I whisper, not so quietly, “What do we do?” If this were a video game, you could tell who was the carry and who was the carried. I’m the Carried. She kicks my shin again, at the exact same spot. She is accurate when she’s mad I noted. We both instinctively go under the table as we heard the footsteps of the giant man with the creepiest black suit you would see in Waterbridge. A suite meant more for a funeral than a day of walking. I could hear the gulp in my throat as I brace for him to pick up the table and grab us by our shirt collars. Voilet’s eyes are wide and still like a life-size cardboard cutout. Was it her fear? Or was she just preparing for the worst? Thinking to myself, Our best shot would be for me to run first at the man and hopefully give Voilet a chance to escape.

“Voile-” before i can finish speaking i am cut off.

“Where did you get that suite” … “Excuse me, sir?” a frail old voice from across the diner is heard, faint by the time we hear it, but loud enough to cause the man in the suit to turn around. It was Mrs. Burchner . “Sorry to bother you, but that suit you are wearing, it’s so nice and my nephew has been looking for a suit himself. What is the brand?” Mrs. Burchner does not have a nephew; she has nieces and sons but not nephews. She must have glanced our way when we hit the floor. All I know is that it’s our chance to move. I turn to Violet, but she was already up; in fact, she was already out the back door by the time I nudged myself from under the table. We book it to the forest where we first met. As we run, I have the sudden memory of an old fishing shed that has since been abandoned. I shout, “Left, onto the fork in the path.” We march along for another ten minutes before we arrive at the old shed door, still attached but the rust causes it to creak and the wooden trim rotted from years of neglect. We rush in and collect our breaths.

“You were gonna leave me!” I yell, still out of breath.

“I was not. You were gonna catch up to me anyway,” she’s scrambling, I can sense it.

“You could have told me! A nudge, a poke, a hey let’s go, here’s our chance.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking. I panicked and ran.”

You can tell she’s telling the truth. It was scary, and my rage was gone, flushed and replaced with empathy.

“Mr. Hudgins is gone. We need a new plan.”

“I don’t have a new plan, Damien. That was the plan,” her voice still panicked, out of breath, her eyes wide and watery.

Then silence.

Letting her catch up with her thoughts she finally speaks up.

“The plan was to give the evidence to Hudgins, let his voice be heard, and I get to go back to a regular life., maybe even move back home.”

“Is this the only reason you moved here?”

“Yes, I told dad I needed a change since mom passed, and he agreed. Dad has not been the same since her death, so it was pretty easy to convince him to move.”

“You convinced your dad to move to the town where his love of HIS life was born and raised?”

I am dumbfounded and a little grossed out from this, I think to myself.

“Dad loved mom. Yes, I know it sounds cruel, but this town was perfect for him, actually. He’s trying to get past this mourning phase but he doesn’t want to forget. This town allows him to restart but leave the memory of her still around. I’m not a manipulative monster, Damien.”

She looks that way, I dont say this say this out loud. Focusing back to the real problem.

“Why don’t we go to your dad?”

“He’s not ready for this.”

“Will he have a nervous breakdown?”

“No—maybe it doesn’t—hes not going to be involved.”

“Your dad if anyone is the only option we have and our best shot at staying alive and exposing the truth. We need your dad.”

“WE CAN’T!” she yells.

I pause for a moment, a little shocked at her expression.

“He never believed mom about any of this. He always trusted Eddie. Your dad was friends with Eddie Mason. Of course, he’s the reason mom and dad met. He didn’t believe that Eddie would do such a cover-up. He knew that new plastic was bad and the reason mom developed cancer, but that’s it. He resolved in his heart there was a misunderstanding. So when mom went to war with Standing Castle, he stayed out of it. By the end of moms cancer he realized he was wrong but it was too late he let her down.”

“Perfect then he can help now”

“Its not that simple damien!”

It took some convincing and a spider crawling on Violet’s shoulder, but we were at her house and about to either cause her dad to go into mental shock or help us. I’m really hoping for the helping part.

Jumping the same fence I hopped over last night. It seems like forever ago, but it really was just 12 hours ago. Entering the back door, the same gut-wrenching feeling hits my stomach. Violet takes a few steps in, then turns around, trying to escape. I block her. She pouts and waves her arms in distress, like those inflatable mascots inside parking lots.

“What?!” I shout in a faint whisper.

“I don’t want to do this.”

For a brief second, she reverts back to her 17-year-old self. She’s just a kid like me, forced into a situation she never dreamt of.

“Let’s keep going. It’s not like we are telling your dad we went off and got married.”

Awkward silence hits.

“You are a complete idiot.”

I am a complete idiot.

“So who’s getting married?”

That wasn’t Voilet’s voice; it was a man’s voice. Her FATHER’S voice! My life has leapt out of my body for the 3rd time today, and this time feels irreversible.

“Hi-hi, Mr. Berit,” I say with the deepest voice I can pull off; it’s not much. Stretching my hand out to greet him.

Not taking his eyes off me, “You’re Jake’s kid?” He asks.

“Yeah, that’s my dad.”

Mr. Berit, first name Johnson, was about the same height as my dad, built long with sharp shoulders. Just his face was squared; he and Voilet looked nothing alike. He had blonde hair; she had dark brown hair. His was wavy; hers was straight.

“Voilet, I didn’t know you made friends,” a smile. A subtle crack of a joke then lead back to a serious tone. “So what are you two doing? And who’s getting married?”

“We have something to tell you,” Violet finally speaks.

We sit on the living room couch as if her and I were getting scolded for breaking something.

“So you two are not getting married?”

“NO.” WE say in unison

“That was just a joke,” she looks at me. Raising my hands in defeat, I mouth the words sorry. She is not having any of it.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Berit. It was a stupid joke.”

“Very stupid,” She says, I look back at Violet with a frown; she frowns back.

“It’s okay. I just wanted to make sure. It’s a good joke, Damien, Damien right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay so what was you wanted to tell me please don’t say you’re pregnant, Voilet?”

“DAD!”

My embarrassment went up higher than I ever could imagine. He laughs hard.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help it.”

As Mr. Berit laughs, with his eyes shut. He’s a jokester, probably always was, but the way he moves is stiff. That’s when I noticed the bags under his eyes. The messy hair and the wrinkled shirt. It’s 6 pm on a Sunday; he’s exhausted. Violet was only trying to protect her dad. He was still grieving. His smile was only half of what it could be; the other half died with Violet’s mom. I understood why she didn’t want to tell her dad. He missed her and maybe even guilt from not helping her in her final days with the case. I’m banking on this. We need him, and he needs this if I’m right. Redemption.

“No.”

So I was hoping for a hell yeah or let’s do this. Instead, we got a no. His demeanor switched the moment Violet brought up her mom and the case. His mouth squirmed when she mentioned hopping into the lake, so did mine. Then his face turned red with frustration. He had enough of entertaining Violet.

“I think it’s time for you to leave, Damien.”

He walked me out; right before he closed the door, I heard him.

“Thanks for being my daughter’s friend, Damien.”

Looking at the doormat, he smiled and shut the door. He was still good, and if anything, glad someone supported his daughter when he couldn’t.

As I walked home, I didn’t feel defeat. His soft voice, his last change of attitude, showed he wanted to help. There is something Voilet isn’t telling me, and I need to know what that is. We need her dad, and quite frankly, I’m no therapist, but he needs this too.

I go back home, ignore my mom’s greeting, and race to my computer.

Out of habit, I open the Riot launcher then close it. Only to reopen the launcher and play a game. To be fair, it’s my way to relax. I know, is it even relaxing if my teammates continue to shout in all CAPS how I’m feeding the enemy team free kills? But this allowed me to think on what to do next.

It took me 10 phone calls, 15 Discord messages, and @ her on every social media site I had to get her to finally pick up.

“Whaaat?” Voilet said exasperatedly over Discord. I had the mic set too low, thankfully.

“Where have you been?” I ask.

“Asleep… Well just laying down, couldn’t sleep. Did you know my room has 2 cracks on either side of the room? I think the foundation—”

“Voilet,” I interrupted, “we need to convince—”

“No,” she interrupts back.

“But the sample—”

“It doesn’t matter, Damien. Forget the sample, forget Standing Castle, forget Eddie Mason, and forget mom.”

“You don’t honestly believe that, do you?”

A long pause hits Voilet; either that or our connection fried.

“So what if I do?” she resolves.

“That is ridiculous, Voilet. You just yesterday jumped into the most dirtiest pond in the world.”

“Most dirtiest is not a real sentence.”

“Fine!” At this point, I was agitated. “You don’t want to expose Mason and his corrupt company, I will.”

“This doesn’t involve you, Damien. I was wrong to include you in the first place, and I’m sorry for that. But you have no right to decide to con—”

“No right? This was never just about you, Voilet, and if your mom was alive, she would say the same thing. Standing Castle is affecting millions of lives and has affected millions. This is about keeping other people alive.”

“Don’t you ever speak for my mom again!” Her voice changed; she has never sounded so angry. As she was yelling in the mic, so glad I had my volume low. I then heard a slight whimper or a sniff; she was crying. At least angry enough to cry.

She disconnected a second later.

With Voilet out, I knew I needed more hands than just mine. I messaged my good friend and schoolmate Oscar Wilder; we had math together and, unlike me, was a genius in all things computers. He built my PC. He bragged about accessing the school admin account in the past, and I’m hoping he still had access.

“Damien!” Wilder said.

“Oscar, do you still have admin on the school’s network?”

“I do, but first, what’s with you and Voilet? Your account got hacked, or is @’ing her on every post your way of flirting?”

“It was me.”

“Oh boy.”

“Enough about that, Oscar. I need logs from today.”

“It’s a weekend; what would you need?”

“Can you get into the school’s security footage of today?”

“Usually, that stuff is held on a separate server.”

“Can you at least try?”

“Sure, just give me a few.”

Fifteen minutes later, he called me.

“Okay, I found the server for the school’s cameras, and the lazy server admin used the same password and username.”

“That’s great!”

“But…”

“But what?”

“There’s nothing today, like at all. The cameras are down; the last recorded time was 9:22 am.”

“Did you know that this would happen?”

“A hunch is all.”

“Damien, what’s going on?”

“It’s best if you stay not knowing. Can you do one more favor?”

“Commit treason?”

“The company Standing Castle moved into town this year. An office or something. Can you find out where and send it to me?”

“Sure.”

My next task was to get back to the diner, ask Mrs. Burchner about that man in the suit. And if she’s seen anything weird lately. As I walked out of my house, I glanced down the street towards Violet’s. Her father’s car was in the driveway; I wonder if they talked at all since. I need speed; walking isn’t getting me anywhere. So I decided to borrow my mom’s car. I have a learner’s permit which I do use occasionally. Most of everything is online, so driving hasn’t been a necessity, but today is a necessity. A few close calls and a totally unnecessary honk by Mr. Wilbur later, I arrive at the diner. Mrs. Burchner is right where we left her, sitting two stools from the end of the white counter, drinking her fourth cup of coffee and finishing one of the same five books she reads every year. I asked her once why only those five; she said they’re long enough, and she’s old enough that by the time she finishes the fifth, she has already forgotten the first. I don’t know if any of that is true; she has always remembered who I was, and I never heard mom talk about Mrs. Burchner having any dementia.

“Mrs. Burchner,” I say, “do you by chance notice anything off with the bald-headed guy you met earlier? Black suit?”

“Yes, I did. His suit is definitely not Armani, more like Van Heusen or JF Fereri from JCPenney. But that’s probably not what you are asking about?”

I nodded in agreement.

“That’s the little girl’s dad, wasn’t it!” She proclaims in the manner of a Sherlock Holmes eureka moment.

I was dumbfounded and a little embarrassed by her answer.

“No,” I said.

I can’t really explain what he is to us, but I want to know—

“About his suit?”

“No! This time with more aggravation in my voice.”

“I just—”

“He was acting weird, and the moment you two left, he was in a frenzy, sweat from his hairless head. “

“Do you know what car he drove?”

Yeah, it was a black BMW; I can even tell you his license plate number.”

“Really!?”

“No,” she says with spite, “now leave me alone. I’m about to find out what happens to Mr. Darcy.”

I leave annoyed but with a thought in my head. I call Oscar for the second time today.

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