—then returning to him.
Rodney rested in his chair, his head leaning back and his eyes dreary, crimson saturating his left sleeve and the side of his button-up in dark blotches, both wounds coiled tightly shut, no longer pouring blood.
Ariella stared down at him sadly, two wicked emotions waging war inside her now—a terrible worry colliding with a dark, vengeful hunger.
If only Zane and Cutthroat would die, then perhaps she and her loved ones wouldn’t be forced to face death so closely anymore.
And God knew both of them deserved it by now.
Rodney sleepily raised his brows, reading her expression and feeling a pained knot forming in his chest. “I know what you’re thinkin’ right now…”
Ariella gulped, her hand clasped around the handle of the sword, giving a slight shake.
“And… it… scares me,” Rodney sighed heavily. “Heart of a… hunter.”
Ariella glared into him, her face riddled with grave perturbation.
“Fifty-fifty… between genetics… and environment,” Rodney exhaled. “That’s what makes up a person… a personality. And all throughout… the wild ride of life… we find ourselves questioning… the decisions, and the outcomes… the way the dominos land. And we ask ourselves, all after the fact… after we act a certain way, after we do whatever it is we’ve done… we ask ourselves… did we get it from the world around us… or was it engrained in us?”
Ariella’s heart thumped uncomfortably behind her ribs, still staring into him with a grave, painful flurry of thoughts and emotions coursing through her.
Then, Rodney meekly slid his hand across his desk, grabbing hers and squeezing it tightly. He gazed up at her with a profound, thoughtful, and empathetic stare, almost as if he was staring directly through her.
“That look… on your face… I’ve seen that look before, a long… long time ago,” Rodney conceded, his voice giving a slight tremor. “And the path my son chose… I never… ever want you to go down that path.”
Ariella inhaled several slow, shaking breaths, gazing into him and feeling utterly terrified by this conversation. She knew Rodney had been attacked by Cutthroat in the past after witnessing one of his murders, and she assumed that it must have been Mary Goldwater—but now, something far deeper seemed to be unraveling, something that—for some bizarre, unknown reason—shook her to her very core.
“You knew,” Ariella murmured. “You knew who Cutthroat was… this whole time…?”
Rodney nodded gravely. “I’ve known since before he… became… what he is now. But you… you must understand… I barely survived what he did, and he was already long gone by the time I managed to call the police. He believed I was dead… so, I let him believe that… so he wouldn’t come back. If I told them the full story… and if he ever saw himself on the news as a wanted man… he would know I survived, and he would… come back for me again…”
“Okay… but… why’d you stay quiet even now? ” Ariella asked. “The entire country’s freaking out about this guy, and we’ve been doing a podcast trying to find him, and…”
“If I went to the police and told them about the information I withheld for eighteen years… the cops would be no closer to finding him. None of the information I have would be helpful in getting him caught now… but I, on the other hand, might’ve ended up in trouble,” Rodney explained, blinking himself fully awake. “And if that happened, I… wouldn’t be around to… look after you…”
“Why me? ” Ariella pestered, leaning on his desk and staring intensely at him. “What the hell is so important about me…?”
Rodney didn’t answer, looking utterly drained and managing a small, pained smile.
“That’s why you live in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of guns… and you even keep a weapon in your own classroom,” Ariella determined. “And that’s why the podcast… why did… why did you even do the podcast? You knew how much danger that would put you in. It put you right back on his radar.”
“I hoped it would help to stop him,” Rodney sighed grimly. “And you all… needed someone to watch over you. I knew I could… to some degree… since I know him better than anyone. I figured… all of us together… we’d look after one another. And… that actually worked, and kept him at bay… kept him from… well, doing this to any of us… for a while, at least…”
Ariella stared incredibly at him, her heart aching.
Rodney gently patted her hand, leaning back again and releasing another painful sigh.
“I need to go,” Ariella muttered, placing the sword on the desk in front of him. “Keep this on you… and if you hear a noise, lock yourself in the podcast room and call the cops. Lock the door behind me, too.”
“Don’t you dare run off right now,” Rodney said softly.
“I need to make sure none of my friends went to the party,” Ariella stated. “I didn’t exactly tell Arkus and Jax I was coming here, so they might show up looking for me. I don’t want them anywhere near Zane or Cutthroat. I’m just gonna go look for them, and I’m gonna drag them out if I find them. Okay?”
Rodney gave her a torn look. “I don’t want you to…”
“I’m gonna be fine—I’ll stay in the crowd,” Ariella assured. “And I’ll come straight back here. I swear, I will.”
She marched off without waiting for his permission or response.
Rodney watched her go solemnly, biting his lip and saying a single, silent prayer for her.
“I’m going to… Colonial Avenue… meet me there.”
Vance snapped his phone shut without waiting for a reply.
The frightened townspeople were still circling around him, gawking at him with their mouths hanging agape. Vance pocketed his phone and placed a hand on the wall, pushing himself easefully upright. His leg was screaming in pain, but he stood, forcing himself to walk.
“Excuse me,” he rasped, gently pushing through the crowd and wandering toward his car.
“Where is he going?”
“Shit—he’s just gonna walk it off?”
“Holy crap , dude…”
Vance left the voices behind. He knew someone probably called 911 even though he instructed them not to. There was no time to deal with paramedics. He needed to meet Lumis, and he needed to clear the scene of this accident.
He climbed into his car, wincing and starting the engine before rolling away. He then drove down his own street, his leg pulsating horribly each time he moved it. When he reached the corner at Colonial Avenue, he stopped and lumbered out of the vehicle, absorbing the autumn scenery and allowing more memories to play through his mind like a movie.
Similarly to Ariella—Vance always used to this neighborhood with his friends.
He met up with Harley here, and he and Harley once walked this route to the high school. Later in the day, after their coffee shop visits, the two of them would venture off to the woods.
“The woods,” Vance mumbled. “What was in the woods…?”
Without thinking, he carried on, marching across the street and approaching the woods further down the road. He stopped at a dirt trail, eyeing it closely.
For what felt like hours, he simply stood there, staring into the trees. The trail was narrow with numerous branches and vines draping over it. He remembered the trail being wider than this, now overgrown with plants and shrubbery…
After about ten minutes, the detective’s maroon car rolled around the corner, stopping at the curb beside Vance.
Lumis leaned out the window, wearing a look of disbelief.
“Oh, now what in the fuck is this?” the detective swore into his cigar. “You’re bleeding out your goddamn forehead.”
Vance didn’t look at him. He continued staring into the woods, almost trancelike. “Yeah… that tends to happen when you get hit by cars.”
“Jesus, Vance.” Lumis drove his fingers into his temples. “You’re like a giant goddamn child, you know that? You just can’t be left unsupervised.”
Vance turned to him, gesturing to the dirt trail. “Come with me.”
“Excuse me?” Lumis barked. “Come with you where? What’s going on?”
“I got hit in the head,” Vance told him, his voice deep and grating. “And now I remember.”
Lumis examined him for a moment. He turned his car off and stepped out, slipping his hands into his pockets and giving Vance an investigative squint.
“You got hit in the head,” Lumis repeated. “When?”
“When the truck hit me,” Vance said, tapping his forehead. “Now I remember.”
Lumis blinked. “You sure? You sure you’re not just losing your marbles?”
“No idea,” Vance replied truthfully. “But… this is how it always is. My mind would lead me to places without me even fully knowing why… and it’s always promising. It always brings me to something, and because of that, I always delivered. Did I not?”
Lumis let out a cloud of smoke. “You did.”
“So, come with me,” Vance proposed. “Let’s see what it leads to this time.”
Lumis placed his cigar between his fingers, sighing and finally nodding in agreement. “All right. Whatever you say…”
Vance stepped into the trees, pushing branches aside as Lumis followed behind him.
After a few steps, the trail widened. The two of them marched through the woods, kicking leaves aside until they came to a clearing. Before them was the strangest treehouse either of them had ever seen, the rooms built between four trees, stacked on top of each other like a set of splintery building blocks. From the largest room up top, a thick rope was hanging down, presumably to make the climbing easier.
Vance drew closer, his eyes reading over every inch of the structure, so very familiar.
“We built this,” Vance uttered. “Harley and I…”
“Harley?” Lumis strolled up to him from behind. “Harley Hunter …?”
Vance nodded. “Yeah… he was a friend of mine. We grew up together…”
He ran his hand over the aging exterior of the treehouse, his fingers skimming over the old initials he and Harley had carved long ago.
V.C. H.H.
Memories flooded his mind; he remembered meeting Harley Hunter around the time he was six, a skinny, matty-haired boy who rarely spoke. Harley, unlike Vance, was an introverted child who hardly ever talked to anyone. Vance, on the other hand, was as outgoing as he was arrogant in his youth. He marched up to Harley right away and asked him a million childish questions, and since that moment, the two were inseparable.
Before the treehouse was built, the boys would visit these woods and play with no parental supervision. In the summer, they would walk to the railroad bridge and jump into the river, swimming until sunset. He remembered spending a lot of time at Harley’s home during the younger years. While Harley’s parents were cooking, the boys would be wrestling in the front yard, play-fighting and pinning each other to the ground or the bouncing black fabric of Harley’s trampoline. Vance remembered Harley’s father, who would occasionally lean out the front door, laughing and shouting playful remarks at the two boys.
Those were the golden years. Later on, however, Harley’s life seemed to take a downward spiral. Once the two were in high school, Vance had grown accustomed to hearing Harley’s angry rants regarding his father and the guys at school…
Vance took a deep breath, digging his fingernails into the initials on the treehouse.
“Fuckers,” he growled.
“What’re you talking about?” Lumis asked.
“My… other friends,” Vance recalled, visions of several teen faces flashing through his thoughts. “They treated him like… shit…”
Lumis fell silent.
Vance searched his mind, letting the memories continue to flow as smoothly as the river he visited each summer.
Victor Callaghan was a proud old war veteran, and Vance always wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps. Harley, on the other hand, hated the idea. One day, during their senior year in high school, Vance and Harley were sitting in the coffee shop talking about their futures. After they turned eighteen, it was a rarer occurrence for the two of them to meet up in the coffee shop; as Vance grew older, he started hanging around with different crowds. He and Harley didn’t hang out as much during this time. Their meetings at the coffee shop, which used to be a daily routine, had dwindled to a once-a-week-or-so event.
“Why’re you hanging around with those jackasses all the time?” Harley asked him that day. “You know those people treat me like shit on a regular basis, right?”
“They’re not jackasses … they’re just not like you ,” Vance replied. “You just have to buck up to them a little bit. Don’t take shit from them. Fight ‘em off. That’s what they respect.”
“I don’t want their respect,” Harley griped.
Vance took a dismissive sip of his double-shot espresso, the boys’ usual drink of choice.
Harley glimpsed at him. “You’re not really gonna join the military, are you?”
Vance shot him a look. “Don’t start.”
“I’m serious,” Harley said insistently. “Do you really wanna die overseas somewhere? You don’t have to do it just because your dad wanted you to.”
“ I want to,” Vance replied firmly.
Harley scoffed. “Yeah right.”
“What’s your problem? ” Vance snapped. “What the hell do you care what I do with my life?”
“I don’t want my only friend to die,” Harley retorted. “What the fuck’s wrong with that?”
“You sound like a chick,” Vance cackled. “God… just fucking man up and enlist with me. We’d both be set for life, and you wouldn’t have to do shitty yard work anymore.”
“I’m fine with yard work. Yard work won’t get me blown the fuck up,” Harley quipped angrily.
“You know what? You’re a goddamn chicken-shit,” Vance snarled, rising from his seat. “You’re just too much of a fucking pussy to join the military, and you wanna hold me back, too. I’m not listening to your shit anymore.”
At that, he spun around and stormed out the door.
Harley followed him outside.
“Why do you have to act like a macho prick about everything?” he asked, jogging behind him. “Where’re you going?”
“I’m going home,” Vance stated. “Leave me alone.”
“Dude—listen.” Harley jumped in front of him and stopped, standing in the middle of the road and blocking his path.
Vance glared into him—that skinny face, that messy black hair, and that woe-is-me expression he always seemed to wear. Harley didn’t have the stomach to join the military, or even to stand up to his bullies in school—but Vance was different, never without a backbone and never failing to adjust anyone’s attitude who challenged him. He knew for certain could handle the military. He simply couldn’t fathom why Harley wasn’t the same way—or why he had no desire to be.
“Even if you don’t die, you’ll change,” Harley told him. “The military will warp your mind. They’ll break you down and make you into a weapon.”
“So?” Vance laughed. “They’ll make me stronger and they’ll set me up for life. That sounds like a pretty sweet deal to me.”
Harley gave him a long, defeated stare.
“We’ve been drifting apart a lot, you know that?” he uttered sadly. “Do you even see that?”
Vance reeled back in disgust. “Don’t talk to me like I’m your boyfriend . You sound like such a fucking fag right now.”
“And you sound like my father,” Harley grumbled. “You sound like you’re turning into a complete fucking asshole.”
Vance huffed out an angry breath, gritting his teeth and leering into Harley.
Since the beginning of their senior year, and for a short while beforehand, Vance had been distancing himself from Harley, making new friends and slowly fazing his oldest friend out of his life. He didn’t do it on purpose. In fact, Vance had no clue why he was pushing Harley away. Perhaps he was sick of seeing him act so passively in the face of abuse. He honestly hated watching his friend take abuse from everyone around him.
“Listen,” Vance said, trying to simmer down. “When I get back, I’ll have more than enough money to work with. We can be roommates. Hell—we’re getting the house and the cabins. Plus, you’ll be out of school, and you won’t have to take shit from people anymore.”
“You’d be gone for at least four years,” Harley argued. “And you might not even come back.”
“Dude… I’m doing this,” Vance said flatly. “Whether you like it or not, I’m doing it.”
Harley hung his head. “This fucking sucks.”
“When we go back to school, talk to my friends,” Vance told him. “I’ll show you how to stand up to them. All right? They just like to play rough… but it’d be cool if you could hang out with all of us.”
Harley looked up, very slowly, his ocean blue eyes lit with a kind of hatred Vance had never seen in him before. “I don’t want to be friends with them. They’re pieces of shit, and they get away with beating the crap out of people all the time. Fuck—people like that end up getting away with everything . People like that deserve to die .”
Vance merely gaped at him, shocked to hear such a thing come out of Harley’s mouth.
“There’re too many people like that all over the fucking the world,” Harley went on. “Too many people get away with shit. They never get punished. They never get justice. They just keep hurting everyone around them.”
“That’s just… the way the world is,” Vance said at a loss.
“That’s wrong,” Harley growled. “If that’s the way the world is, then the world is wrong .”
Vance had no clue what to say. There was nothing he could do about the problems Harley faced, and there certainly wasn’t any advice to give.
The two of them stared at each other for a moment, and Vance tried to muster a response—but just as he opened his mouth, he became distracted by a squealing noise further down the road.
A yellow car was racing down the strip, swerving in and out of the right lane. The car rocketed toward them—
“Harle—!”
Vance grabbed at him, but it was too late—and the yellow car crashed into Harley, sending him flying through the air and tumbling down the street—the sound of it mortifying, screeching tires and crunching fiberglass.
The car squealed to a stop for a split second, then drove around Harley, tires peeling against pavement. The vehicle sped off and left the scene behind without bothering to stop, vanishing from the sight in no time.
“ Harley …!”
Vance dashed down the street and hit his knees beside him. Harley let out a series of pained grunts, his head bleeding, hands trembling. Nothing appeared to be broken, but Harley’s face was twisted up in shock and pain.
“You okay?” Vance gasped. “Holy shit…”
Harley took a moment to gather himself, his lungs slowly filling with air again. “I’m… f-fine.”
Vance let out a massively relieved breath. “Okay… okay, I’ll go call 911.”
Harley reached up and grasped his arm. “Wait—where—where’s the car?”
“It… it drove off,” Vance told him. “It was a hit-and-run.”
Harley glared into him, and his pained expression darkened into one of deep, profound anger.
“Ssee?” he rasped. “People get away with fucking everything .”
“Vance.” Lumis’s voice broke in, snapping him back into reality. “Penny for your thoughts?”
The memory melted away—and Vance blinked, taking in his environment once more. He was standing in the woods, just beside the treehouse and Detective Lumis. The sun was setting now, the sky fading into a deep indigo with glowing waves of pink and orange hovering around the sun beyond the treetops. Autumn leaves rained from the branches overhead, and Lumis was staring at him, waiting for an answer.
“The sound,” Vance muttered. “That’s why. I remembered… a hit-and-run. I remembered the sounds from back then… when Harley was hit by some crazy fucker…”
“Well, good… your memories got jumpstarted,” Lumis replied. “And all it took was you getting hit by a car. Who knew…”
“We used to swim… in the river,” Vance thought aloud, turning away from the treehouse. “From the bridge…”
Then, he marched off, venturing northeast and finding another trail in the woods. Lumis repressed a sigh and tailed after him.
After a bit of walking through the expansive woods—they found the railroad, an extensive bridge that stretched across the river down below, free of any sidewalks or protective railings. Vance jumped on the railroad and marched toward the middle of the bridge without hesitation.
“Yeah… okay.” Lumis shook his head, hesitantly following the PI. “And fuck us if a train happens to come along…”
Vance didn’t hear him. He walked with a pep in his step, further across the bridge until he reached its center. He then stopped and moved to the edge, staring down at the enormous body of water far below. The stars were slowly becoming visible in the sky, casting a beautiful reflection on the river’s shimmering surface.
Lumis stopped beside him, surveying him closely. Vance’s gaze was lost in the river, and the detective could read him like a book, as always. Judging by the look on his face now, he was still connecting the dots between his emerging memories. He wasn’t finished following the trail of recollections just yet, it seemed.
Vance remembered standing here countless times before, many years ago. It felt strangely, deeply familiar.
Back then, Harley would’ve been standing where Lumis was now. When they were in junior high and during their earlier high school years, Vance and Harley came here in the summer to swim. Sometimes, they would bring other kids from their school with them. It was bliss, nothing but fun and games. He couldn’t recall any other instances of such wonderful freedom, such mindless fun. Here at the river, he and Harley would escape from all the problems pressures of real life. It was the most fun Vance could ever remember having.
One day, when the two of them were fifteen, they came here in July and dove into the river. Typically, they would swim off to the left and climb back to the top from the dirt hill—but on this day, Harley swam the opposite direction instead. After jumping into the water, Vance saw that Harley was at the right side of the river, standing on an isolated on a patch of land and waving frantically at him, pointing to something under the bridge. There was an old shack beneath the bridge, extremely old, practically falling apart. Vance remembered spotting him, then swimming toward him with intrigue. After he reached the patch of land, the two of them explored the tiny shack for a while, and once the sun began to set, they left to go home.
A shack.
Vance turned his head, squinting into the darkness below. He couldn’t see it from here, but he knew for certain that the shack and the small patch of land must’ve still been down there.
Yes—he and Harley found an abandoned shack under this bridge. The two of them only visited it once, and they never went back. They never found out what the shack was for, or why it was there, or who it once belonged to—but in the case of the Cutthroat Killer, Vance had already determined that he was living entirely off the grid, away from regular society.
And that shack would’ve been the perfect hideout for him.
At once, Vance slid out of his overcoat and handed it off to Lumis. He removed the gun from his side and gave him his phone, shoving all his belongings into the detective’s arms.
“What’re you doing?” Lumis uttered.
“Hold my stuff for me.”
“Why, are you climbing down there?”
Vance smirked and took in a huge breath, bracing himself and staring down at the river. “Yeah. Something like that.”
Lumis gave him a double-take. “Oh, God almighty, don’t…”
Vance stepped back and gave himself a running start—hurtling over the side of the bridge and leaping through the air.
He fell over fifty feet, his shirt winding up, the wind pummeling against his face, the smell of fresh water more and more prominent the further he descended—the sensation rushing back to him in full, oh so freeingly familiar.
SPLOSH.
Upon hitting the water—Vance was quickly reminded of why he and Harley always referred to the river as a God-smack. It felt as if a monstrous hand had slapped his entire body at once. The rush was more intense than it ever was back then. Maybe it was due to his age, or perhaps it was simply the late October weather that made the air cold and the water chilly, but it all felt wildly uncomfortable. A fiery adrenaline sparked inside him as he sank into the water, and after a moment, he found himself swimming upward as fluidly as a fish, a skill that evidently had not left him.
His childhood summers consisted of quite a lot of swimming and bridge-diving, but he didn’t recall it feeling so unpleasant. He finally reached the surface and took in a massive breath before swimming to the right, and through his wet and blurry vision—he spotted the tiny landing under the bridge, along with a rectangular structure shrouded in darkness.
Instantly, he swam toward it, and there was no telling how many strokes he did before his arms began to ache. It felt like hours had passed when he finally reached the patch of land.
Vance waded through the shallow water and emerged from the river. He stepped closer to the shack, his clothes drenched, his body dripping from all over, his hairs short lying flatly down, his breaths quick and heavy. The wind might have frozen him to death if he remembered to pay any attention to his discomfort, but he ignored it out of sheer distraction, even though his leg felt like it could snap in half, and the dirty river water had infiltrated his head wound, making it sting even worse than before.
It was just as he remembered; the one-room shack sat nestled between two steep hillsides covered in large rocks, the tiny building sitting snugly under the edge of the bridge, completely out of sight from anyone who might’ve been observing from above. The small patch of land was made of mud and dirt, and along the sidelines were decaying carcasses—animals, all of them skinned, gutted, and mutilated. Beside the building was an old generator, which was currently powered off. Near the entrance of the shack was an old rusted combat knife protruding from the ground. Off to the left was a pile of black, charred sticks, presumably where a campfire had been repeatedly lit and used.
Someone had most assuredly been living in this shack, hunting small animals and keeping out of society’s sight.
Vance’s discomfort was creeping up on him now, his leg throbbing painfully beneath his weight, his head pounding worse with every thought. He slowly approached the shack, pushing the creaking door open peeking inside.
There were no lights, the interior incredibly small and shrouded in blackness. To the left was a splintery table, complete with a hotplate, a few dishes, and a tiny gray book with a severely bent spine, as well as a mini-fridge. To the left was the bed, covered with the Cutthroat Killer’s homemade blanket, fashioned from several small furs—and a wretched smell made Vance rear back, clasping his face and turning directly forward.
A board hung on the wall opposite him, a long sheet of paper covering it, names scribbled on the left side, several rotting chunks of flesh pinned to the right.
Vance stared at the morbid display, flies buzzing around it. He clasped a hand over his mouth, blocking out the smell best he could as his mind continued to wander.
What happened to Harley after high school, after Vance left for the military?
What happened to Harley—and what happened to Vance himself?
Suddenly—a splitting headache swept over him.
He remembered what happened next—the fateful plane flight, the ceaseless training, the friends he made, the people he saved, and the people he killed—and that guy, that guy from his unit, the one who always got on Vance’s nerves—he was an African American, a guy named Carson, with a crooked yellow smile and a killer sense of humor. His memories of Iraq were still foggy at best, but he remembered Carson’s face—that stupid happy face with the lopsided grin, a signature smile of his. Vance never understood that guy, how he could crack jokes and have so much fun during his service, after that rigorous training, after all the hell they’d seen. Maybe that was why Vance hated him; he hated seeing Carson smile, hated knowing that Carson was handling the stress of it better than Vance himself ever could.
He barely remembered who Carson was, but his face haunted him, something about that smile, those big, genuine eyes… those eyes wide with terror…
Yes—every time he saw Carson, he was smiling, right up until the man’s death.
When Carson died, his eyes were wide and frantic, no longer filled with life, the smile having vanished. It was right before that explosion, right before the roof came down over Vance’s head, right before he took that shrapnel to the arm. That was when Carson ran over to Vance, with those wide eyes, and jumped over him.
Yes, Carson had shielded him.
He’d saved his life—Carson, a man that he’d hated for no good reason, had saved Vance’s life that day.
“ Shit …!”
Vance sank down in front of the shack, sitting on one knee and driving his fingers into his skull, his head exploding with agony, his ears ringing and his heart hammering.
But this moment—Carson’s death and Vance’s injury—this was the very moment he so desperately wanted to remember, and undoubtedly, at one time, needed to forget. It was the instance that had started it all, the event that broke his mind and left him shrouded in a fog of confusion for many years to follow.
And now—as he pressed his back to the shack’s splintery wall, grasping his head in pain and glaring painfully up at the night sky—the memory finally returned to him in full.
On that day, marching through a civilian area amidst the desert, Vance remembered the ground shaking—the sudden spark of fear, the instant realization that he and his unit were about to take fire. He ran across the street, his allies seeking cover as well, though he couldn’t keep track of them—not enough time.
Vance carried his rifle and ran with the velocity of a freight train, bursting into the nearest house as explosions shook the atmosphere down the street—and the blasts were getting closer, dreadfully fast.
He glanced around frantically—his heart dropping.
An entire family stood on the other side of the room, three dark-skinned adults gaping at him with fearful distrust, their backs against the far wall, all of them clasping onto their four children with deathgrips.
Vance jumped—the ground tremored once more, dust and rubble flying amok outside.
“GET OUT!” he bellowed at the family, swatting at the window across the room. “GO!”
The children cried and whimpered, the adults saying nothing, merely glaring at him warily. None of them understood what he was saying, and none showed the faintest hint of trust, all of them remaining huddled together against the wall without moving.
Vance didn’t have time to convince them; he grabbed the closest child by the wrist, yanking the boy away from his family and making all of them erupt in furious shouts. He tried to push the child toward the window—but one of the adults ripped the boy away, returning him to their huddled group in the corner.
Vance cursed under his breath—his heart shattering as a wicked explosion occurred once more, this time dangerously close—dust and debris shooting into the doorway behind him.
Bracing and finding his resolve—Vance then straightened up, wearing a regretful visage as he began to raise his rifle. There was only one way to save the children—one course of action available to him now—something every fiber of his being screamed for him not to do.
But he gritted his teeth, held his breath, and opened fire—bullets ripping through the skulls of all three adults and spraying the walls with red mist, the children screaming and wailing frantically as their adult counterparts collapsed motionlessly behind them.
Vance wasted no time; he leaped forward and chased the children toward the window, making many of them leap outside in absolute terror. The last child was too small—so Vance lifted him up and threw him outside with all his might.
It was then—that moment of fear and regret—when Vance whipped around, Carson running inside, barreling directly at him, eyes wide with horror, signature smile of his gone without a trace—and the doorway exploded into massive chunks of debris behind him, Carson making a desperate leap, diving over him at the last second, shrapnel penetrating his arm as something smashed into his head with the force of a missile, making it all go—everything, every moment and every terror—vanishing into an instant darkened fog as the world faded black around him.
He couldn’t bear it.
How could he face himself the way he was back then? He was the person who turned his back on his best friend, Harley—who treated his savior, Carson, like garbage the entire time he’d known him—and who massacred a family of innocent people—and now, the damage was done, and he could never rectify any of it.
Perhaps that was why he took up work with Detective Lumis, working to make Gates Mill a safer town. Perhaps it explained why he adopted Ariella, a girl who desperately needed a home—and perhaps it was why he agreed to take Arkus in, someone who needed a guiding force as much as Vance himself once did. Even in his amnesic state, he wanted— needed to make up for everything he’d done in the past. God only knew if he’d truly managed to cleanse himself of all his mistakes.
Vance sat in the wet dirt outside of the killer’s shack, slumped against it and fuming up at the night sky, blood running down his face, wishing for the pain to stop—but, nevertheless, he continued searching his thoughts, grabbing for more memories and worsening his hellish headache yet again.
What happened after Iraq?
He barely remembered coming home; when he returned to Gates Mill, Harley’s house was empty, and the family home on Colonial Avenue now belonged to Vance. He vaguely remembered getting off the plane, stony-faced and bleary-eyed as he wandered out of the airport, wearing his decorated Navy SEAL uniform, a suit with patches and stripes, colored such a deep blue, it looked black in most lights. It was fresh after the incident, too soon after. Vance was still lost, broken inside, unknowing where to go or what to do. He had no one to visit, and he didn’t want to go home to his now empty house. So, he wandered the town with his suitcase, visiting shops, often forgetting where he was going or what he was looking for.
Later that day, he found Shamrock and went inside. The bar was filled with partiers, many of whom graciously offered to buy Vance’s drinks upon seeing his uniform—and he was glad to indulged the kindness of the citizens and the bartenders, drinking one longneck after another until his eyesight was as blurry as his mind.
In his drunken stupor, he forgot any notions of being lost or upset. He partied for hours until his energy ran out. Around one in the morning, he stumbled outside and plopped down on the sidewalk, sitting in the snow and unable to feel the frostbite nipping at his fingers. It was winter at the time, and Vance wasn’t used to the snow anymore. He smiled at it, feeling refreshed as he nodded off, leaning on the side of a nearby bench and drifting off to sleep.
He was numb to the hypothermia sneaking up on him. Two hours passed by before anyone noticed that he had fallen asleep in the snow.
The main road was now empty, and the bar had closed for the night.
A single car turned onto the main road, headlights washing over the empty street through the darkness, rolling up to the bench and slowing to a stop.
Vance blinked himself awake, his vision still blurred.
A maroon car had parked in front of him, and the driver rolled down his window, leaning outside and giving Vance a studying stare.
“Hey,” Lumis called out. “You all right?”
Vance attempted to focus his gaze on the stranger, barely succeeding. He held up a hand, flashing a thumbs-up.
Lumis smirked. “Rough day?”
Vance nodded tiredly. “The only easy day was yesterday…”
“You got somewhere to go?” Lumis inquired. “Need a ride?”
Vance made a thoughtful face. “I don’t remember.”
Lumis observed him for a moment. He stepped out of the car, motioning for him to stand.
“C’mon,” the detective said, offering a hand. “I’ll give you a ride. You can’t sleep out here in January—not even in Texas.”
Lumis pulled him to his feet, and Vance meandered around the car, sinking into the passenger seat and almost falling asleep again instantly. The detective tossed Vance’s suitcase in the back seat, then returned to the driver seat and drove off.
“Where to?” he asked.
Vance blinked himself awake again. “Colonial Avenue… I think…”
“All right. That’s a short drive.”
Lumis took a round route from the main road into the nearest neighborhood, turning a corner and reaching Colonial Avenue.
Vance gazed out the window, pointing to a small house on the corner. “That’s it…”
Lumis pulled into the driveway. There were no lights on inside the house, and there weren’t any other cars parked outside. Despite that nobody had lived in the house for years, the place appeared to be surprisingly well-kempt.
Vance stared emptily at the dark house, saying nothing.
Lumis surveyed him, eyeing his military uniform. “What’re your plans? Now that you’re back home, I mean.”
“Don’t have any,” Vance mumbled distantly.
“Ever think about working in law enforcement?” Lumis offered. “Or… maybe you’re tired of all that. Looking for a quieter job?”
“Law enforcement wouldn’t suit me,” Vance told him. “And neither would a quiet job.”
Lumis hesitated. “You know… people who do what you do work surprisingly well in that field sometimes. You’d be surprised.”
Vance turned to him. “Law enforcement wouldn’t suit me. Too many rules.”
Lumis chuckled. “The military has rules, too. You didn’t get that uniform by breaking rules.”
“Oh… I did a lot more than break rules,” Vance told him. “Navy SEALs aren’t your average toy soldiers. We’re a special few with special talents.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Lumis replied. “So… you wouldn’t work in law enforcement, huh. Not even if there was a way around the rules?”
Vance narrowed his eyes curiously at the detective.
“Here.” Lumis dug into his pocket, pulling out a small card and handing it to Vance. “That’s got my number on it. I recently ended up without a partner, so… as of now, I’m always looking. My name is William Lumis, but most people just call me Bill. I work at the Gates Mill Police Department. I’m not just a cop, either… I’m a detective. Detectives aren’t your average cops. We’re a special few with special talents.” He smirked at saying this.
Vance let out a laugh.
“If you ever need anything… or if you’re ever interested, give me a call,” Lumis offered.
“All right. I appreciate it.” Vance shook hands with the detective. “My name’s Vance, by the way. Vance Callaghan.”
“Good meeting you, Vance.”
“You too. Thanks for the ride.”
At that, Vance collected his suitcase and entered the home he hadn’t seen in years.
He remembered drifting inside, every light off, no noise stirring whatsoever. His eyes ventured around hazily, eyeing the living room, then landing on the kitchen, everything clean, dark, and still. Strangely, he almost felt as if he expected to see more people here, perhaps a woman cooking at the stove, or a man flipping through the channels on TV…
Totally dazed and exhausted, he sank to the floor behind the couch, lying on his back and drifting off to sleep in an instant.
The next day—his head pulsating painfully, sunlight now bleeding into the windows—he awoke to the sound of the doorbell ringing.
Vance slowly climbed to his feet, his hair screwed up and his head pounding harder with every slight movement. As he stood, he gave the door an odd look, wondering who could’ve possibly been visiting him now. He slowly opened the door, squinting and wincing at the sudden sunlight—and he saw a gentleman standing on his front porch, someone with a narrow face and blue eyes whom he didn’t recognize.
“Can I help you…?” Vance asked, his voice a gentle rasp.
Rodney beamed and let out a breathless laugh, pulling him into a quick hug and nearly startling him. “ Damn , it’s good to see you again. Melinda’s working today, but she’s thrilled that you’re back. She can’t wait to see you again. How are you?”
Vance narrowed his eyes strangely at the man, trying to place his name, though it was a complete mystery to him. He couldn’t recall anyone named Melinda, either.
“Sorry…” Vance muttered. “Who are you…?”
Rodney’s smile faded, a hint of surprise in his eyes. “You don’t know…?”
“No… sorry,” Vance mumbled, rubbing his temples. “I don’t really remember anything. Head injury… in Iraq.”
Rodney stared at him for several long seconds, frowning deeply and giving him a mild, saddened nod. “Well… all right. Sorry to bother you…”
He waved and walked away, Vance staring after him until he was out of sight.
The memory dissipated.
Now—as Vance sat in the moist dirt in front of the ancient shack, his head rested against the shack wall—his migraine finally began to subside.
Everything was becoming clearer; he left Harley’s side to join the military. During his service, a fellow soldier named Carson sacrificed himself to save Vance from an explosion, and Vance ended up with a few injuries and memory loss afterward. When he came home, Harley was gone, he couldn’t remember Harley’s father anymore, and he first met Lumis the night he’d returned to Gates Mill. It all seemed to fit together.
Vance’s vision began to straighten out, his migraine shrinking into a mildly dull headache. He rolled his head to the side and glanced around, suddenly remembering where he was.
Dead squirrels and rabbits aligned the patch of land, some of the bodies halfway submerged in the river water. In front of him was the rusted combat knife stuck in the ground, covered in animal blood, an old generator sitting in the dirt near the wall. He was in front of the shack he and Harley had discovered as kids, which was now the home of the notorious Cutthroat Killer.
He heard movement nearby, further up the steep hill. Each side of the hill was covered in rocks, and some of them were shuffling around, one falling to the bottom and splashing into the water. A moment later, Lumis appeared there, walking crookedly over the rocks and jumping onto the patch of land where Vance was.
“I’m too old for this shit,” Lumis grumped, still carrying Vance’s belongings. “Vance—you could’ve just as easily climbed down here. But, I guess it made more sense for you to jump off a bridge. Naturally.”
“We found this place when we were kids,” Vance mumbled, still sitting on the ground and gazing into the stars trancelike. “Harley and I found this place when we were swimming out here… and the names of all the Cutthroat victims are written on the wall inside. And… all their missing body parts are there, too…”
Lumis examined the area, seeing all the animal carcasses as well as the generator and the remains of a campfire. He then leaned into the darkened shack, quickly withdrawing and scrunching up his face at the smell.
“Including one of his own,” Vance sighed, glaring into the sky solemnly. “Harley came up to me on Boomsday… but I didn’t recognize him at the time. He had a deep scar on the side of his face… which is probably where that long slice of skin came from… pinned to his wall, right across from his name…”
“He keeps trophies for all his deaths,” Lumis figured. “Even for himself. He must think that he somehow ‘died’ the day he got that scar.”
“And the Cutthroat Killer was born,” Vance exhaled. “You were right. I knew… this whole time, I knew. Just didn’t know I knew…”
Then, something clicked in his mind—and Vance rocketed up to his feet with a start.
“Whoa—where’s the fire?” Lumis reared back.
Vance moved past him and leaned into the shack again, pulling out his keys and powering on his flashlight. He read over all the names on Harley’s murder board a second time, this time much more clearly. Two names were etched at the bottom of the list, the only two names with no body parts across from them.
Rodney
Zane
Lumis leaned inside and read the board as well. “Rodney—that’s the guy I found in the files today. He’s owned that hunting property this entire time, and it turns out he was related to the Hunter couple. I could never find a current address for him, but when I looked at the files today, I found out he used to live at—”
“ Rodney ,” Vance gasped, his heart making a frightful jump, his eyes locked onto the board as a rampant urgency shot up and down him. “Fuck—Harley’s gonna kill him. And Zane is—”
“Zane is expected to show up at that college Halloween party tonight,” Lumis told him. “That’s what your daughter said on her latest podcast, anyway.”
“Then Harley’s going there tonight to hunt down Zane— and Rodney,” Vance uttered dreadfully. “Son of a bitch —if Rodney’s there, he’s fucked. I have to go—I have to go now .”
“Vance—calm your shit,” Lumis advised. “You’re busted all to hell, and we need to call this in. Let the cops handle—”
“No— hell no,” Vance snapped, whipping around and preparing to storm off.
Just then—his phone began to ring.
Vance froze, slowly facing Lumis, who stood board stiff in the shack’s doorway. The detective was still holding the PI’s overcoat, firearm, and prepaid cellphone, the phone ringing from the top of his armful.
Vance stepped toward him, collecting his phone from Lumis and slowly raising it to his ear.
“Hello?”
Rodney sat leaning back in his chair, just behind his desk. Only mere seconds after Ariella left, he made the phone call, his expression gaunt and severe, glaring directly forward across his spacious empty classroom.
“Do you know who I am, fighter-boy?”
The words sank into his mind, creating another dull ache within his skull. Vance grimaced, inhaling deeply and trading serious stares with Lumis.
“I have… some vague idea now,” Vance replied slowly.
“Good,” Rodney replied, his voice rough and hoarse. “Because we’ve run out of time for you to remember. Come to my classroom right now. We need you here ASAP… and you and I need to have a talk that’s long overdue.”