Buried Secrets
Author: Morgan Baden
Date: 2022-09-06 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: fiction; mystery; children's fiction
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.
Rights: All rights reserved

1. Title Page
2. Prologue
3. Daphne
4. Velma
5. Daphne
6. Velma
7. Daphne
8. Velma
9. Daphne
10. Velma
11. Daphne
12. Velma
13. Daphne
14. Velma
15. Daphne
16. Velma
17. Daphne
18. Velma
19. Daphne
20. Velma
21. Daphne
22. Velma
23. Daphne
24. Velma
25. Daphne
26. Daphne & Velma
27. Copyright

The young man holds his breath and listens to the night. His ears search for sounds as his eyes scan for movement. It’s so easy to lose track of time and space in this abandoned park; it almost transplants him to another era. He’s grateful for it.

He’s been uncertain for weeks; months. Moving around like he’s in a dream. But finally—here, now—he feels like himself again. He’s doing the right thing. He’s never been more sure.

He doesn’t need the flashlight he’s brought with him, the new heavy-duty expensive one he found online. Cost isn’t an issue. It never is. Instead he pockets it and uses the moonlight to guide his path through the worn buildings and abandoned railcars. The way the moonlight reflects on rusty wheels, how it shimmers over manmade creeks that shine with gold—he appreciates that it’s beautiful, but the beauty is distant. Unnecessary. Distracting.

He hunts for a few minutes, creeping stealthily through the night. His feet barely make a sound. Off in the distance he hears an owl calling its night song. Beyond that, he thinks he can hear the ocean.

This place … he’s heard the rumors. A land built on bones, houses of ghosts. He doesn’t believe any of it.

Finally, the young man spots what he came for: a small building, the white sign posted to its front door barely visible.

The door is locked, but he is prepared for that.

He pats around his pockets until he feels the sharp edge of a paper clip. He slides it out and unfolds it, and then jams its tip into the keyhole. His breathing is loud in his ears as he manipulates the lock, and then—click. Satisfaction blooms in his chest.

He pushes the door, but when it begins to groan and squeak, he pauses. He can’t afford to make noise. He’s seen the lights on in the house up on the hill, the one that looks like it came right out of a horror movie. On a quiet night like this, sound can travel …

After a few minutes of listening, his shoulders relax. His jaw unclenches. No one has heard him. He’s alone. He can get back to what he came here for.

Inch by inch, he opens the door. There’s no moonlight in here; the windows he saw outside are painted on. Still nervous about the house on the hill, he shines his phone light around.

Creak.

He jumps.

The noise came from the far end of the building, from that chasm of darkness ahead.

But no one’s there. He’s sure of that; he’s been watching this place for hours.

He takes another step in, then another. He debates using the flashlight, but a tickle in the back of his mind warns him not to.

If he gets caught …

No. He shakes his head, the phone’s light bouncing wildly around the walls. He won’t get caught. He knows what he’s doing. He’s a meticulous planner.

Plus, he’s innocent, he reminds himself. Just looking, for now. There’s no harm in that.

Right?

“QUIET ON THE SET!”

I held my breath and tried not to wince as my mother squeezed my hand. I wondered if everyone else could see the same nervous energy radiating off her that I could, if they could feel her excitement in their bones.

“I’m just kidding, of course,” Izzy Flores said, chuckling. She barely lifted her eyes from her phone as she led us down the familiar sidewalks. Her shiny black stilettos made a flip-flap sound with every step. “Filming, as you know, doesn’t start until tomorrow. By five in the morning this place will be swarming with people! Can you picture it?”

While my mother sighed happily, I squinted and surveyed the place. We—my mother, Izzy, my stepdad, and I—had just passed through the entrance of the Haunted Village, the shady branches of the giant oak known to locals as the Vanishing Tree blocking the sun’s rays. Or rather, what used to be the Haunted Village, but was now, technically, my best friend Velma Dinkley’s property.

The Dinkley house sat on the far end of the land, but over here on this side stood the old buildings and rides from our town’s biggest attraction: an amusement park that traded on our town’s spooky history, drawing in thousands of tourists each year.

The Haunted Village had closed down for good several months ago, after Velma’s family was able to reestablish themselves as the rightful owners of the land, but the collection of both real and fake storefronts and stands remained. Some had been actual functioning businesses when the amusement park was still operating, like a pizza place and an arcade and a souvenir shop, the Ghost Coaster and the Haunted Mine; all of it had been designed to look and feel like you were smack in the middle of the 1850s. It was a real Wild West vibe, made even more so by the new props someone—I guessed a few random production assistants and set designers—had scattered all around.

It wasn’t hard to imagine this place being crowded again. Both my so-called friends and my real friends used to hang out here (Crystal Cove is a small town, so there aren’t many options), and this place held a lot of history. Sometimes when I thought about every story this place had told—starting nearly three hundred years ago, when our town’s settlers all disappeared without a trace up till a hundred years later, when the town was rebuilt only to be set ablaze and burned to the ground—it felt like too much.

A stray leaf fluttered above me, landing at my feet, as if to say remember. For the Vanishing Tree was planted by the original settlers of Crystal Cove, and it was where the lone survivor—a young boy, asleep in the sun—had awoken to find his family, his whole town, had disappeared.

“Over there are the production offices and the writers’ room,” Izzy went on. The crisp lines of her slate-gray suit swished as we walked and, once again, she barely looked up from her phone, her fingers flying over the keyboard. She gestured vaguely to one of the small buildings across the fake street; her lack of specificity meant the production offices could have been either the former ice-cream parlor, the arcade, or what I thought had been the maintenance office. “Elizabeth, you’ll be spending lots of time in there. You too, Darlene.”

“Daphne,” I corrected her, but if she heard me, she didn’t acknowledge it. My mom squeezed my hand again, a giddy grin lighting up her face. This time I squeezed back.

Just a few days ago, I’d been let in on the secret my mom had been sitting on for months. Years ago she’d created a video game called The Curse of Crystal Cove, a glorified retelling of the mysterious history of the town we lived in—Crystal Cove, California—that was still one of the bestselling games of all time. In fact, the game was so in-demand that Izzy Flores—or, more precisely, the production studio she ran, Meddlesome Films—had optioned it for a streaming television series. Hollywood stuff can fall through in an instant, so my mom had decided not to tell anyone until things were definite. And then, overnight, they became definite. In a matter of days, the news was everywhere: Cursed was filming its pilot episode right here in Crystal Cove, with my mom’s name listed as an executive producer.

I ignored the little tingle in my chest, the barely noticeable stone of anxiety that had wedged itself into my ribs. My whole life had been spent under the weight of my mother’s success. Sometimes it felt like everything she touched turned to gold. Meanwhile, I was just trying to survive my junior year of high school and was barely hanging on after my recent disastrous attempt at dating a fellow intern at Crystal Cove’s most famous paper, the Howler. And did I mention my other best friend had moved away after being kidnapped? And that Velma and I had solved that mystery, only to uncover another one about our good friend Shaggy Rogers?

It had been a wild junior year so far, and it was only December.

Thinking of the Howler made me wince, and not just because of what had happened with Ramsay Hansen, a freshman at nearby Hartwood University, with whom I’d spent a lot of time last month. No, it was because I’d asked Milford Jones, the paper’s owner and editor in chief, if I could cover the filming for the paper, but he’d told me someone else already had the gig. Don’t you think you’d be biased writing about your mother, Ms. Blake? Milford had sneered.

Ugh. Milford had had it out for my mom ever since her game had launched, but he still kept trying to get her to give him exclusives. I’d been just as surprised as anyone when he’d hired me as an intern—the youngest in the paper’s history, no big deal—and even though my writing skills were strong, there was a little seed of worry planted in the back of my brain that maybe Milford had ulterior motives.

Izzy finally looked up from her phone. “So. Much of episode one will take place right over here.” She stomped over to what used to be Velma’s mom’s office, back when she’d been the Haunted Village’s night manager. “Take a peek. As you can see, it’s been transformed into a saloon.”

I peered through the dusty window. My breath fogged up the glass, and I wiped it with my sleeve to get a better look (RIP to my favorite designer denim button-down, now streaked with grime) as my mom and stepdad gasped.

When I saw the place, my eyes widened. The Haunted Village had always played on Crystal Cove’s history as a mining town, with old-timey saloons and rusted mining carts dotting the park, covered wagons in the food court, and painted Western scenes on every available flat surface. Every third-grade class took a field trip here to pan for (fake) gold; every middle schooler held hands with their crush in the darkened railcars that lined the outskirts. But now, the glow-up was real: The studio had redecorated the interior, carting out the desks and chairs Velma’s mom had used, replacing them with a shiny old-fashioned bar. One whole side of the large room was rigged with lights and cameras, prepping for the start of filming. Impressive.

“This is so incredible,” my mom sighed. My stepdad practically squealed in agreement, and I refrained from telling them both to be more chill. My mom was normally a shark—cool and collected, the boss of every room she entered—but this TV stuff had really gotten to her. She’d been just a little too giddy ever since she’d told me the news. Even my little half sisters, Daisy and Dawn, had noticed. The day before, they’d asked me in their sweet little five-year-old way, “Did Mommy get lots of presents for her birthday? Is that why she’s so happy?”

I suspected, though, that she was overcompensating. Because the truth was, my mom was terrified. And so was I.

It had all started a couple weeks ago, when a letter arrived. I’d actually been the first person to see the mail that day, and I’d been flipping through the stack, hoping for a postcard from Marcy Heller, one of my best friends, who’d recently moved away after a pretty traumatizing event here in Crystal Cove. But apart from standard junk mail and a couple of catalogs, there was only one item, and it was addressed to my mom. The weird thing was that it just said her name—Elizabeth Blake, scrawled in messy writing across the blank white envelope. No return address, no stamp.

She’d been working from home that day, and when I’d brought her the letter she hadn’t even looked up from her laptop. Naturally, I forgot all about it—until a few days later when another letter arrived, looking just as mysterious as the first. And that night, my mom and my stepdad had lots of hushed, tense conversations that halted every time I entered the room.

I didn’t take well to being shut out of family issues, so I’d done what I did best: I’d called my other best friend, Velma Dinkley, and told her we had a mystery to solve.

A few nights later, when my mom and stepdad were out and my little sisters were asleep, Velma and I crept into my mom’s home office. I found not just those two letters but three more, all bundled together in the top desk drawer. They were filled with threats toward my mom, the production studio, and even the stars of the show, two of my favorite actors, Addie Hubbard and Cooper McBeal. Stop the filming! the letter writer had scrawled, and then drawn crude sketches of people with horrified expressions on their faces. In one, the Haunted Village was drawn at the bottom of the paper, with a big X over it, and the words You’re going to ruin everything! In another, the letter writer had warned my mom, Crystal Cove will never recover from this.

While the threats all differed, the general sentiment was the same: If my mom didn’t cancel the show, the letters warned, she would regret it.

Since we’d discovered the letters, there’d been a knot in my stomach. Because not only was my mom being threatened, but she’d been keeping it from me, which almost felt worse.

“Anyway.” Izzy snapped her fingers and, I swear, a production assistant appeared out of nowhere, a scrawny, frantic twentysomething guy carrying a clipboard and wearing a messenger bag from which he produced a bottle of water. Izzy took a dainty sip and then shooed him away. Literally, shooed. Hollywood. “Like I said, call time is five. You: Get ready for a hectic day.” She pointed to me, and I nodded. My mother had pulled some strings and gotten me a gig as a junior writers’ assistant on set, so I, too, would have an early start to my day. I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to pull this off—it was the last day of school before winter break, and I still had to manage my Howler internship—but there was no way I’d pass this up. My mom might not have known that I knew about the letters, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to try my best to protect her.

“Elizabeth, let’s hit up the office to discuss some final logistics,” Izzy said. “We have a ton to do. There’s a lot riding on the success of this show.”

I kept my face neutral so Izzy wouldn’t see that I knew all about the pressure being placed on Cursed. Izzy had recently ended her marriage to Quinn Moss, the famous actress; together they’d co-run a now-extinct production studio, and their joint properties were now being hotly contested in divorce court. Cursed was Izzy’s first solo effort, and its success would help her break free from whatever financial obligations she had to her ex-wife.

My mother waved goodbye to my stepdad and me before tromping off with Izzy, their near-matching heels clicking and near-matching pantsuits swishing.

“Well, this is exciting,” my stepdad said, checking his watch, “but I’ve got to get back to work. You okay here, Daph?”

“Darlene,” I deadpanned, pleased at his burst of laughter. George and I had come a long way these past few months. Almost as far as my mom and I had come. I was grateful not to be carrying around so much anger toward the two of them anymore.

I tried not to think about how I had simply redirected it toward Ram rather than letting it go entirely.

But when I whirled around to head off to school, my chest tightened. Because there stood Velma, and a whole new cloud of anxiety puffed up inside me.

*   *   *

When news of my mom’s television show hit Crystal Cove, reactions were mixed. Most of the kids at school, for example, were thrilled to hear that some of our favorite celebrities would be right here in town, hanging out at our coffee shops and walking on our beaches. Lots of adults celebrated, too, because celebrities = tourists, and tourists = money. But a few others … well, didn’t. And those people were determined to voice their displeasure.

Including, unfortunately, my best friend.

Or, more specifically, my best friend’s mother.

Velma’s brown hair was tousled by the wind as we stared at each other. I noticed the green streak in her hair had faded, and her thick black glasses were perched on her nose, which was doing that little crinkling thing she did whenever she was trying to solve a problem.

Noticing her empty hands, I raised an eyebrow. “No protest sign this morning?”

She scowled. “No way. I have that chem midterm first period. I just saw you from my window and figured we could walk to school together.”

The Dinkleys had officially moved back into their old house last weekend, and Velma’s bedroom window offered an expansive view of the Haunted Village, so it didn’t surprise me that she had witnessed our early-morning set tour. But looking at her reminded me that we hadn’t been able to figure out who was targeting my mom, and I could tell it was bothering her, too.

The good news was, we were in this together. And knowing Velma had my back—even when our moms were at odds—made all my cool edges warm up.

“Any update on the letters?” she asked as we started our walk to school.

“Nope. Any update on the protests?”

Velma’s mom had a long and impressive history of community organizing. She was known around town as one of Crystal Cove’s biggest protectors, someone who led protests and petitions to ensure Crystal Cove’s history was preserved and celebrated. Maybe a few years ago, she would have been fine with using the Haunted Village as the place to bring Cursed to life. But now that the Dinkleys were back on the land, she was fighting it. Hard.

Unfortunately for her, though, this had all been in the works long before the Dinkleys recovered their property, and even though they’d tried to get an injunction to stop the filming, between Meddlesome Films’ lawyers and my mom’s (including my own stepdad), the paperwork was ironclad.

Every day since the news had been announced, Velma’s mom had formed a protest circle right outside the Village. (If you could call it a “circle” when it’s just two or three people …) But her message hadn’t gotten any traction. Even Milford had declined to cover her protest, and filming was happening. Tomorrow.

As a result, Velma’s mom’s energy had seemed to wane, little by little. I suspected she was almost ready to give up the fight. Which was why it was crucial Velma and I kept quiet about the threatening letters my mom had received—I didn’t want to give Velma’s mom any more ammunition in her fight against the filming. And Velma had convinced me we could solve the mystery and figure out where they were coming from on our own.

To her point, we usually did.

I fell into step next to Velma. As we wound our way through the streets of Crystal Cove, we ran through a few theories about the letters.

“I did some more research on Izzy Flores,” she said. “And other than her divorce, nothing really jumped out at me.”

“But it’s a highly antagonistic divorce,” I reminded her. “They really seem to dislike each other.”

“Quinn Moss feels a bit too sophisticated for these kinds of threats,” Velma said firmly.

“True.” I considered. “And I didn’t find any red flags with Addie or Cooper.”

We’d been doing deep dives into all the major creators of the show—Izzy, the actors, the writers, the crew—to see if any of them had reported any issues recently. Not necessarily threats, but any break-ins or robberies, any reports of strange people lurking around them—anything out of the ordinary. So far, we’d found nothing.

It wasn’t like us to come up so empty-handed.

“Sorry if I’ve been weird,” Velma said suddenly.

I looked at her in surprise. “You know you’re always weird, right?”

She forced a smile. “I mean weird for me. It’s just … it’s been a strange year. And now my mom is …”

I sighed. “Mine, too.”

“I mean,” Velma said, a little more urgently, “she’s not wrong! We literally just got our house and land back, and now this?”

She waved her arms around in a vague gesture, but I knew what she meant. “Honestly? I can’t imagine waking up one morning and learning a ton of people are going to be working in your backyard for the next six weeks.” I clucked my tongue in sympathy. “I get it, V.”

“My mom’s always been fine with your mom’s video game,” she continued, her combat boots kicking up stray rocks and twigs. We were passing the park we used to run around in together when we were kids; for a moment I could almost see us, the way we were back then: vivid, unencumbered. Free and sparkling with energy. “It’s not the idea of the show she’s mad about, I don’t think.”

“So is it just about the property?” I wondered. “Because I’m sure the studio will be respectful, and—”

“Between you and me?” Velma stopped suddenly to face me, and her voice dropped. “I thought it was just about the property, and her wanting some privacy. My dad’s doing better, but he’s still not himself. So she’s really into family time lately.”

“Makes sense.”

Velma leaned in closer, her eyes flashing. “But … well … I didn’t want to tell you this.”

Oh no, what now? More letters? I braced myself. “Just tell me.”

“She got a phone call late last night.”

I raised an eyebrow. Lots of people got phone calls. Not my friends or me, of course, because nobody under the age of forty talks on phones, but I didn’t see what the big deal was. “And?”

“She didn’t mention the person’s name, but whoever it was, they were getting her pretty worked up. She’d been ready to surrender. She wasn’t going to protest the filming anymore.”

I began to realize what Velma was about to say. “But whoever she spoke with last night convinced her to keep fighting?”

Velma nodded. “For sure. I asked her who it was, but she’s not talking. Not even to me! Her own daughter!”

I chewed my lip. I had on a new lipstick—I’d gone a bit wild with my shopping when I’d learned about all the celebrities invading Crystal Cove—and it tasted funny. Foreboding, even. “Who do you think it was?”

Velma fixed me with a stare. “That’s the thing that doesn’t make sense. Because I heard the other person’s voice through her phone.”

“… And?”

“And I’m pretty sure I know who it was.”

I knew Velma so well that just by the tone of her voice and the look on her face, I suddenly knew who it was, too.

Now we just had to find out if they were connected to those letters.

I PULLED DAPHNE THROUGH the mass of kids migrating up the front stairs of our school and made a beeline for Shaggy’s locker. As we traversed the hallways, I thought longingly of my noise-canceling headphones, which I’d stupidly left at home; the chatter about Cursed was incessant, a steady thrum about the actors who had supposedly already arrived in town, about the auditions that afternoon for extras, about how this could be someone’s big break. I wanted to storm into the administration office, grab the loudspeaker microphone, and make a school-wide announcement about how idiotic everyone was acting.

But I had something more urgent to do: find Shaggy. And besides, I was hoping that after winter break, when the filming was over, things would go back to normal.

It had been a strange few weeks. Ever since Daphne and I had solved the last big mystery in town, we hadn’t seen much of Shaggy. To his credit, though, he’d been pretty busy with family stuff. His dad, the famous (and infamous) businessman Samuel Rogers, was facing serious charges—money laundering, embezzlement, fraud, the works—and he’d been keeping his head down.

Even more unusual was the fact that Fred Jones—yes, the Fred Jones, arguably the biggest catch (and the biggest player) in all of Crystal Cove—and I were in the middle of some undefinable shift in our relationship, from distant old friends to … well, I wasn’t sure yet. But definitely more than friends. (Just saying “Fred” and “relationship” in the same sentence made a tiny shiver run down my spine.) We’d had a few moments of connection recently, and between that, and Shaggy’s stuff, and restoring my friendship with Daphne, the ground under my feet hadn’t felt stable in a while.

The four of us had a long history together. And right now, I missed Shaggy. There was a bond between us that the other two couldn’t understand. Shaggy and I both knew what it was like to be the outsider—Shaggy by choice, me by circumstance. (And maybe, a little, by choice.) In my darkest days, back before Daphne and I had made up and become friends again, I’d found comfort in seeing Shaggy walking around town alone with his Great Dane, Scooby, on his heels; he had always been the kind of guy who knew himself, who didn’t care if other people were bothered by his solitude. I envied that.

But this stuff with his dad … well, it was a lot. And I absolutely, definitely, one thousand percent did not want my mother getting involved in any way. Because, deep inside, I couldn’t help myself from blaming Samuel Rogers for the threatening letters Daphne’s mom had received.

So it was with this bundle of conflicting emotions that we hurried up to him as he twirled the lock on his locker.

He sensed us before he saw us. His loose shoulders stiffened as we approached, and in the mirror on the inside of his locker door I could see his expression grow guarded. He was, as usual, in an oversized tee with days-old scruff on his chin; he looked rumply and worn and smelled like salt air.

Daphne knew how to read Shaggy’s moods better than I could, so she held up a hand to me and stepped forward, her voice cautious but warm. “Hey, Shaggy.”

He didn’t say anything as he continued his efforts to shove a notebook into his overcrowded locker. I gave him a few seconds and then added, “It’s just us. You got a sec?”

In response, Shaggy sighed and then folded the top half of his body inside his locker, groaning.

Daphne bristled, but her eyes sparkled. “Wow, I’ve never had a guy try to physically disappear on me before. At least, not so blatantly.”

“First time for everything,” I chirped. I grabbed Shaggy’s elbow and tried to pull him out. “Dude. It’s okay. We just wanted to say hi.”

Daphne raised a brow at me from behind Shaggy’s back.

“And also ask you something,” I quickly corrected myself.

“That’s, like, what I was afraid of,” he moaned, his voice tinny and distant. His head was still inside the locker; for such a skinny dude, he was surprisingly good at resisting my pull.

Daphne pushed my hand away from Shaggy’s elbow. Then she crouched under him, resting her head against the tower of books and clothes and dog toys piled at the bottom, until she was looking up at Shaggy. She smiled. “Good morning. Whenever you’re ready to face the world, we’ll be here.”

I could barely make out his response. “Never. The answer is never.”

But Daphne just kept working her magic on him, somehow, while I adjusted my glasses and shot questioning glances at anyone who dared look at us as they passed by. I saw a flash of blond hair and froze, but when the crowd cleared and I realized it was just some tall sophomore—not Fred like I’d thought—my body relaxed. My mind, however, did not. Could not.

By the time my heart rate had normalized, Daphne had Shaggy laughing at something, and they had both emerged from the locker and were leaning against it like normal people.

“Oh good.” I clapped my hands. “You’re alive.”

He sighed. “Sorry, Velma. Like, I just knew you’d have questions for me today. And I wasn’t ready for them.”

“Aha! So you know!”

The first bell rang. Shaggy waited until it was over and the crowd around us thinned out before answering. “Yeah. I know.”

“Your dad’s up to something,” I confirmed.

“Like, news flash?” Shaggy laughed nervously. “My old man is always up to something.”

“Thanks to him, my mom’s going to keep protesting the show,” I sighed. “He called her last night.”

“Why does he care so much about it?” Daphne wondered. She twirled a lock of her perfect hair and stared off into the distance.

“That’s exactly my question,” I said, exasperated, my voice drowned out by the final bell. “And that’s exactly why I came to talk to you, Shaggy.”

He threw his long arms up in the air. “Like, I don’t know! We’re not really speaking to each other much these days.”

I paused. Awkwardly, I tapped his shoulder in an effort to be soothing, but it came out more like a punch. Shaggy winced. “Sorry. I mean, about your dad. How’s it all going?”

I didn’t really need Shaggy to update me on his dad’s financial issues—the Howler did a respectable job of that, and gleefully, too, I might add—but he launched into a whole thing about the court case and the status of the bankruptcy filing and a list of which of Mr. Rogers’s companies had been forced to shutter. Eventually, I sort of zoned out. Daphne seemed engaged, though, and asked a few questions (it must’ve been the reporter in her), which ultimately revealed what the media hadn’t been covering: that Rogers Enterprises was still, technically, in business, and Shaggy’s dad had plans to turn things around. (I kept my mouth shut. Samuel Rogers was, in my opinion, the definition of shady, and I doubted he’d be able to escape responsibility for his recent business disasters—at least, not without pulling some ethical and legal strings to do so.) But things were tight, Shaggy explained; they had a long legal fight ahead of them, and most importantly, Shaggy and his dad were still on the outs. (Shaggy and his dad had never had the best of relationships, but things had gotten even worse recently.)

Just as I was wondering what all this had to do with my mom, Shaggy beat me to it. “My cousin Jack is still visiting, helping my dad out with stuff, and yesterday he told me my dad was on another tear about the TV show. He was on the phone all afternoon. And when Jack and I went to go get some pizza …”

Shaggy’s voice trailed off. I pushed my glasses up my nose and resisted the urge to stomp my foot. “What?”

“His office door was, like, open. And he said … He said, like, ‘Angie, I can help you if you can help me.’ ”

I stared at Shaggy. He scratched his chin. “That’s it?”

He nodded. “Like, our pizza was waiting.”

“I can help you if you can help me,” I repeated. “But you didn’t hear what he said after? Whatever it was that got my mom all energized about fighting the show again?”

Shaggy shrugged, helpless. “Sorry, Velma, but it was a double cheese with pickles, and I didn’t want Jack to steal the last slice!”

I rolled my eyes.

“Cool it,” Daphne hissed at me. She squinted at Shaggy. “What do you think it means? What could your dad help Velma’s mom with?”

I bit my tongue. Sometimes Daphne was blinded by her Blake privilege—all that new money and fame. What couldn’t Samuel Rogers help the Dinkley family with? Crystal Cove’s richest, most prestigious family versus … well, mine? A dozen ideas came to mind before I could even blink. And none of them sat well with me.

My family had struggled over the years. While my dad was from Crystal Cove, he hadn’t been able to work much due to his ongoing struggles with depression. And my mom was from Los Angeles, but her parents had emigrated from Mexico—which, to some people, automatically rendered her an outsider. Forever. Even after my mom had helped this community in countless ways, my family’s museum had been taken away from us, thanks to Mr. Rogers. He was capitalism in action: Samuel could buy us out a thousand times over, in a heartbeat, and no one around here would bat an eye.

The thought of Shaggy’s dad manipulating my mom in any way made me sick to my stomach.

“I have to go.” I interrupted whatever Daphne was saying, something about the show, and spun on my heels.

As I stomped off, I heard Shaggy ask Daphne what was wrong with me. “Chem test,” she explained.

If only.

*   *   *

The threatening letters to Daphne’s mom and my own mom’s phone call with Shaggy’s dad weighed on me all day, and between that and the chatter about the show, I skipped lunch to see what I could discover. My mom had a new job at The Mocha, the best coffee shop in town, where her legendary baking skills were put to good use as the pastry chef. The bell above the door rang when I pushed it open with my hip.

“Velma! This is a nice surprise!”

The Mocha was quiet, so she leaned over the counter and gave me a peck on my cheek. She asked about my chem test and my after-school plans; I told her it was fine and I didn’t have any. I tried to be normal, but I was finding it a little hard (I mean … what else is new?). And because nobody can read a kid’s face better than her own mother, she finally placed a hand on my cheek and set her intense brown eyes on me.

“What is it, mi amor? What’s wrong?”

Something about the weight of her question made me crumble a little inside. It just felt like everything was so precarious—our house, our land, our finances, Dad’s mental health—and even breathing too hard could wreck it all. And here I was, about to exhale.

“The TV show.”

My mom’s expression hardened. “¿Sí? What about it?”

“It starts filming tomorrow,” I reminded her. “I don’t think you’re … I mean, anyone is going to stop it.”

She nodded, sipping her coffee, but I could tell she was just humoring me. She had that look of steel in her eyes, that classic I’m not going down without a fight resolve she was known around town for. “Don’t be so sure.”

“Mom,” I sighed. “It’s over. You lost the fight already.”

“I lost the first round.”

A tingle of suspicion thrummed in my throat. “There are no more rounds.”

“Ah,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “Actually, there might be. I had an interesting phone call last night.”

“I know,” I countered. “And I know it was Samuel Rogers. What’s going on?”

A flash of surprise in my mom’s eyes told me she hadn’t expected me to know already. “Well, for once, Samuel is on the right side of history.” She cupped my chin with her hand. “Velma, Samuel agrees this show cannot move forward. He agrees with me that we’ve been through too much with our property, and that the Haunted Village needs to be retired. That we can’t keep hammering our history into the world, that we have to look forward, not just backward. He called to tell me he was going to contribute his considerable efforts into stopping it.”

“He’s bad news,” I warned her. “I don’t want him messing around with you. Not anymore!”

“Oh, Velma,” my mom said quietly. She studied my face. Then she grabbed both my hands, squeezed them, and shook her head. “You don’t ever have to worry about Samuel Rogers.”

I gaped at her. “History has proven otherwise, Mom!”

But she was already shaking her head, releasing my hands and turning her back on me to check on the tray she’d just pulled out of the oven. From here it looked like her famous cuernitos, and my mouth watered.

“You should get back to school,” she said over her shoulder.

I gritted my teeth. “Fine!”

As I stood up, angry enough that my chair made a loud screeching sound on the tiled floor, I whirled around and nearly bumped into Jack Rogers.

“Excuse me,” I muttered, practically tripping over the strap of my messenger bag in my race to leave.

Jack held up his hands as if to say, After you.

But of course, my mom couldn’t let it go. As I grabbed the door handle, she called to me again, loud enough that everyone in the café—even Jack—turned to stare. “Stop worrying so much, mi amor!”

I swallowed back my answer, letting the door slam behind me.

Why couldn’t adults understand that I wouldn’t have to worry so much if they all just listened to me a little bit more?

*   *   *

My mom was right about one thing: I had to get back to school. As I bounded up the front steps, though, some freshman accosted me.

“Sign the petition!” she practically shouted, shoving her clipboard in my face.

Giving her a withering stare, I pointedly pushed the clipboard away. “Excuse me?”

She was unfazed. I recognized her as Louisa Wharton—in Crystal Cove, everyone knows everyone—but I’d never spoken to her. “I said, sign the petition. We have to stop the filming of Cursed!” Her voice had a panicked tone to it, like she was close to melting down. It softened me up, I admit; I’d often felt that close to collapse myself.

“Why?” I asked, curiously glancing at her clipboard. A sign-up sheet with lots of rows for signatures flapped in the breeze. Not a single signature had been added.

For a moment, I wondered if my mom had put Louisa up to this. But these didn’t look like my mom’s standard materials, and besides, this wasn’t my mom’s style. She knew an effective protest didn’t involve a lone person screaming at passersby.

“Because!” Louisa frantically brushed her hair away from her face and shook the clipboard at me again. “We have to! Our future depends on it!”

“We have to?” I wrinkled my nose. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“Because it’s bad for the town!” she yelled, exasperated. “Just trust me!”

“Word of advice,” I growled, once again pushing the clipboard away. “Practice your elevator pitch. And stop shoving this in people’s faces.”

I stomped up the stairs, muttering to myself—maybe my mom should give protesting lessons; she’d make a killing off this girl!—and was so lost in thought that I almost didn’t hear my name being called. When I glanced up, my stomach heaved.

Fred Jones was waving at me from the top of the stairs.

The afternoon sunlight reflected off his blond hair, and in his long-sleeved white T-shirt and blue jeans, he looked like a classic all-American hunk. Handsome, suave, and utterly unattainable.

I ducked my head so he couldn’t see my cheeks flush, and then hated myself for blushing.

“Hey, Velma.” He jumped down from the bench he’d been standing on and strode over to me. I kept my breathing even. “Whatcha doing?”

I mumbled something about taking a walk. He nodded, like what I’d said was fascinating.

“Hey, you going to the auditions later?” he asked.

Cursed was hosting an open call for background extras later that day. I shouldn’t have been surprised to hear Fred was going. He was made for television, a real leading man kind of guy, and just as alluring as the show’s stars, Addie and Cooper. Part of me wondered if they’d kick Cooper off the show once they got a look at Fred.

“Nope.” I squinted up at him. He moved his big head until it blocked the sun.

“Too bad.” He shrugged. “You know, I feel like you’d be a good actor.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

Fred grinned, slowly and lazily and in entirely too intimate a way, in my opinion. My mouth suddenly went dry. “Oh, I don’t know. You’ve just got that certain je ne sais quoi.”

I clenched my jaw. “I don’t speak French, sorry.”

He winked at me. “Bummer.”

“I have to get to class,” I mumbled, my ears ringing. What did he mean? Why did he always talk in code like this? I began to pass him, but he called my name again.

“Velma! Please? Auditions? Four o’clock?” He clasped his hands together like he was praying and looked at me imploringly.

“I’m not auditioning, Fred,” I said haughtily. But then, when his face fell, I couldn’t help but add: “But I’ll be there anyway.”

“Yeah!” Fred whooped as I dashed up the steps, cursing my heart for its insistence on beating double time whenever I saw him.

THE CROWD WAS BUZZING with nervous energy, full of teenage hormones and star-studded dreams. I scanned the registration line, which snaked all the way from the old Pizza Panic (now the visitors’ office), through the entrance of the Haunted Village, down the block, and around the corner. Everyone was there—the Hex Girls, dressed in their full-on stage gear, like they were getting ready to play a set; the entire Crystal Cove drama club; even some of my teachers. So much for getting a reprieve from school during winter break.

“Daph! Over here!”

I located the source of the voice and groaned internally. Nisha Shah was waving wildly at me while Sammie Daniels and Shawna Foster grinned next to her. I had no choice but to say hello.

“Hey, guys,” I began, but Sammie cut me off right away.

“Your mom must be sooooo excited!”

I nodded and opened my mouth, but Nisha barged in. “I’ve always loved your mom,” she gushed. “So successful and smart!”

“You’re so lucky,” Shawna sighed.

“Listen.” Nisha grabbed both of my hands and squeezed them, her face turning serious. “We’re really proud of you, Daph.”

I stared at her in confusion. “For what?”

Nisha stared back at me for a beat before bursting into laughter. Shawna and Sammie quickly followed suit as Nisha waved her arms around, gesturing at the crowd. “For all this!”

“But … but this isn’t …” I tried to form the right sentences that could explain that I had nothing to do with this, that all of “this” had happened without any input from me, but Nisha brushed off my protests.

“Daph. Don’t you get it? Your mom is a total superstar!”

“Which means you are, too,” Shawna clarified, beaming.

Sammie threw an arm around my neck. “What’s that saying? ‘You are the company you keep’?”

“So, by default, we’re total superstars, too!” Nisha squealed.

I smiled; a warmth bloomed in my chest. I hadn’t been as close with my old friends ever since Velma and I became close again, and between my lingering shame and regret at what had happened with Ram a few weeks ago and my mom’s sudden ascent to even more stardom, it felt nice to feel like I deserved something. To feel like I still belonged, like I was still somebody important. I hugged them back. Maybe we’d all changed this year. Maybe we were all growing up.

“Now,” Sammie added. “What do you say you bring us to the front of the line?”

“After all,” Shawna said, winking, “what are best friends for?”

Ah. I felt my face transform back into its neutral mask and tried not to let my disappointment show. I was such an idiot sometimes.

“Oh my god,” Sammie breathed. Unhooking her arm from my neck, she gestured behind me, and suddenly there was a murmuring, a wave of conversation rolling back our way like an outgoing tide. I whirled my head around to see what they were talking about, but the crowd was thick. Sammie, who was almost six feet tall, held up her phone and began recording.

“What’s happening?!” Nisha said, standing on her tiptoes. Shawna began jumping up and down, trying to see beyond the crowd. There were a few shouts, and then a chorus of boos.

“It’s that freshman environmentalist, Louisa,” Sammie confirmed. Her arms stretched high above her head, recording.

“What’s she doing?” I asked, more curious than anything. Louisa lived around the corner from me, so I saw her often on my way to and from school, and she’d won some big award at the science fair for her project on climate change. Admittedly, I didn’t know much about her.

Suddenly, Louisa answered my question for me. “This must be stopped!” Her voice cut across the buzz of the crowd as she darted up to the rickety front porch of the old souvenir shop, which gave her a height advantage over the crowd. She held an old-school megaphone to her mouth and crowed, “You’re all complicit! Stop the madness! Stop the show! Or else!”

“Complicit?” I said aloud, anger bubbling inside me. I threw my hands in the air. Why was everyone so obsessed with stopping this show? First the letters, then Samuel Rogers and Velma’s mom, now this …

“That girl needs a hobby,” Nisha agreed. “This show is the best thing that ever happened to Crystal Cove!”

“She looks like a deranged cheerleader,” Shawna snickered.

Within seconds, Louisa’s megaphone was confiscated by two burly men in black security shirts, and she was gently guided off the porch and, presumably, out of the Haunted Village. But her video was already up on social media; everyone in the crowd was scrolling through their phones, laughing.

I was glad they found it funny, because I, for one, did not.

“Did you see that?” Velma suddenly appeared, breaking through the crowd—which was still murmuring about Louisa’s stunt—with her hair flying and messenger bag banging against her red pants. The registration line shifted and the crowd thinned out.

As Nisha, Shawna, and Sammie stepped forward to keep their place in line, I pulled Velma to the outskirts. My jaw was set so tight, I could barely squeak out an answer. “Yeah. What’s that all about?”

Velma shook her head. “She was collecting signatures at school earlier, too. Very aggressively, I might add.”

I stared thoughtfully at Velma. She had that look on her face—a look I knew well. I scanned the Village, thinking of someplace quiet we could talk. “Here, let’s go to the writers’ room.”

On the way, Velma whistled as I pulled out my new security badge. Small black boxes had just been installed on the doors of every work space on set, and I swiped my card and listened for the satisfying click as the door unlocked. Leading her through the door of what had once been the arcade in which I’d spent way too many quarters, I felt very official. Like a real writer.

Instead of video games and air hockey tables, the writers’ room now held long tables and comfy chairs, a couple blank whiteboards, some printers, and a coffee counter. In one corner stood the only relic from the old arcade: a pinball machine, its lights silently flashing.

“Fa-ancy!” Velma breathed. She plopped her messenger bag on the nearest table and collapsed into a chair.

I shrugged, but inside, I was suppressing my giddiness. It was fancy. And even though I knew (everyone knew) my role as a junior writers’ assistant was pure nepotism, it was still exciting. The pilot had been written months ago; the team had been set in place for nearly as long. But what good was it being Elizabeth Blake’s daughter if you couldn’t get some special treatment now and again? So when I had boldly asked my mom a few days earlier if I could help out on set, her eyes had lit up. Now here I was, sitting in a real writers’ room on a real television set.

A television set already plagued with problems, I reminded myself, my mood sinking. Threatening letters, protestors, Samuel Rogers … and filming hadn’t even officially begun.

“What do you know about Louisa?” I asked carefully. I had a theory, but I needed to play around with it a bit before I voiced it out loud.

Velma leaned back, considering. “Smart. I know she leads the environmental club at school, and I’ve seen her at a few Hex Girls shows over the years—I think she’s a big fan. Kind of quiet otherwise?” She wrinkled her brow. “Except for this afternoon, when she tried to get me to sign her petition against the filming.”

I crossed my arms and rested my head back on the chair. “She lives in my neighborhood.”

Velma didn’t respond. The unspoken accusation hovered in the stale air.

“The letters to my mom weren’t sent through the mail,” I mused. I swiped at a party of dust particles dancing around my head.

Finally, Velma exhaled. “You think Louisa wrote them and snuck them into your mailbox.”

I thought about it for a moment before meeting Velma’s eyes. “It’s a possibility, is all I’m saying. A strong one.”

Velma scowled. “What about Samuel Rogers, though? He’s involved somehow. I know it.” Then her face changed, and her voice dropped. “Daph … what if … I mean, you don’t think my mom …”

“Your mom would never threaten my mom,” I assured Velma.

“Of course not!” she said quickly. “But what if Louisa causes more trouble, and people start to think she’s working with my mom on the protests …”

“Well, then we have to get to the bottom of this,” I said firmly. “Now, before it escalates.”

Velma’s voice was small but determined when she said, “You’re right, Daph. It’s up to us to figure this out.”

I couldn’t help it—I smiled a little. Velma and I were partners, and I had no doubt we would sort this out. We always did. “We’ll do some digging on Louisa Wharton this weekend. I’m glad you showed up to the auditions to see her little stunt.” I frowned. “But what are you doing here, anyway? I thought you wanted to stay as far away from the Haunted Village today as possible.”

“You won’t be glad in a minute,” she warned me. “You got a sec? Or do you have to get to work?”

“I always have time for bad news,” I joked. “Hit me.”

Velma’s eyes darkened. “First, I just want to say I’m sorry to be the one to deliver this news.”

“Oh god,” I moaned. “What is it?”

She pulled up the flap of her messenger bag. A printed copy of that day’s Howler fell out. I eyed it warily.

“You know how Milford wouldn’t let you cover the filming for the paper, because someone else was?” I nodded. I was still smarting from the rejection. “Well, now we know who he chose …”

She pushed the paper across the table, and I skimmed it until I saw the problem. TV Show Unleashes Chaos on Crystal Cove, shouted a headline under the fold. I bristled when I saw the journalist’s name. Ramsay Hansen. Of course.

I pushed the paper over to Velma and leaned back in my chair, thinking. I felt a surge of tears threaten to rise, but I fought them back.

It had been weeks since Ram and I had ended things—or, more accurately, the promise of things. I’d fallen hard for him when I started my internship at the paper, and I thought he’d felt the same way. But when he’d scooped my own story and took credit for my (and Velma’s) hard work, totally deceiving me in the process, I’d had no choice but to shut things down. I couldn’t trust him. He’d betrayed me.

I mean, I didn’t want to be all dramatic about it. We’d never even kissed. But still … late at night, when I was alone with my thoughts, I often worried that I’d made a mistake. That I’d been too hard on him; that I’d lost something that could have been special. And secretly, way down deep, a part of me wondered if I’d ever get another chance at a love like that.

“Daph?” Velma said softly. “You okay?”

I concentrated on the lone window in the writers’ room, and how I could see the line snaking its way through the amusement park, and how all these people were here because of my mom. Because she’d had an idea, a good idea, and she’d been able to see it come to life, making it a worldwide phenomenon; successful beyond her wildest dreams. I thought about what Nisha had said about my mom being a superstar. And she was, mostly. But where did that leave me? I couldn’t even convince my boss I was a strong enough writer to cover my mom’s own television show.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “I’m fine.”

Velma cleared her throat. “I have more bad news.”

I glared at her, exasperated. “You’re killing me here, V.”

“I know,” she said, wincing. “But I don’t want you to be surprised!” She hesitated. “He’s here, Daph.”

I shot to my feet. “Here? Now?”

“I just saw him interviewing the kids at the back of the line, way back on Myrtle Ave,” she said. I was grateful that she sounded as miserable as I felt.

“Oh no.” I stood up, my heart pounding. Other than an occasional far-off glance in the Howler offices, I had managed to successfully avoid Ram; he’d gone on vacation, and then I had, and then I’d changed my internship hours …

“Daph, if Ram is covering the filming, it’s likely that he’s gotten some insider access.” Velma pointed at the paper. “This article has all kinds of behind-the-scenes information. I bet the studio is letting him wander all over the set.”

A thought struck me. “Do you think he knows about the letters?”

Velma thought for a second before shaking her head definitively. “If he did, it’d be in the paper by now. You know Ram.”

Did I? I still couldn’t decide.

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON when I left Daphne, and between my head (which was spinning) and my stomach (which was growling), I was in desperate need of some food and some solitude, in that order. While a few food trucks that were parked outside the front gates of the Haunted Village had drawn big crowds in preparation for filming, I was looking for someplace a little more private, so I strolled to the other end of the amusement park and crossed my fingers that my favorite Mexican takeout place was still open. The tantalizing scent of fried onions confirmed they were, in fact, taking orders.

But when I stepped inside the tiny storefront, I immediately regretted it.

“Dinkley!” Fred grinned at me. Normally that would’ve made me light up inside (though that’s a secret I would keep till my dying day), but I was having trouble breathing, thanks to the person standing next to him. It was Addie Hubbard—the rising star who’d been tapped as the lead in Cursed. My jaw dropped.

“Hi, Fred,” I said when I eventually recovered myself. I tucked my hair behind my ears and pushed my glasses up my nose and hoped they couldn’t hear the angry roars from my stomach. “And, um, hi, Addie. Um, you don’t know me.”

Fred looked almost proud as he made introductions. “This is Velma Dinkley, one of the coolest people in town.”

My lungs swelled. I cleared my throat and straightened my posture. “He’s right. I am.”

Addie held out a hand, and I shook it and tried to pretend I wasn’t hanging out with one of the biggest celebrities of my generation. She was beautiful, of course, but not in a cookie-cutter kind of way; she looked just as fresh-faced as she did in all the photos and videos I’d seen of her over the past couple of years, and she was almost as tall as Fred, with clear pale skin and a mess of blond curls. In fact, I noticed, squinting at them through my glasses, their looks really complemented each other, with their matching golden hair and wide smiles.

I suddenly felt very, very small, and very, very unpretty.

“You, um, didn’t mention that you two knew each other already,” I said pointedly to Fred. I felt like that was a fun little fact that would’ve been nice to know before I’d wandered into what was beginning to look a lot like a date.

“We just met!” Fred chuckled. “I was doing my screen test and Addie came in to talk to the director …”

“And he was just so funny,” Addie jumped in, nodding. The two of them shared a secret look and, I swear, if I hadn’t been waiting to order my veggie burrito with extra guac, I would have sprinted out of there, because the chemistry between Fred and Addie was sucking all the air out of the place.

“And then we were both hungry, and I love this place so much,” Fred continued happily.

“So here we are!” Addie finished, clapping her hands.

“Here we are,” I echoed dully. I heard the door to the kitchen swing open, and Alejandro, the owner, appeared, carrying a bag of food. His eyes lit up when he saw me.

“Velma! The usual?”

I nodded as Fred took the bag from Alejandro, rummaged through it until he found a foil-wrapped burrito, and playfully tossed it like a football to Addie. But she fumbled the catch; it slipped through her fingers and landed with a splat on the tops of her shoes.

“Oh no!” I yelped. Salsa and melted cheese spilled over the wrapping, covering her feet and splattering up the fronts of her legs.

But Addie just sighed and shrugged. “It happens all the time,” she said apologetically as Fred grabbed napkins and Alejandro rushed to the back to start another order. “I swear, I wasn’t always this clumsy!” Her face darkened. “Someone once called me a walking disaster. I hate that it’s true!”

I nodded in sympathy as she continued and tried to hide a smile, knowing that it was Wyatt Smith—her famous on-again, off-again boyfriend, a fellow actor who’d starred in one of my favorite superhero movies, who was vocal in the press about Addie’s propensity for accidents. He was nearly as famous for his white-blond, shoulder-length hair—the kind most girls dream of having themselves—as he was for his acting.

“I think I’m getting worse,” she moaned as Alejandro returned with a fresh burrito. “I just finished shooting a new movie, and on the last day of filming I brought in cookies for everyone. But I must’ve messed up the recipe somehow, because my costar got super sick with food poisoning!”

Fred clucked sympathetically, and I nodded. I’d read all about the incident online; her costar had been ill for days. People had started calling her Accidental Addie.

“I’m normally a great baker,” she told me before sighing dramatically. (Well, she was an actor.) “I’ve practically ruined every set I’ve been on lately! Sometimes I think I’m being hunted by bad spirits.”

I widened my eyes. Spirits were nothing to joke about in Crystal Cove, of all places. People took them way too seriously here.

I was about to ask her what she meant when a loud, fuzzy noise rang out through the room. Addie screeched and covered her ears, while Fred darted in front of her—and only her, I noticed glumly—protectively.

But I’d worked at the Haunted Village a long time, back when it was an amusement park. And I knew that sound.

Alejandro and I nodded at each other. “It’s just the park’s intercom system,” I explained, my voice loud over the buzzing. The noise stopped just as I said system, so my shout hung in the air, echoing through the silence. I dropped my voice to its normal volume. “Intercom system,” I repeated, pointing to the little speaker hanging from one of the corners of the ceiling. “Every building in the park is connected. Probably just some announcement about the men’s bathroom being flooded again or something—”

“Attention! Alert! Attention!”

The intercom cut me off, and I stared at it in surprise.

“Code green! I repeat, code green for all park buildings!”

A sustained ring burst through the speakers, and this time it was so loud that even I followed Addie’s lead and covered my ears. From behind the register, Alejandro caught my eye and mouthed, “This is strange.”

It was strange. And what was code green?

*   *   *

It didn’t take long for us to find out.

After another rush of announcements, it became clear: we were under a “shelter in place” order.

In theory, that meant there was a threat serious enough that the show’s security team had decided to enact protective measures. In practice, that meant the front gates had been closed, security was standing alert at all the exits, and every person on set—the cast and crew, the extras still auditioning for background parts, and even those of us just trying to shove some chips and guac into our mouths—had to hunker down in the nearest park buildings and await further instruction.

Which, for me, meant I got to spend the next thirty minutes with Fred and Addie, who appeared to be hitting it off quite well, even in the face of danger.

“Flauta?”

I glanced up from my phone, where I was frantically searching social media to see what people were saying about the Haunted Village. There were a bunch of Omg we’re under orders not to leave! What’s happening? posts, which quickly morphed into There’s a murderer on the loose here! posts. But Alejandro had dialed the main office number, and a recorded voice responded, announcing the Haunted Village was temporarily closed due to an “unexplained security issue.”

And of course, because this is Crystal Cove, there were quite a few posts about … well, ghosts. I read them over and over, trying to decipher any truths from them, but all I could discover was that some people thought the ghosts of the Vanished had tripped up the alarm system in order to delay filming. You know, because ghosts are so familiar with technology. I rolled my eyes. Typical Crystal Cove rumor-mongering.

“No thanks,” I said stiffly to Addie, who was holding up one of Alejandro’s famous fried tortillas filled with chicken. She shrugged and then, while I watched in awe, fed it to Fred like they were in some kind of romance novel.

I blushed and stared furiously down at my phone. The two of them had been joking and goofing off ever since the intercom had ordered all businesses to close and lock their front doors. I very much felt like an invisible third wheel on what was clearly a very successful first date.

Why did Fred even want me here at the auditions? I wondered, furiously tapping out a message to Daphne in order to distract myself. Watching him fall in love (or at least, a very strong like) was not on my list of things to do that day. And yet, here we were.

I texted Daphne. Where are you? Any word on what’s happening?

She was quick to respond. With my mom in the main office. She says everything’s fine, the studio is just being extra careful after receiving a scary phone call. Shaggy’s mom is here with a few of her officers. But …

I could see she was typing and deleting and retyping something, but it took a while for her next thought to come through.

This feels serious, V.

I put down my phone and glanced up to see Addie whispering something to Fred. Quickly, I turned my gaze to the window. Outside I saw nothing but the empty expanse of park. Everyone was inside whatever nearest shelter they could find, and from here, the grounds looked empty. Still.

I’d worked at the Haunted Village for years. My mom had managed the whole park. And never had either of us been ordered to shelter in place before. I wasn’t scared—not exactly. More like … very, very conscious of how easily the threats against Daphne’s mother could be real.

Deadly, even.

ONE WOULD THINK a park-wide shelter-in-place order would grant everyone a little grace, but Elizabeth Blake was all business. After a tense half hour or so, where my mom—secretive as ever—kept me occupied with busywork in the production offices while she whispered to Izzy Flores and made furtive phone calls, we finally got word that security was reopening the Haunted Village and we could all get back to work.

“Is, erm, everything okay?” I asked her once we got the all clear. I knew the answer—no, it decidedly was not!—but I needed her to tell me. To be honest. We’d come so far, and I didn’t want to see our progress go down the drain just because she thought she had to protect me from whatever secrets she was keeping.

My mom stared at me for a beat too long. “It’s all fine, Daphne. A false alarm. A junior producer reported something suspicious, but it turned out to be nothing.”

I frowned, my stomach sinking. “Really?”

She smiled. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

There were new lines around her eyes that I would swear hadn’t been there a few weeks ago. I glanced around. Izzy was on the phone in the corner of the office, and the others who’d been stuck inside with us had bolted as soon as the orders were lifted. We were as alone as I could hope to be on a crowded set. This was as good a time as any, wasn’t it?

“Mom,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I have a confession to make.”

She raised an eyebrow.

I blurted it out in one puff of air: “I-know-all-about-the-threats-that-were-sent-to-our-house-and-I’m-scared-something-bad-is-happening-here.”

My mom’s jaw dropped. She was so quiet I began to overhear Izzy’s hushed conversation on the other side of the room. I heard only snatches: reports of an armed intruder, and given the all clear, and keep it quiet.

“Mom?” I hesitated, unsure of how much harder I should push her. “Velma and I think it might—”

“Velma knows, too?” My mom’s face contorted into something like anger, or maybe disappointment. She glanced at Izzy and then dropped her voice even lower. “Daphne, you and Velma do not need to concern yourselves with this. You’re like a bunch of meddling kids! Please, it’s being handled.”

“But we can help!” I pressed. “We—”

“No.” My mom held my shoulders tight, peering into my face, smiling incredulously. “Daphne, those letters are silly. They’re someone’s idea of a dumb joke. Stuff like this happens on sets all the time. The important thing is for you to ignore it. Mind your own business, as you always tell me.”

“But,” I spluttered, stung. “But—”

“What happens on set, stays on set,” she said. “This is my job on the line, Daphne. My reputation. Our livelihoods. Understood?”

“Elizabeth!” Izzy interrupted us, literally snapping her fingers to order my mom to her side like she was a puppy. I stared, slack-jawed, as my mom gave me another warning look and released me. Then she handed me some cash from her pocket and ordered, “Go get coffees for the staff meeting.”

Stunned, I scooted out of the office. I was grateful for the fresh air, my mind reeling.

By the time I had two trays of steaming cups balancing precariously in my hands, I had pushed away the conversation with my mom. Velma and I had been underestimated before, and we’d always proved people wrong. This had to be more than just a prank, like my mom thought. I could feel it.

The staff meeting was held in the old ice-cream parlor. My ID badge was in the pocket of my plaid cigarette pants (I’d paired them with a purple turtleneck sweater and my favorite brown boots), and I thought I’d be able to swivel my hips in the general direction of the card reader, since both my hands were full, but no amount of hip-swinging delivered me the click I needed to hear. Also, I probably looked like I was doing some new kind of dance—alone, without music.

I looked around for a place to put the trays, but the ground was the only option, and honestly, I wasn’t sure I could successfully place them all the way down there without spilling anything. Around me, the entire Haunted Village still looked deserted; most people had left when we’d been given the all clear. Who could blame them? I wanted to leave, too, and debrief with Velma.

I shook my head in exasperation and nearly dropped the entire tray of coffees. Ugh. Could a girl get some help around here?

When I began to (gently) kick the door with my foot, knowing that I was risking scratching my boots’ buttery leather if I did so, a shiver ran through me. The temperature drop was sudden and swift, thanks to the setting sun. Long shadows stretched through the alley, and from far off I could hear the wind whistling around the tight, sharp corners of the Haunted Village. I glanced around, holding the coffees tighter, trying to force their heat into me.

How had I never noticed before how creepy this place was at dusk?

I rolled my eyes at my own stupid insight—that was the entire point of the Haunted Village, after all—and tried to brush away the sudden feeling of foreboding that had crept over me. It was just Ram, I told myself, kicking the door again, hoping someone would let me in already. It was just my nerves knowing he was probably lurking around, that I would probably have to interact with him at some point, and that I wasn’t sure I was ready for that. Because the grounds had been searched by professionals, and nothing concerning had been found. Right?

Swish. Snap.

I whipped my head around and then gasped as the top tray of coffees came dangerously close to toppling over. Once I managed to steady the trays and save the coffees, I scanned the deserted alley, squinting. The Haunted Village was lined with old-fashioned gas lamps that were supposed to flicker on at sunset, but the lamps in this section hadn’t yet received the message.

“Hello?” I called, my voice tight.

Silence.

I waited a few beats. When no one responded, I tried to tell myself it was just the wind. And then I began to doubt that I’d heard anything out of the ordinary at all.

Rule number one of being an assistant: Don’t let the coffee get cold. With that in mind, I reluctantly turned my back to the alley and tried pressing my hip against the badge reader again. A kink began forming in my back when suddenly I heard it again. Snap.

“Okay, who’s there?” I cried, whipping around. My long hair slapped across my cheek and hot coffee sloshed onto my wrist. I yelped.

“Whoa. Careful.”

I froze, eyes on my coffee. I knew that voice. Turns out, I’d been subconsciously waiting to hear it again; my pulse thudded in my ears in something that felt like relief.

After what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few seconds, I raised my head. It was time to face my fears. “Hi, Ram.”

His eyes were just as I remembered them: a shock of deep, dark brown, brimming with intensity. His hair had grown out a bit; it brushed against his ears. I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

“Can I give you a hand there?” He gestured to the coffees.

I wanted to let him help me. But I couldn’t. Something wouldn’t let me. I switched into ice queen mode, my voice cool and distant. “Nah, I’m good.”

His eyebrows crinkled. He waved his ID badge. “At least let me …”

I shook my head so forcefully, another strand of hair got caught on my lips. I spat it out as unobtrusively as possible, but I saw Ram’s lower lip twitch (Why am I looking at his lower lip? Ugh, Daphne, get it together!), so it’s possible I wasn’t quite as slick as I thought. Whatever. I wasn’t letting him help me. I didn’t need him interfering. “I’m fine.”

He nodded and watched me swivel my hip at the card reader again. I fought off the flush rising up my cheeks and silently begged the security system to cooperate. Another twist, another jut of my hip, and then: click.

The lock released! Just as I leaned down to press my elbow against the handle, though, the door flung open from the inside. I jumped back, spattering more coffee—this time on my other arm, so at least my stains would be symmetrical.

“Daphne? Daphne Blake?”

I blinked at the sudden light, and at the mop of hair that shone underneath it, surprised by the British accent that landed softly on my ears. “Y-yes?”

He was a twentysomething, this man, and handsome in a craggy kind of way, with red hair and light green eyes. In a way, he reminded me of Shaggy, only if Shaggy had suddenly decided to iron his clothes and shave his stubble and develop an accent. He grinned at me. “We’ve been waiting for you, but then I realized you probably need some help with all that coffee. I’m Bennett De Soto, head history consultant for the show. Your new boss.”

Before I could say a word in response, Bennett had smoothly transferred the coffee trays into one of his hands and gestured me inside. “Come in, come in.”

I followed him, grateful for the excuse to leave Ram and yet resenting Bennett for pulling me away from him in equal measure. It wasn’t until I was seated at the table, smiling at anyone who would meet my eyes—at least a dozen people were hovering, some standing, some rifling through clipboards—that I realized Ram would probably never actually leave. That we would be here, on set, together, for as long as this show ran.

I PULLED MY BIG headphones out of my bag and over my ears as I burst through the front door. Outside on the porch, my mom was putting the finishing touches on our newest decoration: a big No Trespassing sign, and underneath it she’d Sharpied, And clean up your litter! She caught me eyeing it quizzically.

“There are going to be people on set at all hours of the night,” she warned over the thwacking noise of her hammer. She paused and fixed her eyes on me. “I don’t want someone wandering into our living room, and I definitely don’t want to see garbage everywhere! Do you know how much extra trash this shoot will generate in the Village?”

That had been one of her main arguments against the filming to begin with—that, since there was no clear delineation between the Haunted Village and our personal property, strangers could mistake our house for the set. It could be dangerous, she’d argued.

So when I opened my mouth to respond, I quickly realized I wasn’t quite sure what to say. Like everyone else in town, my mom had heard about the code green on set, and I suspected it would take her some time to get over it, even after the sheriff’s office, the Howler, and the studio itself had confirmed it was a false alarm, and I’d assured her the most danger I’d been in was from Addie Hubbard’s clumsiness. So I just nodded and waved goodbye. Sometimes you have to let parents do their parenting thing.

It was Friday night. Most kids from my school were probably out at the movies, or getting buzzed on caffeine at The Mocha. Me? I wanted to have a look around the Haunted Village—to check for anything out of the ordinary. (So what if hunting for clues is my favorite hobby?) I trudged through our front yard, which was really a long, wide, grassy space that opened up to the back end of the Haunted Village. All of it Dinkley property, and none of it landscaped. My legs itched from the tall grass.

As I stomped across the field, I thought about how funny it was to see lights on in the Haunted Village again. It hadn’t looked so alive in a long time. There were big set contraptions and lighting rigs; there was new signage pointing the actors to their dressing rooms and the crew to their offices; there was a craft services table that would soon be filled with food. And of course, so many people, wandering around with purpose at all hours of the day.

The show, from what Daphne had relayed so far, was going to loosely follow the format of the video game. There were two timelines: one set in present day featuring high school kids trying to uncover Crystal Cove’s history, and one in the mid-eighteenth century, when Crystal Cove was first being settled. Addie and Cooper were the perfect choice to launch the brand into Hollywood—they were big draws for kids our age, with their sharp cheekbones and sparkling smiles. (Part of Addie’s fame could be attributed to her relationship with Wyatt; details of their romantic drama had plagued the gossip sites for months, and it was easy to see why: Together, Addie and Wyatt looked like the next generation of Hollywood royalty.)

As always, thinking of the Vanishing made me bristle. Nearly three hundred years ago, not too long after the town had been settled, every single resident of Crystal Cove disappeared—save for one lone kid, Shaggy’s great-great-great-whatever, who’d been taking a midday nap under the Vanishing Tree and awoken to find himself alone. And since that day, Crystal Cove’s fate as a town full of mysteries had been cemented. The Rogerses’ ancestor had rebuilt the town, recognizing that this picturesque spot of land, capped by mountains on one side and a shimmering ocean on the other, was too beautiful to abandon. But the path toward a mysterious future was already forged, and a hundred years later, the entire town burned to the ground. Ashes upon ashes upon mysteries. Our history ran deep, and it ran cold. It was enough to make you think Crystal Cove was cursed land, which I guess was why the video game was so popular, and why the show probably would be, too. People loved mysteries … especially when they could participate in them from a safe distance.

I wanted this town to forget about the Vanishing. Or at least, to be known for something other than our spooky past. That’s why I was so determined to figure out what had happened—so we could finally all move on. But now here we were, about to live it—or at least a fictionalized version of it—over and over again, for all the world to see.

I ducked under a small grove of trees and climbed over the flimsy low fence that lined this end of the Village. I knew this place like the back of my hand, and I cut through the small alleys and hidden maintenance closets and old employee bathrooms I’d long ago memorized.

I brushed aside some low branches and swiftly climbed over the small, broken remains of a wooden fence (I had never been quite able to tell whether it was intentional to the Haunted Village’s decor … or just a broken fence the old groundskeepers had never cleaned up). Rows of trailers lined this side of the Village; they’d been parked here for days in preparation for tomorrow, and as far as I could tell, this section of the park was deserted. Darkened, empty. A ghost town.

I stepped over the dry leaves, crunch, crunch, crunching my way over the quiet grounds, until I stepped on something a lot heftier than dead leaves.

“Oof!” My foot caught on whatever it was, and I lurched forward. Snap. I landed on my knees and then—

“Argh!” I startled at what I saw on the ground.

It was me.

My own face, staring up at me in horror.

*   *   *

I blinked, speechless. My reflection blinked back.

In a rush of relief, I realized it was a mirror. I scrambled to my feet, pulse racing, and brushed the shards off my palms. A mirror had shattered, and pieces of it were strewn across the grass, glinting in the moonlight.

There was more: lipsticks and eye shadows, hair sprays and curling irons. Creams, blushes, wipes, cotton balls. I retraced my steps and realized I had tripped over a large makeup case with a dozen little jars and bottles spilling out of it. Under a nearby tree, a tray of nail polishes sat, nearly undisturbed, as if someone had simply decided it belonged on the ground instead of in, say, the hair and makeup trailer.

With a dawning realization, I looked up, my eyes landing on the nearest trailer. The side facing me had no windows but three skinny doors, set high enough from the ground that each had risers with four steps leading up to them. And one of those doors was flung wide open, hanging from its bottom hinge; it was dark inside, but various items were strewn on the steps, hanging off the railing—pieces of clothing, a single high-heeled shoe, a long black wig.

Someone had broken into one of the trailers.

I swung around, hearing my heartbeat in my ears, looking for a path forward. What if the person who had destroyed the trailer was still here?

“Stay calm,” I ordered myself, sounding a lot braver than I felt. I pulled out my phone and snapped a few photos of the scene. But underneath the clicking sound, I could swear I heard something else.

I didn’t want to wait to find out. So I ran. Toward the Haunted Village, leaving this deserted parking lot of trailers behind me.

Huffing, I slowed down when I reached the first buildings. I didn’t feel it anymore—that suffocating feeling that someone was watching me, tracking me. Here, it just felt like the Haunted Village always felt.

Like home, kind of.

Quickly, I texted the photos to Daphne. Someone broke into the trailers on set!

In a flash, she responded. !!! On it. Are you okay?

I shot her a thumbs-up emoji and tried to shake off my nerves. Nervously, I turned back to look at the trailers behind me. They loomed against the horizon, gray against the dying light. What if someone had been hurt? Who would do such a thing, and why?

As I stared, lost in thought, a blur of red shot across the landscape, stark against the darkening sky. It darted in between two trailers and I froze, ripping off my headphones. When it appeared again it was slower, more deliberate, moving in front of the farthest trailer on the right and then—to my horror—heading in my direction.

My stomach heaved.

Suddenly, a security car rolled up the lot, and two officers climbed out with flashlights. I blinked. When I turned back to see the red figure, it was gone. Had I seen anything at all, or was it just my imagination? Just this stupid amusement park playing tricks on me again?

I scanned the trailers again, but they stood dark and empty against the pine trees that jutted up against the Village. Relieved, I jogged toward the officers, introducing myself and explaining I’d called in the incident. Once I showed them some of what I’d tripped over, they thanked me and told me I was free to go.

I was suddenly very grateful for my mom’s No Trespassing sign. A sense of unease lingered inside me, but I pushed it away and jogged to the center of the Village. There were a few stragglers wandering the grounds, and most of the old-fashioned kerosene lamps here were lit along with some of the small buildings around me, like Pizza Panic, where I’d worked. I chuckled as I walked by it; the scent of garlic and mozzarella still lingered.

“What’s so funny, Dinkley?”

For the second time that day, Fred Jones startled me. So much for being aware of my surroundings. I quickly recovered myself and wagered, “Your face.”

Fred stared at me for a moment. Just when I began to get nervous, he burst into laughter. Guffawed, really. Something released inside my chest; his laughter grew contagious, and I chuckled, too, and soon I found myself relishing the sounds coming from deep within his stomach. I had done that, I told myself. I’d made Fred Jones laugh like that. I felt oddly … powerful.

Of course Fred would never, could never, think that someone like me actually thought his face was funny. (He’d probably been told he was beautiful ten times that day alone.) But still. It was a moment, and I found myself etching it into my memory bank.

“Good one,” he managed once his laughter died down.

I couldn’t help myself. “Where’s Addie?”

He looked surprised, then confused. “I don’t know. We ate our burritos, and then I bounced. Hey, did you end up getting a part in the show? You never told me before.”

I shot him an exasperated—but good-humored—look. “No, Fred, remember? I didn’t audition. I’m not here to be in the show.”

“Oh.” He seemed to take that in for a minute, like he was unsure how to handle someone—me—who didn’t crave the spotlight. I wanted to stomp my feet against the ground and yell, See, Fred? This is why it’ll never work between us! But I remembered there was no “us.” There was just Fred, way up at the top of the social hierarchy, where stars like Addie congregated, and me, way below him. While I felt myself slip a little lower into my mood, he brightened. “Well, guess what?”

“Um … they’re kicking out Cooper McBeal and you’re the new star?”

Fred’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”

“Wait, what?” I gasped. “I was kidding!”

“Well, I mean, they didn’t kick out McBeal,” Fred backtracked. He ran his hand through his hair. It managed to both stick up in a funny way and also look incredibly cute, which seemed perfectly on brand for Fred and made me hate him a little bit. I smoothed my own windblown hair back behind my ears and adjusted my glasses. “But, well, they do want me as more than just an extra. They’re sort of building a little part around me. So that’s cool, I guess.”

He shrugged and glanced at the ground, kicking his feet a little at the rocks and dirt that formed the Haunted Village. Wait … was Fred being humble? Shy? I wasn’t sure what to do with that kind of Fred. The one I knew—the one everyone in Crystal Cove knew—was the kind of guy who dated a new girl each week, who soared to great social heights thanks to his easygoing, charming, goofy ways. Fred Jones could get away with anything, and often did, and no one could ever resent him for it.

“Congrats?” I offered. Then I smiled mischievously. “Remember not to eat anything Addie gives you.”

He looked wounded. “Hey, Velma. She’s actually really sensitive about all that gossip about her being bad luck. She hates that someone got hurt because of her.”

“It was just a joke,” I muttered, feeling warmth pool in my cheeks.

“I know,” he assured me. “But still. Addie’s not like other actors. She’s really sweet. Down to earth. You know?”

I stared at the ground, digging the toes of my combat boots into the dirt. Did Addie really need people rushing to defend her like this? She was a famous, rich movie star; she had everything she could possibly want—the best roles, the hottest boyfriend in Wyatt Smith, and now she had Fred, too.

It wasn’t fair.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, his voice low and smooth. I met his eyes. They were serious; warm. “You okay?”

I found myself unable to answer, so I just nodded.

“So, if you weren’t here to audition, then what are you up to?”

I paused. There was an easy answer: I was here because Daphne was here, and she was my best friend. Or even: I was here because this was my property, darn it, and I was keeping an eye on things. But Fred had this disconcerting way of training his big blue eyes on me, almost like he was drilling for answers, for truths. Like he didn’t just want an answer—he wanted me to reveal a secret. He must do this to everyone, I thought. That’s why everyone loves him.

I settled on “I live here” and then smoothly (or at least I hope it was smoothly) changed the subject. “So did everyone from school get a part?”

Fred cast his eyes to the sky, thinking. “Let’s see. Oh, the Hex Girls are in. Apparently there’s a big party scene in the pilot, and they’ve been hired as the band. Thorn told me all about it. Oh, she asked about you, bee tee dub.”

“Oh?” I said, chewing my lip.

“Come to think of it,” Fred continued, staring at me in that deep way again, like he was looking for something on my face, “she always asks about you. What’s up with that? Are you two … ?”

I swallowed the golf ball that had formed in my throat. Daphne had been convinced for months now that Thorn had a crush on me. And Thorn was super cool—I loved watching the Hex Girls play onstage, the way they turned into different versions of themselves, the way Thorn’s innate confidence seemed to expand whenever she was near a microphone—but my proclivities tended toward the other sex. Which was unfortunate, I thought, trying not to fall into the deep blues of Fred’s eyes, because the other sex seemed to have absolutely no proclivities toward me.

“We’re friends,” I assured him. A cold wind suddenly whipped through the Village, angling around the corner of the alley and blowing against our faces.

“Hold the phone,” he gently teased. “Velma Dinkley, willingly admitting to a friendship with someone? I thought you hated having friends.”

I snorted, and then shivered and crossed my arms against my chest. “Daphne’s my friend. Shaggy, too.”

Fred stepped closer. “What about me?”

I cocked my head, suddenly enjoying this little game. Was this flirting? I wasn’t sure, but I knew I liked it.

Another gust of wind attacked us. This time it grabbed hold of my hair and pulled it into my eyes.

Fred reached out, tucked a lock behind my ear. His hands hovered over my shoulders. “Body heat,” he said, his voice low. I nearly had to lean in to hear him. “Did you know women have a lower threshold for being cold than men do?”

I stared dumbly into his bright blue eyes. They were the color of the ocean at midday, the color of the sky on a spring morning. “Uh, I did know that, actually.” I squeezed my eyes shut, mentally kicking myself. Why? Why did I have to be such a know-it-all all the time?

But Fred chuckled. He was closer now, somehow, even though I hadn’t seen him take another step forward.

Was it me who’d stepped closer?

Fred still stared at me, a smile playing on his lips, his arms moving back and forth over my elbows. I stared back, unable to move. It was like I couldn’t process how close Fred was to me, and how much he seemed to be … well, enjoying it. How his eyes were conveying something that couldn’t possibly be true: that he, Fred Jones, was about to kiss me. Not Addie Hubbard. Not any of the hundreds of girls who always lined up to talk to him.

Me, Velma Dinkley.

I closed my eyes. Braced myself. My breath caught in my throat; my heart squeezed.

And then my phone rang.

This feels wrong, but it’s right.

This feels bad, but it’s good.

This refrain echoes through the mind of the cloaked figure, the one darting through the shadows like a cat. He shudders at the thought. He is not a cat person.

Still, it’s useful to know how a cat moves, to take cues from its sleekness, its secretive movements. The cloaked figure has a job to do, and much of it must be done in the dark. In secret. Testing out the movements, he darts ahead, feet pounding dirt.

Normally, he likes work. Work keeps him busy, keeps his hands moving and brain ticking, keeps the ghosts of a life at bay. When there is work to be done, there’s little time for self-examination.

The cloaked figure chuckles in the dark, the leaves from the thick quilt of trees above him swallowing the sounds. Self-examination is for teenagers. The rest of us have moved on, haven’t we?

We have, he decides. A thick folder rests in both his hands. It feels heavy and important.

Maybe some of us have moved on more than others, he posits.

But there’s no time to think about the past, about ancestors, about family. Or, scratch that: This is precisely the time to think about family. That’s what he has been doing this whole time: protecting family.

When the thicket of trees opens up into a field, into what lies beyond it, his heartbeat begins thrumming. It’s getting close. History is whispering. Can’t you hear it?

It isn’t like stepping back in time when one approaches the Haunted Village, deserted in the predawn hours of morning; it’s like being hurtled backward, as if someone has pushed you. Or you’ve fallen and can’t stand up. There’s a weight to this place. It encompasses you. It hangs around on your clothes when you leave. The cloaked figure has never understood how people can congregate here. Don’t they feel the past gripping their skin, tugging on their heels? Pulling them under?

Closer now. Many of the lights of the Haunted Village remain on overnight, but not enough to worry. There are ways around lights. There are ways around everything. Indeed, that’s the first thing he was ever taught.

The security code to the front gate is written on one palm. Getting it wasn’t even a challenge. Once inside the grounds, he trods a well-worn path to the old museum. The one that what’s-her-name’s family used to run. Another chuckle. That history museum had always been missing the most important parts of Crystal Cove’s story.

Well, now it will have some. The lock jimmies easily; the door is silent even on its old hinges. Inside it is darker than dark, a black so thorough the cloaked figure isn’t sure whether his eyes are open or closed.

Not that it matters. It’s easy to find a place to store the folder. In a back closet, in a corner, under a loose floorboard. Check.

Ready to celebrate a job well done, he slips out, ignores the owls’ hoots and the crickets’ songs. Quickly, still in the shadows. The set has eyes.

Around the corner. One more path and the exit will be in sight.

But—wait.

A rustle.

The cloaked figure pauses. The shadows on this side of the path are long. Safe.

There’s a dragging sound now, on top of the rustling. A blade scratching against wood, maybe. Whatever it is, it shouldn’t be here. Nothing should be here. Especially not him.

Wincing at the idea of cats again, he nonetheless pretends to be one, elongating his limbs and delicately tiptoeing, keeping to the shadows all the while. The sound is getting closer.

But the cloaked figure is nearly invisible. An angle becomes available, a way to look through a corner window of one building and see through a front window, providing a big enough view of the parallel path for him to see where the noise is coming from. A person.

His eyes widen; his heart clenches. This is not part of the plan.

He watches in silence. There is another figure on top of a ladder, resting against a piece of equipment that probably has a name, but no one outside of a television crew would ever know it. What is he doing? It’s hard to say. It looks like work. Or, more accurately, the dismantling of work.

When the man on the ladder freezes and glances up and down the path, the cloaked figure thinks he’s been discovered. But, no—the man gets back to his job after a few seconds. His unknowable, indescribable job, involving a ladder, and a tool that glints in the moonlight, and a large, scaffold-like structure that rests against the two-story building.

It’s time to get out.

Correction: It is past time to get out. This is taking too long. Every extra minute brings with it an exponential increase in the risk of getting caught, and the cloaked figure has calculated the risks too many times already.

The back way, then.

There must be a back way.

Reversing steps, light of feet and quick of limb, spotting a copse of trees off to the left that surely must provide a way out, the cloaked figure knows with a sudden, piercing clarity that there are at least two bodies haunting the Village this evening, and neither of them are ghosts.

THE FOG CRAWLED INTO Crystal Cove sometime overnight. It was typical for this time of year, a hungry mist that tickled our arms, that crept in on cold evenings and lingered for a few days. We zipped through the streets, almost stealthily; the quiet outside mirrored the silence inside.

I cleared my throat just to remind my mom I was here. She was nervous—her hands gave her away, her fingers scratching at her nail beds like she was trying to remove their polish. I was nervous, too. Who knew what the first day of filming would bring when so far, Cursed had brought nothing but bad luck?

“You’ll help Bennett, right?” my mom suddenly asked. Even the driver startled at the noise. We were in the back seat, Mom and I, steaming cups of coffee poised at our matching Berry Scary lipstain-clad mouths. “You’ll do as he says?”

“I’ve had bosses before, Mom,” I reminded her. I sipped and burned my tongue. I’d learned when Mom moved back into our house (Dad wouldn’t be back from Tokyo for another couple months) that she liked her coffee very, very strong and very, very scalding.

“This is important to me, Daphne.” She said it like it was a confession. “And to the studio, too. This show is the backbone of Meddlesome Films. That’s why we have to maintain a united front about how the set is safe and everything’s running smoothly.”

“I know,” I agreed, stung at the implication that I didn’t care as much as she did, that I didn’t understand why she and Izzy didn’t want news of the threats to leak.

“The break-in at the trailers was just someone trying to get their hands on expensive makeup,” she pressed, applying a fresh coat of lipstick as she gazed into her compact. “Izzy says theft is a problem on nearly every production. Again, nothing to worry about, and nothing for the media to hear.”

“O-kay,” I snapped.

“I suspect I’ll be very busy on set, so if you need anything …” Her voice trailed off. She continued looking out the window, the streetlights flashing by every few seconds.

Suddenly, I felt like dumping my coffee. My mom didn’t trust me, and I was beginning to worry she never would. “Don’t worry, Mother. I won’t bother you, and I’ll keep your secrets.”

“Daphne! That’s not what—”

But the driver had pulled up to the makeshift parking lot next to the trailers on the outer edge of the Haunted Village, and I opened the door and fled to the writers’ room, my mom’s calls echoing after me.

*   *   *

The town of Crystal Cove may have still been asleep, but by seven in the morning, the Haunted Village set was like its own bustling universe. From the dusty windows in the old arcade I could see people moving through the alleys, some all in black, carrying big pieces of equipment, some dressed up in old Western costumes. I stretched my arms and stifled a yawn.

Bennett noticed. We’d been hard at work for two hours—which for me mostly meant refilling coffees and fixing the paper jam in the big printer someone had stuck next to the pinball machine. “Let’s take twenty,” he suggested.

I shot him a grateful look as I slipped out the door of the writers’ room and gulped the fresh air. The other writers and assistants—there were eight of us—dispersed, off to find bathrooms and craft services and quiet places to take phone calls. I checked my phone and saw three texts from my mom, all of them telling me I had misunderstood her. I stared at them for a moment before deciding not to respond. We were fragile, my mom and I, and this morning was a reminder that we still had a long way to go. It was also a reminder that the old angry Daphne was still crouched inside me, despite my thinking I’d banished her for good.

Outside, I breathed in the chilly morning and tried not to think about the possibility that I’d never be able to get rid of her. That she’d always be hovering just under my skin, ready to pounce. That I’d always have to keep people at a distance, just to protect them.

I was going to shoot Velma a text to see if she was awake but then, checking my phone, realized I could stroll over to the Dinkley house instead. Stretch my legs; put some distance between my mother and me.

On my way there, I spotted Velma crossing the wide field that separated her house from the Village. I ran to meet her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked as soon as we were in earshot.

I widened my eyes. “Is it that obvious?”

She shrugged. “I just know your looks, is all. Is it Ram? Did you see him again?”

We perched on a set of boulders that had been there so long, no one could tell whether they were part of the Haunted Village or just a natural part of the Crystal Cove landscape. I stared at the Village, its lights and movement a reminder that the world always moved on, even when it felt like your own world had stopped. “No, not Ram. Just family stuff. Hey, you gonna tell me what happened last night?”

It might have just been the warming sunlight reflecting off her round face, but I swear, Velma blushed. “Don’t change the subject.”

I’d texted Velma last night because I needed to tell her that my mom knew that we knew about the threatening letters. But she hadn’t responded, which was not like her. I decided now was not the time to push it, though, so I quickly filled her in during the morning’s car ride.

“In conclusion,” I said, checking the time, “my mom ordered us to drop it. And speaking of moms, mum’s the word.”

Velma nodded slowly, digesting this development. “She’s probably right. The fewer people who know about the letters, and the trailers, and even yesterday’s code green—”

“That ship has sailed,” I interrupted. “It’s all over social.”

“Sure, but the studio came out and said it was a false alarm. And that’s a good thing for us. It lets us look around a bit without drawing too much attention.”

A thought occurred to me. “Speaking of attention, I’ve barely paid any to Shaggy lately. Have you seen him around?”

She shook her head. “I keep seeing Jack in random places, though.”

“Now that you mention it …” I murmured. I’d seen Jack all throughout town over the past few weeks but always solo. But Shaggy had been pretty incommunicado.

“Strange, right?” Velma said. “I’m worried about him.”

I was, too. In fact, I’d been worried about Shaggy for a while now. All this stuff with his dad’s business was part of it, for sure; how his family was facing a media onslaught, a financial collapse; how Samuel Rogers always seemed to blame Shaggy for everything that went wrong, even stuff he couldn’t help.

But it was clear Shaggy had other issues besides the stuff with his dad. These days, Shaggy thought he was bad luck; poison. And he and Scooby had been visibly absent from all their usual hangs since then—the beach, downtown, any place that sold food …

Listen, I knew every one of us had secrets, including Shaggy. Marcy had told me that much before she left, and it was obvious the more time I spent with him. But Shaggy had something else, too: Demons. Ghosts. They haunted him, but he insisted on keeping them hidden from us.

The weirder thing was, as I worried more and more about Shaggy’s state of being, I was also more and more concerned about what it meant that I cared so much. Why did thoughts of Shaggy creep into my head at random times throughout the day? (And night?) He’d always just been Shaggy, the remote, cool surfer dude who spent more time with his dog (and his pizza) than anyone else. But now? Shaggy was someone I cared about. But he kept me at a distance, which meant I couldn’t be there for him the way I wanted to.

“So how’s the job going so far?”

I brightened. “A bit boring, but it’s still really cool. You know, just to even be in the room with all the writers. Oh, and my boss says he has a special assignment for me. We have a meeting soon to discuss.” I checked my phone. “Actually, I have to get back. Walk with me?”

As we headed over, I pointed out various things around the set that I’d learned about that morning. “They’re filming a whole scene on the old railcars over there. And see that scaffolding? They’re building an extra story on top of those buildings. Wasn’t that your mom’s old office, V?”

She opened her mouth to respond when we were interrupted by a booming screech, followed by the unmistakable sound of something crashing.

We glanced at each other for a beat before bursting into a run.

The set, which all morning had appeared to run like a calm and well-oiled machine, broke into chaos. As we dashed toward the noise, some people streamed past us in the opposite direction. We heard shouts and calls for help. The old Haunted Village broadcast system crackled to life. “Code blue, code blue, set location eleven!”

Instead of the freezing of action the previous code green had prompted, this code seemed to spur everyone into action. We followed the noise until we found a few dozen people gathered in front of the Haunted Mine, a ride where most kids in town experienced their first kisses, thanks to its slow-moving train cars that meandered through a dark and not-very-scary cave, punctuated by occasional ghosts leaping onto the tracks.

I spotted the cause of the crash right away: a massive lighting rig had fallen over, landing on the roof of the nearby candy store, shattering its front windows and crumpling the wooden beams of the building like a piece of paper. On the ground, limbs spread out, was a young man. There was a small pool of blood under his head, darkening the sandy dirt into a purple-red color. Someone was crouched next to him, checking his pulse.

“Are you okay?” Velma gasped as we rushed toward him. The crowd dispersed a bit to let us through.

“He’s breathing,” someone holding his head confirmed. “And the paramedics should be here any second.”

We stayed with him as the EMTs arrived, and within a few minutes it became clear that the victim was more shocked than anything else. Soon he was sitting up and drinking a cup of water. The color began returning to his face as an EMT taped a big square of gauze to his cut.

I was pretty sure the victim was the same guy who’d been around when Izzy Flores had shown us around the set, the one who’d jumped at the chance to give her a water bottle, but I got distracted by the voice of the person sitting with him. I redirected my attention from the man on the ground, only to have my eyes land on … Cooper McBeal.

Cooper McBeal was a child-actor-turned-teenage-heartthrob whose face had adorned the walls (and hearts) of my entire generation. He had dark brown skin and warm brown eyes and, based on his recent debut album, the voice of an angel. I’d been wondering when I was going to see one of the show’s stars, but I hadn’t been prepared for just how off guard it would catch me.

“What happened?” Velma asked him, as though talking to a celebrity like Cooper was a normal occurrence. (Me? I wasn’t even sure I could talk anymore.)

Cooper straightened up and rubbed his eyes. He ambled a few feet away and gestured for us to follow him. My legs wobbled. Cooper! Cooper McBeal!

Velma elbowed me. “Get it together, Blake.”

I tried. But it wasn’t every day I got to look into the eyes of one of the cutest guys to grace the big screen. Cooper rubbed the back of his neck, and I tried not to get lost in that gorgeous swath of his skin as he stared at the man on the ground, his beautiful face crumpled with worry. “That was wild,” he said. He looked earnestly at us, like it was really important we understand what he was about to say. “We were standing at the door waiting for instructions. I saw a shadow fall over us and then, just … boom. The rig crashed into the building.”

“Who is he?” I managed to ask.

“My stand-in,” Cooper explained. “Good guy. His name’s Jason.”

“McBeal!” An officious-looking woman trotted over, headset askew, eyes flashing concern. It was Izzy, I realized, the panic on her face making her look almost like a different person. “Are you okay? Let’s get you checked out.”

“I’m fine,” he protested. Cooper turned back to us as Izzy nervously looked him up and down, clearly checking for injuries. “Guys, this is Izzy Flores, our executive producer. Izzy, this is— Wait, I just realized I haven’t introduced myself yet. I’m Cooper.”

I choked back a nervous giggle as Cooper—Cooper McBeal! Would I ever get over it?—reached out a hand. I shook it, vowed to never wash it again, took back the vow because that was gross and I wasn’t a child, and mumbled my name.

Izzy barely glanced at us. Instead, she was expending lots of nervous energy examining Cooper’s shoulders and head, calling for her assistant, and generally being frantic. Rightfully so, I supposed; if the star of the show got injured on set, the media would definitely find out … and definitely start digging for more.

Luckily, Velma jumped in. “And I’m Velma Dinkley. My family owns this place. Daphne here is a writers’ assistant. Her mom created the video game.”

Cooper’s eyes lit up. “Awesome! I freaking love The Curse of Crystal Cove! Tell your mom she’s the coolest.”

“I’ll get right on that,” I croaked.

“Let’s go,” Izzy said to Cooper. “I’m getting you checked out. And now I have to get a media statement ready …” She glanced at her watch and groaned. “Day one and we’re already delayed.”

Cooper waved goodbye to us as Izzy pulled him through the crowd. Quite a few people were still milling around, and several crew members attempted to move the big lighting rig out of the way.

“Well, at least it looks like Jason will be okay,” Velma said. Then she narrowed her eyes. “But will you?”

“I’m not at my best today,” I admitted. “With everything that’s going on … and I can’t stop expecting Ram to pop into my face at any moment. It’s stressful!” As I spoke, my eyes scanned the crowd—probably looking for Ram, I realized—when I saw something that made me freeze.

“Daph? What?”

I stared. A bunch of crew members and show staff were still gathered, and about a dozen onlookers pointed and applauded as Jason, with help, got to his feet. As the EMTs led him through the remaining crowd and turned into the long alley that led to the parking lot, my eyes landed on a tall, sandy-haired man. He stared back at me from behind a pair of dark—and expensive—sunglasses. Or maybe he wasn’t looking at me after all; it was hard to tell. But I felt eyes on me, and I had to assume they were his.

“Now what is Samuel Rogers doing here?” I murmured.

*   *   *

For as long as I could remember, Shaggy’s dad had been trouble. As kids, Velma and Fred and I would hang out in the epic Rogers mansion for hours at a time, exploring the many rooms and playing hide-and-seek behind the wild and weird historic items the Rogers family displayed throughout their home. We even formed a mystery-solving agency, Mystery Inc., and spent a whole summer seeking mysteries to solve. (Not to brag, but we totally solved them all.) Back then, Shaggy’s mom had been working her way up the ladder at the Crystal Cove police department, which meant she was out of the house more often than she was in it. That left Mr. Rogers, who seemed to always be around to kill any fun we’d been planning.

Knowing what I knew about his parents, it was hard to believe sometimes that Shaggy was the way he was: cool, easygoing, willing to give you the shirt off his back. But he’d definitely inherited his father’s air of mystery, and I’d promised Marcy, who had a unique (and still undefined) relationship with Shaggy, that I’d support him. Shaggy needs your help, Marcy had written to me in a letter after she’d moved away, once things had settled after a spate of kidnappings in town.

So far, all Velma and I had found were more questions, especially in the last month. We’d followed Shaggy on a stakeout only to get caught up in a generations-old family drama between the Rogerses, whose family were the first settlers in Crystal Cove, and the Burnetts, who had been right behind them. Noelle Burnett had broken into the Rogers mansion and stolen the Crystal Cove Crystal, an antique artifact that was said to have been the only one of its kind in all the world. It had been discovered by Samuel Rogers’s ancestor hundreds of years ago in the sea caves at the beach, and according to legend, the Crystal had magical powers.

While we’d been trying to unravel the mystery, Velma and I had also been trying to help Shaggy. We just didn’t know what he needed help with, or why. And it had been increasingly hard to concentrate on Shaggy when, all around us, it felt like Crystal Cove was falling apart: Noelle and her daughter, Taylor, had been posing as ghosts and scaring the pants off everyone, making some people worry that Crystal Cove really was a cursed, haunted place. How could it not be, the argument went, when the very earth it had been built on had borne such bad luck? An entire village, missing; an entire town, burned to the ground. Vanishing girls, mysterious things washing up on the shore, deception everywhere we turned … all with the ever-present backdrop of my mother’s wildly successful video game, which cemented our reputation as a quirky, spooky place. Our legacy here in Crystal Cove was one of secrets, of unknowable histories that bled into the present day.

Anyway, the problem with trying to find out more about Shaggy, I had recently realized, was that he was impossible to really know. He made acquaintances easily—in part thanks to Scooby, the world’s friendliest dog—but if I were asked to name his best friend, I’d have trouble answering.

In fact, I sometimes wondered if Velma and I were the answer.

I could tell Velma wanted to hunker down and jointly speculate about the presence of Mr. Rogers on set, but my break was long over and Bennett was expecting me. Velma asked if she could help, so I dragged her to the writers’ room.

Bennett was alone, clacking at his keyboard, laptop resting on his knees and his feet stretched out on the table. Dark gray sneakers with a single red star on each side. Some British brand, I guessed.

“Sorry about being late,” I said, sliding into the seat across from him.

“I heard all about the accident,” Bennett said, pausing his frantic typing to shake his head. “Scary stuff. Sets can be dangerous places.”

“Especially this one,” Velma muttered. She sat down next to me, and I quickly made introductions.

“If it’s okay, Velma would love to help with whatever project you have for me,” I offered. “My mom said—”

“That’s great.” Bennett waved his hand and sat up straight. “Whatever your mom wants. And actually, I could use another set of eyes on all this research.”

My heart sank at the word research (I was here to write!), but Velma leaned forward eagerly, her face curling into that satisfied smirk it got whenever she was given explicit permission to ask people lots and lots of questions.

Before Dr. Hunter and my mom’s former best friend, my own aunt Emma, had been arrested for all the kidnappings that occurred a few months ago—including that of Marcy and the Hex Girls—Velma had worked at the library, doing research for him. She was really good at finding something to dig into and then never, ever letting go.

“What are you researching?” she breathed.

“So, as I’m sure you know, the pilot episode is written, and even though we don’t know yet whether we’ll be picked up for a full season, we have to be prepared if we are. So I’m piecing together potential plot points for upcoming story arcs.” He grabbed a stack of paper behind his laptop, riffled through it until he found what he was looking for, and pushed a sheet into the middle of the table so we could all see it. “One of the things that sets Cursed apart from other shows—and its origins from other video games—is its hook in history. It’s successful because it’s based in reality, even though it diverges from the known into the unknown.”

I nodded along, surprised at the shiver that raced up my spine. Bennett’s delivery was impeccable, his voice smooth and intriguing, his accent making him sound refined, regal. Crystal Cove was a town built on the unknown; a still-unsolved mystery. Every theory the world had about what had happened to the original settlers was based on our core truth: We just didn’t know. And the older I got, the less I believed we ever would. We were a town with no answers, only guesses, and each was wilder and more unprovable than the last.

“Your mission, should you choose to accept it,” Bennett continued, “is to help me research the heck out of Crystal Cove. I want a list of every possible answer to the question of the Vanishing. I want to know what the conspiracy theorists say, what the weird people on the internet believe, what the old-timers in town remember from their grandparents and their grandparents’ grandparents. I want the family lore. Because in that lore, there’s usually some truth.”

Velma was breathless, practically dancing in her seat. I, meanwhile, tried not to deflate at the prospect.

“Because here’s the thing,” Bennett said. He closed his laptop, straightened out his papers, and began pacing around the room. Someone had plugged the old pinball machine back in and every few seconds a faint bleep-bloop-bleep pinged throughout the room. For some reason, I held my breath.

I expected him to tell us something important—his setup to this moment, his posture, his pacing, all conveyed a sense of greatness—but when he finally said it, I was shocked by just how heavy it felt. Just how big.

“Here’s the thing,” he repeated. He stopped pacing, crossed his arms in front of his chest, and stared out the front window. It was midmorning; actors in costume and makeup streamed by. The Haunted Village had never been more alive. “I have my own theory about what happened here all those years ago.”

Velma gasped. I stared. And Bennett turned to face us, his mouth stretched in a thin line, his eyes flashing.

“And once I prove it, I’m going to share it with the world.”

I COULDN’T GET BENNETT’S words out of my mind. They played on repeat like a song, marking my steps back to the house, the massive No Trespassing sign a beacon guiding me home.

Over the years, lots of people had thought they could figure out what had happened here. Whenever Daphne’s mom’s video game was mentioned in the news, a whole new set of mystery solvers would show up in town, begging for stories, digging through our town closets on the hunt for skeletons. None of them had ever found answers. But there had been a glint in Bennett’s eyes that made me think … maybe he had.

“Anyone home?” I called once inside, my voice echoing through the house. The afternoon sun tumbled down the walls of the living room.

After several beats of silence, my dad’s distant voice responded. “I’m here.”

Oh. I struggled to keep my voice even. He was in my parents’ bedroom, probably in bed, likely with the window shades drawn. “Hi, Dad. Can I get you anything?”

I stared at the sunlight against the wall while waiting for his answer. Eventually, his sigh traveled down the stairs. “Nah. Thanks.”

In the kitchen I poured a glass of sparkling water and tried to remember what my mom once told me about my dad, who suffered from depression: He’s doing the best he can. Some days will be better than others. And today, it seemed, was not one of the good ones.

I escaped to my bedroom to think. I’d always liked the view of the Haunted Village from here—our house was on a slight hill, and with all the action happening on set, it afforded me a new perspective on the place I knew so well. Or at least, I thought I knew so well. Like our town’s history itself. Like my history.

I’d been wrestling with the legends and lore of Crystal Cove my whole life. Bennett wanted us to research the theories behind the Vanishing? Well, I was an expert in theories! I yanked open my closet door and unearthed the boxes I had yet to unpack after moving back in here last month. One of them contained my old notebooks, including the ones I’d insisted we keep for Mystery Inc., where all our old investigations were logged. And somewhere in there was, I was sure, a very important book that I’d almost forgotten about—until Bennett’s words had reminded me.

We’d kept a notebook during our stint with Mystery Inc., a place where we (very seriously) wrote down our ideas, theories, interviews, and more. It was a gold mine of information about the Vanishing—family legends, town histories, the works.

Then, after Mystery Inc. disbanded and my friendship with Daphne exploded (note to self: Maybe next time you catch your best friend’s mom kissing someone who isn’t your best friend’s dad, keep it to yourself), I had no real friends to speak of, but I did have lots of free time. And I was okay with that. In fact, I preferred it. Not having friends meant I couldn’t get hurt when they abandoned me, when they blamed me for something that wasn’t my fault.

So I put all that extra time to good use. Around me, people continued to talk about curses and ghosts and tall tales in hushed tones; people spooked easily. My parents led visitors through their old museum about our town history, and then they brought those stories home to me to be shared at our dinner table. And those stories became a part of me—a part, I have to admit, I was desperate to disprove.

Because I knew, even as a kid, that the problem with Crystal Cove isn’t our legends. It isn’t our conspiracy theories, our mysteries, our higher-than-the-national-average ghost sightings. It’s our gullibility. And I’d long ago vowed to fight it.

The first box I found was dusty and crumpled and filled with, of all things, my old art projects from grade school. (Why had I saved those? Art was not my forte.) Sneezing from the dust, I moved on to the second box and pulled open the flaps. Staring back at me were rows and rows of my old notebooks. One by one I lined them up on the floor, my handwriting on the covers evolving as I aged, until I found the one I was looking for. The original Mystery Inc. book, where all our Vanishing theories were listed. I snatched it up. “Gotcha,” I whispered.

Then a yelp rang out, followed by a bang.

I leapt to my feet, heart racing, and ran to my parents’ room. My dad was gone, the bedcovers flung back.

“Hey!”

My dad’s voice sounded strangled. It came from downstairs.

I took the steps two at a time. “Dad! Where are you?” I yelled, dashing between rooms, looking for him and coming up empty. “Dad!”

“Get outta here!” A yell, followed by a scuffle, and then the banging of the front door. I retraced my steps and found my father standing in the living room, huffing like he’d just run a race.

“Are you okay?” I cried. I tried not to rile my dad up these days, tried to keep things light and steady for him, but I couldn’t hide the worry that etched itself on my face. I noticed my hands were shaking.

My father looked at me. His face was blank, vacant. “There was someone peeking in through the window.”

I gaped.

“He was right there,” my dad said, pointing to the front window in the living room, the one that overlooked the expanse of grass leading to the Haunted Village. “I came downstairs to get some water, and he was staring at me through the glass. I saw him. Light hair, wearing a red … something. He was moving fast. I thought …”

“What did he do?” I breathed.

“I don’t know.” My dad rubbed his head, like he couldn’t remember, like he’d been awoken from a deep sleep. “I yelled at him, but when I opened the door to chase him away, there was no one there.”

I tried to even my breathing as my mind raced, listing all the possibilities. Shaggy, coming for an unexpected visit. Daphne, wearing something un-Daphne-like that would make my dad think she was someone else, someone threatening.

Or maybe, I thought, hating myself as the idea floated through the hallways of my brain, there was no one here at all.

*   *   *

“Come here often?”

I smirked at Daphne’s joke without looking up from the books I had spread out before me. Because yes, I did, and she knew it.

She dropped into the chair across from me and rested her head on the long table, all dramatic. Her red hair fell like a curtain over her shoulders. “How is it possible that a Saturday night can feel like a Monday morning?”

“Guess what?” I opened my phone and clicked over to the Howler’s website. She lifted her head just enough to peek through her hair and then groaned when she saw what I was doing.

“Yeah, I just heard my mom telling my stepdad. So much for keeping it quiet. They’re closing down the set tomorrow to double-check all the equipment and come up with a whole media strategy in case there’s any more bad publicity.”

“We’re lucky this piece doesn’t mention the letters or the lockdown,” I pointed out, staring at the Howler’s headline: TV Show Sees Delays After Accident on Set; One Actor Injured.

“Would you call that lucky?” Daphne wondered. She looked uncharacteristically nervous, chewing on her lower lip. “Velma, I don’t know if we should be keeping this quiet. Doesn’t the public deserve to know if something dangerous happens? It’s too much of a coincidence!”

I considered this. “We know there’s someone sending threats to your mom. And we know someone either saw something scary on set—something that made them call the police!—or that someone lied and just wanted everyone on set to be scared. And then there was the break-in at the makeup trailer, and the accident with Cooper’s stunt double. But we don’t know if they’re connected.”

“Someone got hurt today, Velma. Like actually, truly injured.” Daphne nibbled on her fingernail. “I know my mom doesn’t think the letters are serious, or that anything’s connected. But based on everything that’s happened … I just think there’s someone out there who really doesn’t want Cursed to keep filming.”

I could tell Daphne was truly scared. And I totally understood. If someone had sent my mom those same letters, I’d feel the same way.

Thinking of my mom made my stomach shift uneasily, like a wave had just crashed into me. If anyone wanted Cursed to stop filming, it was her. That was just a fact. But she would never be involved in these kinds of dangerous stunts. I knew that … but did everyone else?

“How about this,” I said, negotiating. “If one more thing happens, any other event that’s out of the ordinary or feels off, we’ll bring in reinforcements. Deal?”

Daphne stared at me for a beat before nodding. “Okay. Deal.”

She flipped through a magazine that had been left on the table. We were in the Crystal Cove library, in the small, sort-of-private section at the back that I’d long ago decided was the best place in town to escape to when you needed … well, an escape. (Plus, the vending machines were nearby.) Daphne had reluctantly agreed to meet me here for an hour of research before heading back to her place; she wanted to watch Addie’s newest movie, which had just hit streaming.

“Shall we start on some research for Bennett?” I was eager to change the subject, to lighten the mood.

Daphne turned a page. “Speak of the devil. Here’s Miss Hubbard herself. With some killer shoes, I might add.”

I peered at the page Daphne was flashing at me. In it, Addie stared lovingly at Wyatt Smith as they left some restaurant together with their hands clasped. Wyatt Smith and Addie Hubbard are on again, if their recent outing to Chateau Marmont is any indication, the caption read. It was dated a few weeks ago.

I sighed. “Jeepers, they really can’t make up their minds, can they?”

Daphne’s eyes widened. “What did you say?”

“Addie and Wyatt,” I muttered, tapping keys on my laptop, half my mind still in my research. “Their constant drama is exhausting. They’ve broken up, what, a dozen times now? And I know everyone loves him … but to me he seems like such a jerk. He’s so … cold. Icy. Remember the time he called Addie ditzy in some interview? And there are all those rumors about his temper on set … He’s gotten some people fired before, I heard. And, I mean, technically, he’s more famous than she is, but she’s won more awards, and critics agree she’s one of the greatest actors right now, and she can do so much better than him.”

Like Fred Jones. I swatted the thought away.

“Hold up.” Daphne hit the table with both hands. “Hold up! Velma Dinkley, are you some kind of celebrity gossip savant?”

I shot her daggers. “What? It’s fun.” I neglected to tell her the real reason I’d gotten into celebrity drama; that, after our friendship had imploded when we were ten, I was desperate to find answers for Daphne’s behavior. For my own, too. And that meant scouring the off-screen lives of celebrities, whose stories were plastered over the covers of magazines that were abundantly available at the library. “Besides, celebrity gossip only gets a bad rap because it’s mostly women who buy the magazines. I consider it my feminist duty to stand up for it.”

She nodded, impressed. “Well. I’ll quiz you on Cooper McBeal’s status later. Actually …”

I looked up from my screen, waiting for her to continue. But she was hesitating. “What?”

“It’s just funny, having all these stars in Crystal Cove. On my way over here, I could have sworn …” Her voice trailed off again as she glanced out the tall windows lining this section of the library. The last remnants of dusk had painted the sky dark blue and purple, and with the lights glaring inside, all we could see was our own reflection.

“Yeah … ?” I prodded her.

She shook her head as if she were shaking off cobwebs and straightened up. “Some guy looked like Wyatt Smith, that’s all. But it must have been someone else with that same white-blond, shoulder-length hair.”

“That’s some noticeable hair,” I agreed.

“Forget it. I must have Hollywood on the brain,” Daphne said.

I rolled my eyes. “Maybe he’s in town to win Addie back.”

“Maybe,” she echoed unconvincingly. “Meanwhile, any guesses on what Bennett’s theory could be?”

I exhaled slowly, the puff of air blowing my bangs off my forehead. I’d been so busy cataloging all the theories I’d collected over the years that I hadn’t really thought of what Bennett’s might be. “I’ve heard so many hypotheses by now, I can’t imagine his would surprise me.”

We sat in silence for a couple of minutes, but I had a surprise that was burning a hole in my bag. I couldn’t wait any longer. “Well, I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

“Bad. No, wait, good. Definitely good.”

I smiled and opened the flap of my messenger bag. My old notebook slid out. Daphne’s eyes widened when she saw the orange cover.

“Is that … ?”

“It is.” I’d reread the entire book that afternoon, once my dad was settled and my own pulse had stopped racing. My ten-year-old handwriting made it hard to read in spots, but most of it was salvageable. Daphne caressed the cover.

“I haven’t thought about this book in a long time.”

I wistfully flipped through the pages. “It’s all here. Interviews with our families about their histories in Crystal Cove, that massive time line we had put together with the librarians’ help, lists of which family in town had which artifacts in their possession. All of it. That entire year of research about the history of Crystal Cove, the Vanishing, the legends.”

“The sheer amount of time we spent on that …” Daphne shook her head in disbelief. “I remember spending hours interviewing my dad. And his parents. And Aunt Emma. And my neighbors!”

“And my family, and our teachers, and my babysitter …”

As we reminisced, I found myself transported to that time—ten years old, right on that cusp between childhood and teendom; a place where you’re too old for kid stuff and too young for teen stuff. You spend a lot of time trying to figure out what exactly your stuff is. And for me, that stuff was centered on the legends of Crystal Cove. Back then, along with Shaggy’s and Fred’s help, we’d decided we were going to solve the mystery of the Vanished.

It was a silly idea, in retrospect, but we’d taken it very seriously, and this little notebook had been the keeper of our findings, our methods, our process. It contained a (long) list of our interview subjects by date and method, and, in most cases, a near-verbatim transcript of our exchanges. For example:

Interviewer: Velma

Subject: Frank the dry cleaner

Date: April 24

Q&A:

V: Hi, Frank. You’ve lived in Crystal Cove your whole life. What’s the first story you remember about the Vanished, and who told it to you?

F: Hi there, Velma. Your mom knows you’re here, right? Well, let me think. I reckon it was my grandma who first told me about the Vanished. She lived with us, you see. Things were different back then. Families stuck together. We had that little house on Fourth Street, the one that’s still there? You know, with the red shutters? Small rooms, and we were cramped, but we were happy. Once—

V: Back to the Vanished …

F: Oh, right. Sorry, little lady. Well … like I said. My grandma also grew up here, God rest her soul. A lifelong Crystal Cover, like yours truly. And she used to tell me and my brothers that if we didn’t behave—say, if we were acting up in church or misbehaving when our dad came home from work—she used to say that the boogeymen would come for us, just like they did back then. That’s what she thought, my grandma. Boogeymen took the first people who came to this region, took ’em because they misbehaved somehow. She didn’t give many details, Grandma did, but it sure scared us chickens!

Page after page we documented our interviews, until halfway through the notebook we apparently decided we’d done enough interviewing; it was time to establish some hypotheses. (I’d really merged my love of science with the lure of the town’s legends in this little project of ours.) So, in careful, smart penmanship, I’d written:

Theories

Compiled with help from Daphne Blake, Shaggy Rogers, and Fred Jones

We conducted twenty-five interviews. From our research, many of the theories on what happened to the Vanished are similar. We decided they could be separated into several themes:

Revenge: The original settlers did something wrong and had to pay for it.

Bad luck: They were innocent victims who settled on cursed land—they were doomed from the start.

Crime: One of the settlers was a mastermind criminal whose nefarious motives required him to kidnap everyone. Or they witnessed something they weren’t supposed to.

Sinkhole: The land itself swallowed them up.

Collective amnesia: They witnessed something so horrible, they agreed to leave their land and all their belongings behind and make a fresh start.

From there, the notebook consisted of evidence. Or at least, what a few precocious ten-year-old kids considered to be evidence: the folklore our interview subjects had shared, some newspaper clippings that appeared to be of dubious relevance, and some photocopied pages from a local history book that we’d considered to be of utmost importance, tucked into the back folder of the notebook.

As Daphne and I flipped through, stopping to marvel over shared memories, my senses started tingling. Maybe it was just excitement, maybe it was curiosity over what Bennett thought he’d discovered, but for the first time, I felt like this mystery was going to be solved. That it was just a matter of time.

“Okay, now for the bad news,” I said, shifting gears. I screwed up my face in preparation for what the news I was about to deliver. “The accident on set just gave my mom and Shaggy’s dad a pretty big reason to keep protesting the filming. And I’m sure that Louisa kid will be begging for signatures again.”

Daphne narrowed her eyes. “You know, I’ve been wondering … what was Samuel Rogers doing on set today, anyway? Like, how did he even get in?”

I snorted. “Men like Samuel Rogers get to go wherever they want.”

“No, but really—he’s actively protesting the filming. Security is tight. The entrance gates are closed unless you have a badge, and yet he was able to get access to the Village? Does it sound like the production studio would let that happen?” She shook her head. “Something’s off, V.”

I believed that Daphne was perturbed by the whole thing, but I also knew Daphne, with her immense privilege, didn’t quite realize the extent to which the Rogers family was able to use their influence in all kinds of ways. It wouldn’t surprise me, for example, if Samuel Rogers was old golfing buddies with the head of the studio or something. Or, I don’t know, having an affair with Izzy Flores. That guy could worm his way into anything. “What are you thinking?”

She chewed her lip. “I’m not sure. Yet. Just wondering.”

I tapped the cover of the orange notebook. It held so many memories, so many stories. “Remember who we were always trying to interview back then but never managed to score a time?”

Daphne stared for a moment, thinking. Then her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh my god.”

“The Rogers family,” I confirmed. Even now, years later, thinking about the way Shaggy’s parents kept refusing to meet with us, or would schedule an interview only to cancel right beforehand, stung. “They were so cagey.”

“Wasn’t Samuel Rogers running for mayor back then?” Daphne wondered. “Am I making that up? I remember seeing posters around town.”

“Oh yeah.” I nodded. “He spent a lot of money on that race, I think.”

“Shocker,” Daphne cracked. “But seriously, though, that’s probably why he never allowed us to interview him. He didn’t want us lurking around, digging up old skeletons, while he was trying to get in everyone’s good graces.”

“Well, he’s definitely not running for mayor anytime soon,” I posited. “Not with all these charges against him.”

“You know, I bet a little bit of positive media coverage would really help his case,” Daphne mused. She tossed her hair and grinned at me like she knew something. “I could dangle a carrot in front of him.”

I knew where Daphne was going with this, and I needed to point out the obvious. “But Milford hates Samuel Rogers.”

“Oh, and the feeling is mutual,” she assured me. “But any mention of the Rogers family drives page clicks. And page clicks equals money.”

I was starting to think this could work. “So we request an interview to find out what the Rogerses believe about our history …”

“And in return, the Rogers family gets a nice little write-up in the Howler.” Daphne shrugged, her eyes glittering. “Welcome to modern media.”

I clicked my pen. “I think it’s time we ask Shaggy.”

Daphne began pulling on her coat. “Can we ask him on our way home? I’m starving.”

I took the hint and started gathering my things with one hand while texting Shaggy with the other. Hey, I have an idea. Call me.

When I was done, Daphne was looking at me quizzically. “Hey, any update on your little break-in?”

I’d texted Daphne after the incident that afternoon, partly just to make sure it hadn’t been her making a surprise visit, and partly because I’d been feeling a little spooked. I shook my head. “Nope. Dad’s still swearing someone was there, but since I didn’t see or hear anything, and I couldn’t find any evidence …”

“What did your mom say?”

“She said, and I quote, I told you so.” I huffed at Daphne’s laughter. “It’s not funny, Daph. She’s talking about installing a security system now.”

Daphne was quiet as we moved through the empty rooms; surprisingly, we appeared to be the only people who were spending their Saturday evening in the main branch of the Crystal Cove Public Library. (I guess I wasn’t that surprised.)

We pushed through the heavy, old doors. Once we stepped outside, I shivered in the ocean breeze. The library was on Beach Street, and standing at the top stone steps of the entrance offered a stunning view of the shoreline, a mile-long stretch of sparkling white sand, bookended on the northern side by the sea caves and on the southern side by a glistening jetty.

I blinked as I gazed at the blanket of stars over the black ocean, which writhed and danced to its own secret song. From here, at this time of night, the beach looked almost menacing. Like those waters, witness to every secret this town had ever known, were keeping its stories locked tight between its waves.

Next to me, Daphne zipped up her coat and pulled her purple scarf tight around her neck. “Maybe she’s right, Velma. I have a bad feeling things are about to get spooky around here.”

I WASN’T READY FOR Monday, but since when has a Monday ever cared? It was another five a.m. call time, and I rubbed my eyes in the car on my way to set, taking care not to smudge my mascara. My mom sat next to me, tapping away at her phone; we were both ready for some kind of unspoken truce. Was I really over it? No. Was I willing to let it ruin my day? Also no. So here we were, back on our usual rocky ground.

I sipped the coffee my mom had handed me as a sort of peace offering and sniffed. Why didn’t schools offer classes on how to communicate with your parents?

As the car zipped through the darkened streets, I thought seriously about whether I could start a petition, get it going. I’d probably be successful. Crystal Cove High School was extremely invested in ensuring Elizabeth Blake, the famous creator of the video game and now television show that brought millions of dollars of revenue to Crystal Cove, was happy with her daughter’s school.

I’d spent most of Sunday catching up on sleep and homework in between rereading Velma’s unearthed notebook and doing some online research for Bennett. It was helpful to refresh my memory about who in town had grown up with which legends—like how Mr. Gersick, our school janitor, had always been told that the original settlers of this town had been washed out to sea by a great flood, while the head librarian had been taught that angry spirits had followed the settlers on their journey across the country, mad that they’d abandoned their families and determined to pay them back for their mistakes by haunting them so much, they’d had no choice but to run away from Crystal Cove altogether. Funny how one so-far-unexplained event (though, granted, a pretty big one) could spawn so many tales that just kept building and growing with every generation.

I’d also discovered there were entire websites dedicated exclusively to the mysteries Crystal Cove had encountered over the past decades, starting with the Vanishing all the way through the great fire a hundred years afterward that had burned nearly the entire town to rubble, to the countless “hauntings” and spooky sightings that had plagued residents ever since this place had been settled. Some of the sites had commenting functionality, and in those comments people tried to connect the mysteries of Crystal Cove with everything from the deep state to the faked moon landing to the theory that aliens had been the first life-forms on Earth and had kidnapped the settlers and taken them back to their home planet.

There was certainly a lot to report to Bennett. I braced myself for what was likely going to be another long day.

When we reached the set—the guards at the new back gates recognized us now and waved our driver right through—Mom kissed me on the cheek and we parted ways. Velma was waiting for me at craft services, piling heaps of scrambled eggs onto her plate. I wrinkled my nose at the smell and poured another coffee. I hadn’t slept well, and the thought of food was making me nauseous.

“So get this,” Velma said in between mouthfuls. “I texted Shaggy last night, right?”

“Right.” We walked while she ate; Bennett was expecting us for our morning meeting at the Ferris wheel, of all places. His idea, and he was my boss.

“So he actually called me later, and when I asked him if we could interview his family, our line got disconnected!”

“Mm-hmm.” I watched our feet as we walked, kicking up dirt. The pathways of the Haunted Village were well-trod, packed hard. Something about Shaggy calling Velma—and not me—wasn’t sitting well in my stomach. Which was, of course, completely stupid and dumb, and not anything I wanted to think about too deeply. I pushed it away and tried to focus on the interview.

She scooped up the last of her eggs and tossed her paper plate into a nearby trash can. The lamps dotting this section of the Village were still on and they reflected off her glasses, making it hard to see her eyes through them. “Which is weird, especially when I called him right back and got his voice mail!”

Her eyes were literally fiery, the gas-powered flames from the lamps undulating on her lenses. She looked like a demon, a monster. I suddenly remembered why I hadn’t slept well: I’d had nightmares. Vivid, lifelike dreams of ghosts and fires and sinkholes, of my entire family disappearing without a trace. My stomach clenched.

We were almost at the Ferris wheel on the northern end of the park. The pilot wasn’t filming any scenes back here, and with a start I realized how remote it seemed, how far away from the lights and action in the center of the Village. How the sun still hadn’t broken through the horizon, the sky barely pinkening at its edges.

“So I texted him again with the question, just giving up on the idea of a phone call altogether. And guess what he wrote back?” She shook her head, hands on hips. “He said, and I quote, This is not a good time, Velma. I mean, what the what? Is he really going to try and pull this again?”

I swallowed. I had a bad taste in my mouth. Too much coffee, maybe. “Well, did you tell him about my offer? A family interview for a glowing profile of all the Rogerses’ charity work over the years?”

“Of course, Daphne, I’m not a complete idiot!” Velma was exasperated. Her voice rang out through the alley, bouncing off the small buildings and groves of trees that surrounded us. “That’s exactly what I wrote, in fact. And he came back with, I’ll have to let you know later. Like I’m some kind of nobody? Like I’m supposed to just wait around for the Rogers family to be ready for me? No. No way.”

“Annoying,” I commented, my voice hollow. That morning I’d pulled my hair into a bouncy ponytail, tied with a purple scrunchie, and a tickle of wind brushed against the back of my neck. I shivered.

“So now I—“

Snap.

My neck tickled again. I glanced behind me.

Crunch, crunch.

“Do you hear that?” I whispered. The hairs on my arms stood up, despite being warmly layered in my sweater and jacket.

Velma froze, listening. “Just a squirrel, I bet.”

I shook my head. Underneath the wind, the heavy breathing sounds of the gas lamps, the far-off noise of the ocean hitting the jetty, I heard it: a scratching, a rustling. Too close to be an animal. Too loud to be nothing.

“It’s prob—”

Swish.

Thump, thump, thump. The sound of feet hitting earth, steady and sure.

Velma yelped. I jumped. A figure came running toward us, fast and flying from the copse of trees behind the smattering of buildings surrounding us. There was no way the figure couldn’t have seen us, two girls talking in the center of a walking path at the break of dawn, but they made a beeline toward us anyway. Like it was intentional. Like they were aiming for us.

“Move!” Velma shouted. Without thinking, I grabbed her hand and pulled her toward me as I leapt backward. But I misjudged my own force as I plunged into the bushes lining the walkway. My ankle turned; I fell, tugging Velma with me, and landed—hard—on the ground, the edge of a bush barely breaking my fall. Velma’s glasses flew off from the force, and I groaned from the unexpected feeling of cold dirt seeping through my jeans as the figure darted past us.

“Quick! What do they look like? Get a description!” she shouted, her hands fumbling in the dirt to find her glasses.

I squinted at the blurred figure who was fast disappearing. “I don’t know! It’s too dark! Red coat, maybe? Or is that a … cape? An old-fashioned cloak? I can’t see his face!”

“Aha!” Velma, breathing as heavy as I was, snatched up her glasses, blew off the dust, and placed them back on her nose.

“What was that?” I heaved.

“It was terrifying, that’s what,” she said grimly, staring after the runner, who was far gone now, a trail of red fluttering behind him. She stood up, brushing dirt and small rocks and leaves from her gray joggers. She held out a hand. “Are you all right?”

“Daphne!”

I jumped again—I certainly wouldn’t need any more coffee, the way my adrenaline was racing—and looked up to find Cooper McBeal rushing toward us, followed by a few people I assumed were his handlers. (Or maybe his entourage. He was a star, after all.)

He crouched down and pulled a broken twig from the bush off my shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” I muttered. Of all the people to see me lose my dignity, it would have to be the cutest guy in Hollywood, wouldn’t it.

“What happened? Did you trip?” He helped me up, cradling my elbow with one hand and holding my fingers with the other. I tested out my ankle, rolling it around before putting my full weight on it, but it felt fine. I was fine. Everything was fine, except that someone had just tried to run me over.

Velma piped in. “More like we were attacked.”

“Attacked?!” Cooper’s smooth, calm face morphed into alarm. He glanced at one of his companions, who immediately began texting and murmuring to the woman next to him, who in turn put her phone to her ear and began speaking, quickly and quietly, into it. I deduced that she was Stephanie, his publicist, and he was Malik, his assistant; I’d learned their names after poring over the call sheets on Sunday. (I told myself it was for work purposes. And I was only lying to myself a little bit.)

“We were standing right here when some guy came full-on running at us,” I explained. Velma surreptitiously brushed some dirt off the back of my coat and the seat of my pants, and I shot her a grateful look. Best friends, man. They know what’s up.

“He was ready to knock us over,” Velma added. Her expression clouded. “Actually … I wonder …”

I waited eagerly for her to finish—Velma’s musings were either spectacularly on point or wildly off tone, but nevertheless, always amusing—but Cooper interrupted. “Did you get a good look at him?”

“Not super close; it all happened so fast,” I admitted. “But what I did see was strange. He almost looked like he was in costume!”

“Maybe he was!” Velma’s eyes were wide as she glanced at me. “Daphne, there are lots of extras dressed in old-timey Western outfits. Maybe he’s one of the actors?”

Cooper looked troubled. He glanced at Stephanie again, and she murmured, “On it.”

“It’s all good, I’m totally fine,” I decided. I didn’t want Cooper’s people to blow this out of proportion—at least, not until Velma and I could align on what we’d seen, and what it might mean. I brushed my palms together and flashed him a smile. “No big deal. And I don’t want to hold you up.”

“My concern is making sure you’re okay,” he said gently, his eyes fixed on mine. I blinked. Cooper McBeal’s eyes! They had watched me from the poster on my wall, the one I’d kept tacked up all through middle school … well, who could be surprised at the swarm of butterflies that began beating their wings inside my stomach?

“I am,” I assured him. I noticed Velma glance at her watch. “Besides, we have to get going, too.”

Cooper nodded. I nodded back. We were a couple of nodding bobbleheads, and for a shining moment, I almost remembered what it was like to feel part of a set.

*   *   *

My ankle was a little sore as we headed over to meet Bennett, but when we arrived, the expression on his face made me forget all about it.

“Are you all right?” he called, creases of concern on his forehead. He eyed my slight limp. “Blimey! Seems like you two stumbled into something big. Cooper McBeal’s publicist just told the studio there’s some kind of violent criminal on the loose! What happened?!”

My jaw dropped. “Jeepers! News sure travels fast.”

“We don’t know what exactly happened,” Velma said quickly. To me, under her breath, she added, “But something is definitely up.”

“I’m calling your mother,” Bennett said, his phone already at his ear. I didn’t even have time to register a complaint before I heard my mother’s gasp through the speaker as Bennett explained what had happened.

The small but ever-present pool of anger that lived inside me began to simmer. I hadn’t felt its presence in a while; in a weird way, I had almost missed it. My rage had always kept me safe. Because when I was angry, I didn’t have time to be hurt … or worried.

And I was definitely getting that tingly, creepy-crawly sensation all over my skin that told me something was seriously wrong on the set of Cursed.

I couldn’t hear the specific words my mom was relaying through Bennett’s phone, but the tone was unmistakably frantic. I shook my head, forcing away the tears that had begun to brim. This was so embarrassing.

“Velma,” I whispered urgently as Bennett talked to my mom. “This isn’t good.”

“No kidding,” she breathed. “If our attacker is someone who works on set, no one is safe!”

Just then I heard Bennett say “Yes, ma’am” before hanging up the phone, his mouth set in a thin, straight line. “Your mother says she’ll ring you in a bit, Daphne. She’s a little caught up with a … situation.”

“A situation?” Velma frowned and shot me a warning glance.

Bennett groaned, casting his eyes toward the sky as if expecting to find an answer written in the clouds. But I realized what was happening with a start. I cocked my head, listening.

“Do you hear it?” I whispered. Bennett nodded. Velma looked quizzically between us until a rising chorus of shouts settled over the park.

“Hey-hey! Ho-ho! This TV filming has got to go! Hey-hey! Ho-ho! This TV filming has got to go!”

“A protest,” Velma confirmed.

Bennett nodded, scrolling his phone. “Looks like a bloody good one, too.”

Velma and I checked our feeds, my heart sinking an inch further with every post I scrolled through. Up until now, all of Velma’s mom’s protests against the filming had been sparsely attended, attracting minimal attention as the crowds eventually withered away to four or five people half-heartedly marching in a circle. But not this time. The tides had turned.

According to the Howler’s latest post, there were at least fifty or sixty people at the Haunted Village entrance, right under the Vanishing Tree, armed with signs and megaphones and enthusiasm. And front and center in the Howler’s main photo was Louisa Wharton, megaphone in hand, with Velma’s mom standing just behind her. We raced over to see for ourselves; on the way, we filled Bennett in on our research.

“We interviewed a ton of locals a few years ago,” Velma huffed, her bangs flying up and down as we jogged. “We have everything from family legends about the Vanishing to old newspaper references to a list of theories.”

“Some of it is kid stuff,” I warned him. Velma rolled her eyes but didn’t disagree.

“Impressive,” Bennett said. His run was sleek and effortless; his Ken-doll hair barely moving.

“There’s one family we never managed to interview back then, though,” Velma added, cutting through the craft services area and leading us through some shortcut she knew. A few crew members were eating at the scattered picnic tables and eyed us curiously, and I found myself unconsciously scanning them for any signs of the guy who’d knocked us over. We turned a corner and suddenly, there we were: right in front of the Haunted Village entrance. The Vanishing Tree loomed over us, offering a shady respite from the rising sun, and the coordinated shouts from the protest crowd almost drowned us out.

We stood, three in a row, catching our breath. (Well, Bennett appeared to be breathing normally, like some kind of Olympic athlete.) In addition to the protestors, there were a few local news stations filming the scene, and I spotted Ram furiously writing in his notebook as the Howler’s videographer shot footage. My spine stiffened. I smoothed my hair back to check for flyaways and smacked my lips together, feeling the tacky coat of lipstick I’d applied earlier. I immediately hated myself for it, but we are who we are, and right then I was a girl who wanted to make her ex-whatever-he-was regret what he’d done.

“Wow,” Velma breathed. Her cheeks were pink from the effort, or maybe, knowing Velma, from seeing the fruits of her mother’s efforts. She cast me a sorrowful glance and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

I shook my head in response. Velma’s mother was doing what she thought was right. It wasn’t her fault my mom, along with the whole studio, was under pressure to make this show a success.

“Who’d you forget to interview?” Bennett asked, pulling us back to the matter at hand. I tore my eyes away from Ram just in time to see Velma’s whole face tighten, her eyes focus and narrow. I followed her gaze.

Shaggy emerged from the protest crowd and headed straight toward us, his hands full of chips and his eyes full of remorse (which, to be fair, was possibly related to the chip consumption). Scooby followed him, bounding toward us in delight, as did Jack, Shaggy’s cousin, his face closed tight like a forgotten book.

None of us knew Jack well, but I knew him well enough not to be surprised that he didn’t seem happy to see us. Jack had shown up in Crystal Cove last month, and in fact had been on top of my suspect list back when the Crystal Cove Crystal had been stolen. He was supposed to be on a brief visit, but he’d stuck around longer than planned, no doubt to help Shaggy’s dad through his many business catastrophes. And even though I’d seen him around quite a lot, I hadn’t warmed up to him. There was a coldness there, an aloofness—like his uncle, Shaggy’s dad. He looked a lot like Shaggy, but temperamentally, they were polar opposites.

Velma stared at the trio while Bennett waited for an answer. “The Rogers family,” she finally replied.

Scooby reached us first, obediently sitting in wait for a scratch, and we all happily obliged. Shaggy looked like he was walking through mud, like his body couldn’t physically manage the final approach to us. It was so unlike him that, before he even said a word, I knew something was wrong. Again.

“Like, hi,” Shaggy said, his shoulders visibly slumping. Jack nodded in our general direction, and I introduced Bennett, who nodded and smiled at them.

“You okay, Shag?” I asked, holding my breath for the answer. He shook his head miserably.

“You’ve, like, seen the protest?” He pointed behind him and I almost laughed, because of course we saw the protest. Everyone in town was seeing the protest! The Howler was airing it live online, and I was sure Izzy and the studio bigwigs were watching it, too.

When Velma answered, her voice was thick, like she was struggling to say the words. “Looks like my mom finally convinced some people to join her.”

But Shaggy shook his head again. His brows were knotted together, and his hair was more disheveled than usual. “Like, sorry, V, but your mom isn’t to blame here. I am.”

FREE FOOD. FREE VOUCHERS to all the restaurants in town that Rogers Enterprises had a stake in. Free publicity on the news.

That’s what his dad had offered, Shaggy explained, to get people to show up to this protest. And it had worked. On my mom, who was there helping lead the crowd. And especially on Louisa, who, by all accounts, was heartily enjoying having a receptive audience to preach to. We could hear her leading a chant while Shaggy’s shoulders sank lower and lower. Bennett, sensing the tension, waved and headed closer to the action.

I was almost embarrassed at how relieved I was that this whole shindig wasn’t my mother’s doing, to be honest.

“I’m, like, gutted that my dad pulled this trick,” he croaked, rubbing his eyes. Per usual, Shaggy looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and if he had, he’d worn the same clothes he was currently wearing: rumpled green sweater, brown corduroys, dirty sneakers. His surfer vibe was in danger of morphing into a stoner vibe. “He’s bribing people to protest. He found Louisa trying to get signatures for her petition and, like, roped her in to joining him. It’s, like, totally unethical!”

Growing up a Dinkley meant growing up an outsider. From my mom, who—at the time of her marriage to my dad and their subsequent move back to his hometown of Crystal Cove—had been one of the only people of color in town, to her impressive ability to butt heads with the powers that be, to being the freaky family that lived literally on top of the Haunted Village; from my penchant for solving crimes to my absolute inability to make friends (or, even worse, to care about my lack of friends), I was used to being the kid whose family was trouble. It was just a fact of life.

For once, I was on the other side, looking in. The Rogers family was the one wreaking havoc, not the Dinkleys—my mom’s usual protesting notwithstanding. And even though I hated seeing poor Shaggy like this, I hadn’t ever dared to hope for a reprieve myself, and it felt … good.

I cleared my throat. “Shaggy, this isn’t your fault.”

“We’re not responsible for what our parents do,” Daphne said gently.

“It’s like … being a Rogers just gets worse and worse,” Shaggy said. I could swear I saw his eyes fill with tears, but then the sun shifted just as he blinked, and whatever I thought I’d seen disappeared. “We’re in the news constantly. Everyone wants to see us fail. And now my dad’s trying to ruin the coolest thing that’s ever happened here!”

“Hey.” Jack suddenly snapped to attention, his voice hot and sharp. “We’re Rogerses. We don’t say stuff like that.”

“But, Jack, like, it’s true!” Shaggy shook his head miserably.

Jack took a threatening step toward his cousin. They were just about the same height, and in the sunlight their hair was the same shade of sand, their chins jutting out at the same angle. I hadn’t realized before just how similar they looked. “Watch what you say,” Jack warned.

“Let’s all chill,” Daphne suggested in that singsong voice she used whenever she wanted to smooth over conflicting energy. Her ability to read the room was a gift I had long admired. (I did not exactly possess the same talent. Though if anyone ever needed someone who could ruin the mood, I was your girl.)

Shaggy and Jack stared at each other, the tension almost visible. Shaggy’s expression was a mix of hurt and disappointment, but also something else harder to read—shame, maybe. He blinked and released his locked jaw. I saw it then: Shaggy was cowed. Jack’s single warning—“watch what you say”—was effective, and Shaggy, apparently, realized he did indeed have to watch what he said.

I was no stranger to odd family dynamics, but seeing it firsthand, this peek into the Rogerses’ inner workings, felt too intimate, too private.

And it reminded me just how critical it was that we interview the Rogerses about their own family lore surrounding the Vanishing as soon as we could.

“Well!” I said, feigning brightness and clapping my hands once. Shaggy and Jack broke their staring match—I silently declared it a tie—and blinked at me in surprise. “While you’re both here, actually, I’d like to schedule an interview with you.”

Shaggy’s brow crinkled. Jack’s frown deepened. Scooby tilted his head at me, like he was asking me a question.

Next to me, Daphne put a hand on her forehead in surrender. “Smooth, V.”

But I grinned. I wasn’t after smooth. I was after the truth.

*   *   *

It took a lot of convincing, but finally, Shaggy and Jack had—reluctantly, I admit—agreed to be interviewed, to fill in the missing pages from our old notebook, that very night. “Just us, though,” Shaggy had warned. “Not my parents.”

And I’d agreed on the compromise, promising snacks (for Shaggy) and a commitment to keeping it under twenty minutes (for Jack). Baby steps.

We stayed and watched the protest for a bit longer, but eventually Shaggy said he was taking Scooby for a walk on the beach, and Jack followed him.

By that point, I had had enough. “Let’s head back to set,” I suggested to Daphne. “They’re about to start shooting that big scene at the Ferris wheel.”

Daphne agreed. “Bennett said he didn’t need me back in the writers’ room until later, and this will be a good place to suss out the crowd.”

“And keep an eye on things …” I added.

According to that day’s shooting schedule (a daily schedule was distributed to cast and crew and production, outlining who was needed where), this was going to be a large, open shoot, featuring Addie and Cooper, lots of extras, and even Fred in his star turn. Part of me couldn’t wait to see him in action … and the other part of me was afraid to. Because what if he was so good, he ditched Crystal Cove to try his hand at acting for real?

Situated on the outskirts of the park, right next to the parking lot, was the Ferris wheel. It had been out of commission since the Haunted Village closed a few months ago, so I was expecting weeds and grasses to have overtaken the place, but instead it looked freshly landscaped, and, between the crew and the cast and the extras, nearly a hundred people were milling around.

I couldn’t help it; I gaped at the sight. Cameras, lights, rigging, backdrops; it was almost overwhelming. The wheel itself was fenced in, punctuated on one end by a rickety wooden ticket stand. Daphne nudged me and gestured to the long line of people waiting to board the wheel—background extras who would ride it around and around while the scene was shot. I spotted a few people from school and waved at Taylor Burnett while Daphne waved to some of her crowd, like Trey Moloney and Sammie Daniels and Aparna Din.

“This is wild,” Daphne breathed as we took in the scene.

I had to admit, it was very cool to be able to watch this firsthand. For once, being a resident of Crystal Cove felt like a gift rather than a curse. Daphne’s mom spotted us through the crowd and weaved her way over, squealing when she arrived.

“I’m glad you’re here!” she trilled, her eyes shining. She gave us both a quick, tight hug. “They’ll start in a few minutes. They’re just finishing testing the mics to make sure the protest noise doesn’t get picked up.” She pointed to a small set of bleachers that had been installed off to the side, out of view of the cameras, where a dozen or so people were seated. “You can sit there. That’s the overflow area for the extras.”

We grabbed seats in the top row. “Nice view,” Daphne remarked. The Ferris wheel was on slightly higher ground than the rest of the Village, on the opposite side from my house, which meant we could see almost the whole Village if we twisted around in the bleachers.

A flash of blond hair caught my eye. “There’s Fred!”

Daphne waved, trying to get his attention, but Fred was too busy talking earnestly with someone as a makeup artist brushed his face with powder. He moved his head and I spotted who it was: Addie Hubbard. I wondered if Daphne knew anything more than I did about Fred’s unexpected role in the show. I was about to ask her, but then decided against it. I didn’t trust myself not to reveal any of the new—and weird—emotions that swirled all through my insides whenever I thought of him.

Fred had always been a good dresser, and his character’s costume looked very much like him, but up a notch. He wore jeans and a crisp white button-down, ironed and gleaming; a definite step up from his standard jeans-and-expensive-tee uniform. His hair was perfectly coiffed. But honestly, it almost didn’t matter what Fred wore, or whether he was professionally styled and groomed. He could pull off anything, thanks to his confidence. I envied it.

Some people began calling for quiet while other people began shepherding the actors into various places. The energy in the air was electric. We could feel it all the way up in the top row of the bleachers. A tingle of excitement bubbled in my stomach. I began to realize how fun this was, how special that we got to be a part of it. But then an image of my mom flashed before me and a stalk of guilt climbed up my throat. This is what the Dinkleys are fighting against, I reminded myself. Don’t enjoy it too much.

But when I heard “Action!” I couldn’t help but smile.

Daphne had a copy of the script, so we silently flipped through it until we found the scene so we could follow along. It was set in present day, and Addie’s character was on a date with Fred’s character. (I bristled at the director’s note; Fred and Addie were going to be holding hands for the whole scene.) Cooper played the part of Addie’s best friend and potential love interest, and he and a couple of his friends (I recognized at least one of them from a soap opera my dad sometimes watched) discover a hidden message buried in the dirt by the Ferris wheel.

While the cameras rolled on Addie and Fred walking through the crowd, I read ahead in the script over Daphne’s shoulder and tried to stifle my gasp at what was coming next.

“Shhh!” Daphne mouthed. But I pointed at what I’d noticed, my pulse racing. Daphne rolled her eyes as if to say, Where have you been?

Here’s where I confess something: I was one of the few people in the country—maybe the world!—who had never played the Curse of Crystal Cove video game. In fact, I’d never even watched anyone else play it, and I had always intentionally glazed over any references to it I happened to come across in anything I was reading or watching. (Do you know how hard it is to actively avoid a pop culture phenomenon like The Curse of Crystal Cove? I actually kind of thought I deserved a medal. Not that I would ever tell Daphne that.)

Oh, I knew enough—it was a game where the goal was to find clues and solve riddles while being chased by ghosts and pirates and criminals, all in an effort to solve the mystery of the Vanished—but I’d always let the specifics slip past me. And the same held true for the show’s premise. While many news sites and blogs breathlessly covered the filming, offering conjecture on which ghostly legends the show would highlight and which plot points they’d carry over from the game, I maintained a healthy aura of disinterest.

Which explains why I was so shocked to see what this particular scene was about: the legend of Silas Mohl.

One of the most famous of the original Crystal Cove settlers, Silas Mohl was a German immigrant who’d left his small German village to explore the new country, first landing in Massachusetts for several years before hitching his wagon, literally and figuratively, to the growing group that was moving out west in search of opportunity. Silas was, according to the historical documents my parents used to display in their history museum back before the Haunted Village had torn it down, young and eager, handsome and successful, but he’d left most of his family behind to strike out on his own.

He was also, legend has it, a bit of a swindler. A magician, even. A whiff of distrust seemed to follow him, a sense that, even if his words promised fairness and truth, his deeds did not. He hustled and scammed his way across the country, earning a bad reputation that clouded the group’s arrival in Crystal Cove. I scowled, remembering something I’d read in one of the diaries that had been left behind by the settlers and preserved in my parents’ museum before being moved to the town archives: Silas Mohl is a fraud, and I regret he has joined us on this journey. I worry he shall bring ill fortune if he continues with us.

But my scowl deepened when I remembered something even worse. When Mystery Inc. had conducted our interviews with various people in town, Fred had spoken with the great-great-whatever-grand-nephew of Silas Mohl, whose ancestors had followed Silas’s cross-country journey once word had reached the East Coast that the whole group, minus the lone Rogers child, had gone missing. Christopher Mohl had been old even back then and had passed away when we were in middle school, but I could still see his quote, scribbled in the notebook in Fred’s childish scrawl: I’d always been told that old Silas was a bad seed, that he couldn’t tell the truth if his life depended on it. That the whole thing was his own fault.

It’s funny how much we believe simply because stories have been passed down to us. Christopher Mohl had grown up being told his own ancestor was a fraud, a failure; someone who’d contributed to the entire town going missing. It was tragic, but more than that, it was infuriating. Crystal Cove thrived on these kinds of stories. And now they were being turned into fodder for the masses, something to consume over popcorn. Like it was a joke. Like we were a joke.

The sun was sharp overhead, not a cloud to be seen, but I shivered anyway, as if the temperature had dropped. All at once, the thrill of the filming felt more like spectacle, like a ghoulish game we were all kept playing but would never be able to win. I didn’t want our legacy to be laughed at. Whatever the truth of the Vanishing was, at the core of it was the fact that people had disappeared. And that wasn’t funny, no matter how outlandish some of the theories were.

On the grounds, the cameras zoomed in on Addie’s face, then Fred’s. Their dialogue couldn’t quite reach us up in the bleachers, so I watched their mouths move, the Ferris wheel behind them spinning around and around. It felt like a weird sort of nightmare, like I was supposed to be helping them with something but they couldn’t see me and I couldn’t get to them. Like I was invisible.

Silas Mohl had left his country seeking opportunity, only to disappear from the face of the earth, leaving behind whispers of distrust. The wind gusted, and for a moment I thought I heard them, too.

I glanced again at the script as the director’s shout of “Cut!” floated up to our row. In this scene, when Cooper’s character discovers the secret message in the Haunted Village, he and Addie’s character worry they’ve accidentally disturbed the buried remains of Silas. As they race to discover whether it’s really him, something supernatural appears to chase them.

In the script, the flashbacks to Silas Mohl show a handsome young man wearing a dark red cloak, his longish brown hair tied back in a ponytail. And as I watched the actors on the ground below reassemble themselves for another take, I realized I was looking for something. Or rather, someone.

The guy I’d spotted creeping through the Haunted Village the other night … and the one who’d nearly run us over … and the man my dad said had been peeking inside our house.

All of them had been wearing red, just like the ghost of Silas Mohl.

“WOW,” I REMARKED AFTER the fifth or sixth take. “Fred’s surprisingly good at this!” I reconsidered this before adding, “Then again, he’s good at everything.”

Velma didn’t respond as we watched the makeup artist fix Fred’s and Addie’s hair. The wind had picked up, and even from here I could see the vague sense of concern on my mother’s face. Bennett had said this was a pivotal scene for the pilot, and if it wasn’t fully captured today, it could set the whole schedule back again.

For some reason, at that moment Velma’s silence—which I guessed stemmed from her silly insistence on keeping her feelings about Fred quiet (her very obvious to anyone with eyes feelings, I should add)—picked at me. Plus, okay, I was already feeling picked at; raw and vulnerable. Seeing people protest my mom’s show had bothered me more than I cared to admit—and my feelings were heightened knowing that Shaggy’s and Velma’s parents were the ones encouraging it. I had told them we weren’t responsible for our parents’ actions, and I really did feel that way … but I also felt like maybe they could both do a better job reminding me that none of this was personal. That it wasn’t the Rogers and the Dinkleys versus the Blakes, no matter how much it was starting to feel like it.

It had been a stressful start to winter break, and frankly, my butt was bruised and sore from earlier. I thought some laughter would do us good. So I teased, “Right, Velma? Fred’s good at everything … especially at keeping your eyes glued to him!”

Velma made a choking sound and avoided my eyes. It wasn’t so long ago that making Velma sputter like that would have made my day. But now, I just felt like garbage, like I’d thrown my best friend into a dumpster, set it on fire, and walked away. Velma was protective about her obvious feelings for Fred, and as her best friend, I had to honor that.

I backtracked. “Sorry. I just meant, it’s interesting that he’s an actor now. Maybe Fred has more layers than I realized. He’s always so casual about stuff. I don’t know, maybe he’s actually just hiding the real stuff underneath it all.”

“Daphne,” Velma said urgently. Her gaze was fixed somewhere to the left of the action on set, and she gripped my wrist. “Shut up about Fred for a second, okay?”

“Rude,” I muttered, but then Velma jolted to attention. She jumped to her feet, pulling me up with her.

“Look!” She pointed to the building across from the Ferris wheel, the only other structure on this side of the Haunted Village. It was the former museum, the one her parents had run, which had been locked up tight since the museum closed.

“What am I looking at, specifically?” I asked, following her gaze. But all I saw were some scattered trees, a near-overflowing garbage can, and the Ferris wheel’s swirling reflection in the museum windows.

“Did you see him?” Velma’s eyes flicked over the landscape.

“Who?” I had no idea what I was looking for.

Velma blinked. When she turned to me, her eyes were round and big and full of fear. “I just realized who it is.”

“Who what is?”

We both looked back at the museum. The crowd hushed, and the director called, “Action!”

Under her breath I heard Velma whisper, “The guy who’s been chasing us. It’s Silas Mohl.”

*   *   *

We’d done everything we could do from our seats in the bleachers: run through every Silas sighting we knew about, and then looked up the entire cast list, trying to identify an actor on set who had the same height and build as the man who’d knocked us over, who’d been creeping through the Haunted Village. But there were no matches to be found. Our ghost was tall and broad, with light hair; so far, none of the male cast members on set met those criteria.

By the time the crew had finished its next take, I was famished.

“We need a carb break,” I declared. “And if I don’t get some coffee soon, I’m going to start haunting this place myself.” The crew was moving lights all around, trying to avoid the inconsistencies in shadows the moving sun was causing. My mom was sipping water and checking her phone and conferring with the other producers in a tight little circle behind one of the cameras; the extras on the Ferris wheel looked frazzled. I winced as one of them ran off into the bushes and the unmistakable sounds of retching echoed in the clearing.

“Those poor kids will never go on a ride again,” Velma sighed.

I stretched my arms above my head, yawning. Just then Shaggy came sauntering up the bleachers, some kind of frothy drink in hand. My stomach clenched. I was considering whether stealing food while you were starving would technically count as a crime when he collapsed into the empty seat next to us, slurping the last of it through a pink straw. “Got any other snacks on you, Shag?” Hope bled through my words.

“Like, sorry,” Shaggy said, crossing his long legs onto the bleacher row in front of us. “Hey, you guys see Jack around?”

We both shook our heads. “Last we saw him, he was with you and Scooby.”

Shaggy looked confused. “He, like, took Scoob with him on a walk while I had my second lunch. Now he’s nowhere to be found.”

“Scooby will be okay,” I assured him. I could tell he was worried—Scooby was his best friend and was usually glued to his side.

“Oh look—I think they’re finally rolling again!” Velma pointed.

The scene had moved on a bit, to a moment where Cooper’s character was supposed to climb on top of the ticket stand and shout something about the ghost of Silas Mohl to Addie’s character. We watched the choreographer show Cooper his moves—one foot here, a leg up there—and I chuckled at the notion that the show had hired a specialist just to teach one of its stars how to climb the very booth we’d all been jumping over since we were kids. Hollywood!

It was quiet on the set; even the wind had settled down. The Ferris wheel began its slow roll again, the director yelled, “Action,” and Cooper began to climb.

He was lithe but muscular, his dark skin contrasting with the soft-washed wood of the shack. After he wedged one of his knees up onto the waist-high counter, the ticket stand seemed to groan under his heft. But Cooper was nothing if not a professional—he’d been acting since the age of five, according to the countless celebrity bios I’d read about him—and I found myself holding my breath as he ascended.

“They probably reinforced that stand before filming, right?”

Leave it to Velma to voice what I’d been thinking. I whispered back, “They must have.” But the tinge of concern in my voice was loud and clear.

And I was right to be concerned. Because as Cooper pulled up another leg and moved to a standing position, the ticket stand wobbled. He was still in character, yelling something into the crowd about ghosts, really getting into it, and there was a fleeting moment where I felt like I was outside my body. Like my spirit was hovering above the Haunted Village, watching the slow-motion movements unfold below me, knowing what was about to happen but utterly powerless to stop it.

Cooper called, “Do you hear me, Silas Mohl? Your spirit isn’t welcome here!”

Then Cooper leapt up, his hands grasping the ledge of the wall above him. Like a gymnast, he seemed to propel his whole body backward, preparing to swing out into the crowd.

Snap.

The structure didn’t hold.

For a moment he looked like he was flying, like it was intentional. But even from the bleachers, the flash of genuine fear in Cooper’s eyes was unmistakable. He knew something was wrong. I jumped to standing. If only we hadn’t been rolling, if only I could have shouted out his name, maybe I could’ve stopped it.

Instead, Cooper’s body contorted in a last-ditch effort to save himself. But it was too late. With a startled cry, the beam he’d been holding snapped in half. It triggered an avalanche, and the entire roof of the structure crumpled down and brought Cooper with it. In a puff of dust and confusion, the sound of wood breaking into a million pieces echoed through the Village.

In a second, the old ticket booth was gone, and so was Cooper.

*   *   *

Within minutes, the crowd around Cooper closed into a tight circle, making it impossible to see anything. What sounded like a thousand voices began shouting instructions—Call the police! Call an ambulance! Clear the scene! Don’t move anything! Move everything so he can breathe! Is he okay? It was complete chaos. Someone halted the Ferris wheel; someone cleared the extras. People in the bleachers around us fled to the ground only to be instructed to evacuate the premises. Radios and phones dinged with alerts.

“We have to get down there,” I cried, panting, as people fled in all directions. Panic is contagious, and I felt it clawing at me. Was Cooper all right? Was he hurt?

“We’re safer up here,” Velma said grimly. I shot her a confused look.

“Safer? From what? That old ticket booth was an accident waiting to happen.”

She hesitated before fixing me with one of her classic Velma stares—80 percent intensity, 20 percent exasperation. “Two actors have been hurt. You were hurt. Whatever’s going on here, it’s not an accident.”

I was about to protest when Shaggy, his voice shaken, jumped in. “Silas Mohl.”

Velma peered at him. “What about Silas Mohl, Shaggy?”

Shaggy’s eyes were scared, rimmed by dark circles. Has he always looked this unwell? I thought. Or are his family’s troubles taking this much of a toll on him?

Shaggy needs your help, Marcy had written to me. With a sickening pang, I realized I’d been failing her, and him, by not yet helping him. By not being able to figure out what his deal was.

But how could I, I realized, surveying the chaos on the ground, when there were always so many other problems to tackle first?

Unaware of the mental hurdles I was jumping for him, Shaggy answered us by holding up his phone.

A breaking news alert from the Howler flashed on his screen.

Actor Down! Pivotal Scene in Chaos as the Ghost of Silas Mohl Rears Its Handsome Head.

*   *   *

My fury built steadily overnight, leaving me feeling wrung out, like my skin was on too tight. When I stormed into the writers’ room the next morning I swiped my ID card so hard, it bounced against the reader and flew out of my hands, landing in the dirt.

“Great,” I snapped to myself, my fingers fumbling through the grimy gray sand. “There goes my new manicure.”

I was the first one in the room, bright and early (actually, it was so early it was dark), and the pinball machine clinked and clanked as if in response to my rage. I paced the room, boots clacking.

Yesterday’s shoot had been canceled after Cooper’s fall; the set had been evacuated. Everyone had dispersed, even Velma. My mother had been on the phone all evening, cordoned off in her home office, leaving me to search for intel myself about Cooper’s status. Was he okay? Had he been seriously injured? No one could give me answers, and if I saw one more stupid Howler headline about how people thought ghosts were haunting the set, I was going to march up to Ram myself and … and …

Sighing, I slumped into a seat, alone at the writers’ table. I was going to do nothing to Ram, because I was a coward. And seeing his face still did funny things to my stomach that made it impossible for me to stop thinking about him. Even now.

Well, I reminded myself, I was in charge of my own thoughts, and as of this moment, I was no longer allowing Ram inside them.

I heard a rap at the door and jumped up to open it. Velma, Shaggy, and Fred had agreed to meet me here after I’d sent them way too many desperate texts last night. Listen, sometimes all I want is to be left alone—but other times, being alone could be dangerous. And right now was definitely the latter.

Velma and Shaggy were at the door, Scooby at their feet. All three of them had puffy eyes, and Shaggy even had creases imprinted on his face; it was fully possible he was still wearing the shirt he’d slept in. Wordlessly, Velma handed me a thermos of steaming coffee. The three of them trudged in like they were walking in slow motion. Even Scooby was yawning.

“Morning,” Velma said glumly.

“How could Ram be so irresponsible?” I fumed in place of a greeting. “Cooper could be seriously hurt!”

“No word on him yet?”

I shook my head.

“Like, how could an accident like that even happen?” Shaggy said nervously, running a hand through his hair. He bit into what looked like an egg-and-cheese bagel and slumped into a chair, crumbs dancing over his shirt. “It’s almost like someone rigged the stand to fall.”

“It is almost like that, isn’t it.” Velma said it like a sentence, not a question, and I paused to process her words.

“I was, like, up all night,” Shaggy moaned in between bites. “Jack didn’t get home with Scoob until way late, and then my mom had to respond to, like, a ton of calls that kept waking us up. Everyone’s freaked!”

Last time we had a mystery to solve, when the jewels washed up on the beach and rumors ran rampant that the Lady Vampire of the Bay was back, the police blotter had been overrun with people claiming ghosts were haunting them, or trying to break into their houses, or even, in one memorable report, floating out on the sea, watching and waiting. So it didn’t surprise me that the people of Crystal Cove were, once again, falling prey to the power of suggestion. The mere mention of ghosts made people behave differently.

“I guess that’s why you were too busy to meet with us,” Velma said coolly. That was the other thing—after Cooper’s fall, Shaggy had made up some excuse about not being ready to meet with us, and he and Jack had fully bailed on our interview. We still had nothing from the Rogers family.

I swallowed back my annoyance. “A bunch of bogus ghost sightings, I presume?” I couldn’t keep the condemnation out of my tone. But then I remembered Velma and I, too, had almost fallen victim to the rumors. We’d seen Lady Vampire right here in the Haunted Village from our perch in Velma’s bedroom window. (It had turned out to be Taylor Burnett.)

“Actually, no.” With his mouth full, it sounded more like “Abshully, mo” but I had long ago mastered deciphering Shaggy-while-eating speech patterns. “I mean, a little, but, like, the main thing was that someone reported a couple of break-ins.”

Velma frowned. “Where?”

Shaggy crumpled up his wrapper as the last of the bagel disappeared into his mouth. “Uh, let’s see. That new, like, hotel on the beach?” He scrunched up his face, remembering. “Someone tried to break into a room without a key. And then, like, someone else at the hotel reported seeing someone out back, picking through the dumpsters.”

Velma’s mouth set into a tight line, her face closed in on itself. Sandy Winds Resort was the glossy new high-rise on the beach, finally up and running after a years-long legal battle, just in time for the influx of guests from the show. Residents of the surrounding blocks didn’t want the increased foot or car traffic—or the loss of ocean views from their houses—but the hotel’s lawyers had buried the town in paperwork and, ultimately, they had prevailed. “I can’t believe someone would report a homeless person for trying to find food!”

“Like, I don’t think that was it, though,” Shaggy clarified. “My mom mentioned something about this being the third call this week about an unknown person prowling around the hotel. They, like, think someone wants to steal stuff from the guests.”

“Hmmph.” Velma crossed her arms. “I still don’t think it’s right.”

“You know what?” An excerpt from one of my mom’s many conversations with Izzy Flores and the rest of Meddlesome Films rang in my ears. “I’m pretty sure all the actors are staying in that hotel. I bet there are a bunch of fans trying to stalk them there.”

We were interrupted when the door to the writers’ room burst open. In strode Fred Jones, with a surprise guest behind him.

My eyes widened. Without thinking I said, “Addie Hubbard!” And then I blushed a mortifying shade of pink and sincerely considering leaping out the window and running far, far away. If Cursed had taught me anything, it was that I couldn’t be trusted around celebrities.

But Addie just smiled smoothly; I got the feeling she was used to people fawning all over her. Phew.

“What’s up, guys?” Fred strolled in, tossing an apple up and down in one hand before biting into it with a loud crunch.

Velma wrinkled her brow. “You tell us.”

“Is Cooper okay?” I worried.

Addie nodded. “He bruised some ribs and has a concussion. One of the beams really whacked him in the head.”

“And his face?” I said, then purpled. “I mean, will he have any permanent scars?”

A small smile crept over Addie’s face, but she quickly hid it. “His face is pretty as it ever was. Gnarly bruises and scrapes but no permanent damage. The makeup team will take care of it.”

I exhaled. “So he’s okay. Good. Great. I was worried …”

Scooby ambled up over from his now-demolished snack to greet Addie. She cooed and rubbed his head. “Hi, cutie, what’s your name?”

“Like, that’s Scooby Doo, and I’m Shaggy,” Shaggy said, brushing away the remains of his own breakfast and sticking out his hand. Addie, amused, shook it, and then slyly wiped her palm on her jeans.

“I think I met you the other day, right?” Addie said pleasantly. “Near my dressing room?”

It was easy to see why she was a star—she, like Fred, had a way of making you feel like you were the most important person in the room. I watched her for tips. Maybe that was my problem with guys, I wondered; maybe I didn’t pay them enough attention.

Shaggy furrowed his brow. “Like, I think I’d remember meeting you!”

Addie looked confused, but then her face cleared. “I must be mistaken. I meet a lot of people.”

My phone beeped, and I rushed to pick it up. It was a news alert from the Howler, and it made my blood boil: The Curse Strikes Again! Star’s Injuries Severe; Is Crystal Cove’s Legendary Ghost to Blame?

Fuming, I showed everyone the headline, and Fred peered at my phone screen. “Can you believe this trash?”

He raised his eyebrows and glanced at Addie, who read it over his shoulder. “Oh no, not again,” she said.

I raised one eyebrow at them. “Care to share what’s going on?”

Fred shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. But …”

“Here’s the thing,” Addie broke in. We all turned our attention toward her, and Fred crossed the room again to sit by her side. (Girl knew how to command a room, I’ll give her that.) “The ticket booth was reinforced. I watched them do it myself the day before the shoot. So I can’t tell you why it collapsed, but I can tell you … it shouldn’t have.”

Her face crumpled with concern. “I have a history of being on unlucky sets,” Addie continued slowly. “But I have to say, this has been the worst of all.”

Shaggy whistled while I looked meaningfully at Velma. I was trying to convey what was running through my mind: that it was time to take action.

“What makes you say that, Addie?” Fred said, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. I noticed Velma blanch.

Addie was staring out the nearest window now, her gaze worried, distant.

“My ex …” She hesitated. “Someone I know told me I shouldn’t take this job. I’m beginning to think he was right.”

*   *   *

Fifteen minutes later, Fred’s normally easygoing expression had taken on an urgency I’d never seen. “Does someone want to explain what’s happening here?”

Velma took a deep breath. “Some … stuff has been going on.”

“That’s an understatement,” I muttered.

“Like, stuff?” Shaggy laughed nervously. “I don’t think I can take any more stuff, guys.”

I gestured to the long table in the center of the room. “Take a seat. We’ll fill you in.”

After Addie’s ominous declaration, she had to run—apparently Cooper was being released from the hospital (they’d kept him overnight, just to be safe) and had requested her presence. I was glad it was just the four of us. Even though my mom and the studio didn’t want us to tell anyone about the threatening letters, I was ready to. And right now, there was no one I trusted more than the original members of Mystery Inc.

“It all started a couple weeks ago,” I began. Shaggy and I were on one side of the table, facing Velma and Fred; Scooby was dozing by Shaggy’s feet. I envied him. The sun had only just risen. “Some letters arrived at my house, addressed to my mom.”

“But they weren’t sent through the mail. Someone dropped them off,” Velma clarified.

“What kinds of letters?” Fred asked.

I had taken photos of the letters—a good reporter always uses the technologies available to her—and quickly pulled them up on my phone. I held up the screen. “Not very nice ones, to say the least.”

Fred and Shaggy peered at them. “Like, zoinks!” Shaggy yelped as he read them. “Those are scary!”

“At the same time, as Shaggy knows, we discovered his dad was very intent on convincing my mom to organize more protests against the show,” Velma said. She glanced hesitantly at Shaggy, who slumped over and fixed his eyes on the table’s empty surface.

“We also learned that someone else was trying to protest—Louisa Wharton.” Quickly, I grabbed a stack of blank paper from the printer and then, back at the table, began sketching out what we were already narrating. Samuel Rogers, I wrote, followed by Louisa Wharton → protests/letters?

“Then,” Velma continued, “that night I saw some guy dressed up like the ghost of Silas Mohl creeping around the Haunted Village.”

“Which wouldn’t have been noteworthy on its own,” I pointed out, jotting down Silas Mohl → costume? Sneaking around the set?

“Except that then my dad saw him trying to break into our house!” Velma said in a rush.

“And, that same guy—or at least, someone dressed like that same guy—ran us over on set,” I reminded them.

“Don’t forget about the code green!” Velma reminded me, pushing her glasses up her nose.

“I overheard Izzy Flores right after the lockdown orders,” I said breathlessly, scrawling Code green → armed intruder → false alarm or just a cover story? on my notepaper. There was something here, some line we were about to draw that connected all the incidents. I could feel it. We were close.

“She said someone reported an armed intruder on set but supposedly your mom gave the all clear.” Velma pointed at Shaggy. He and Fred were silent, their eyes darting back and forth between me and Velma.

“Plus, there was the lighting rig that fell and injured Cooper’s stand-in.” I scribbled Jason → hurt on set. Meant to be Cooper? First injury.

“And the makeup trailer was broken into,” Velma added. She looked like she wanted to say something else, but I rushed in to fill in the gaps.

“And totally trashed!” I said, writing Break-in → theft? Or someone looking for something? And, in big letters: QUINN MOSS? DIVORCE? “I alerted my mom right away, and I know Izzy took care of it.”

“And then … well.” Velma waved her hands in the arm. “The reason we’re all here now. Cooper.”

I jotted down Cooper’s name and then paused a beat, but Fred and Shaggy continued to sit in silence, their jaws slack. I clicked my pen off and on, just to fill the silence. “You should also know my mom and Izzy don’t want word to get out about any of this stuff.”

“Which might be useful to us as we solve this case,” Velma said.

“Like, case?” Shaggy said nervously. Scooby jolted awake and rested his chin on Shaggy’s lap. “Isn’t this all just, like, a coincidence?”

“Coincidence?” I shook my head gently. “Sorry, Shaggy, but it’s crystal clear to me. Someone is targeting Cursed. And no one on set is safe until we find out who it is.”

“I guess I just … don’t want to believe it,” Shaggy said quietly, almost sadly. “If my dad’s involved …”

“We don’t know that,” I reminded him. “No use going there unless we have to, Shaggy. Let’s stay optimistic.”

He nodded, but I knew any intimation that his father would actually physically harm someone would weigh on him for a long time. A twinge of pity curled in my throat. Poor Shaggy.

“Fred?” Velma said suddenly. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

Fred looked at her for a long time—so long that it became glaringly obvious that he cared about Velma. Like, really cared about her. But I couldn’t read his expression, and while I knew Shaggy wouldn’t want to believe Cursed was being sabotaged, I had no idea what Fred was thinking.

When he opened his mouth, it became clear. His voice was grim but determined when he said, “Looks like we’ve got a mystery to solve.”

I nodded. The writers’ room fell silent until the pinball machine chose that moment to play out its periodic song.

I cleared my throat and shifted in my seat. At once, I realized I felt it again: that keen, unmistakable sensation that someone was watching us. Me. I flicked my eyes to the room’s only other window, but the view from there was just as I expected: pine trees, their sharp green stems scratching at the glass.

When I turned back, I met Velma’s eyes, her own expression of resolve mirroring mine. We made a silent vow. We’d get to the bottom of this. Someone’s life might depend on it.

Just then, we heard the faint ping of the card reader at the door, followed by the click of the lock. The door swung open and in stepped Ram.

He didn’t look surprised to see us, and for a moment I had the distinct impression he’d been hovering outside, listening in, waiting for the exact right time to interrupt. The Ram I had thought I’d known would never eavesdrop. But the Ram who’d taken credit for solving a case Velma and I had handled sure would.

I hated that I never knew which Ram I was going to get, but I hated even more that, deep down, I wanted both of them.

Ram’s eyes lit up and he held out his recorder. “Any comments for the Howler about all the incidents on set? Off the record is totally cool.”

I jumped to my feet, grabbed my bag, and marched toward the door. My right shoulder brushed against his. Hard. I swung around and gave my best, sharpest glare. I was ready, finally, to tell him what I thought.

“I’ll make one. On the record, please.”

Ram’s eyes widened in pleased surprise. He held his recorder closer to my mouth. I leaned in, hoping it wouldn’t pick up the sound of my heart pounding.

Clear as a bell, I said, “You’re a jerk, Ramsay Hansen, and you’re just making things worse around here.”

DAPHNE WAS STEAMING, and we had some serious investigative work to do after that Mystery Inc. reboot. So I dismissed Fred and Shaggy (and Scooby), reminding them to keep everything we’d told them quiet, and dragged Daphne to The Mocha to calm her nerves. Busying myself with her emotions gave me a chance to avoid facing my own, so it was a real win-win.

The mixed messages I was getting from Fred were confusing. Infuriating, even. Was this what dating was like? Never knowing if the person you liked actually liked you back? It was enough to make me want to retreat back into classic Velma, the one who never spoke to anyone if she could help it. The one who was alone, sure, but also with low enough expectations that it didn’t matter.

Fred liked Addie. It was plain as day. And even if Fred also, maybe, kind of, liked me a little bit, too, I was no match for a famous, beautiful actress. And I didn’t want to compete, anyway. I liked Addie. It wasn’t her against me. It was me against me.

My mom’s shift hadn’t started yet, which would give us a chance to figure out a plan for solving the mystery plaguing the set of Cursed without attracting her attention. While Daphne grabbed the corner table, far away from the morning crowd, I ordered us two hot chocolates and some of my mom’s famous Mexican sweets to split. I needed some sugar to get through this.

Daphne was studying the notes she’d taken back in the writers’ room. “Let’s talk suspects.”

I nodded. “Louisa Wharton.”

“Obviously,” she said, pulling out a fresh piece of paper. “But what’s her motive?”

I frowned. “When she tried to get me to sign her petition, all she said was something about how the future depends on it.”

Daphne frowned, twirling the ends of her hair. She peered at her phone and began tapping around. Then her face cleared. “Aha!”

“What is it?” I was so eager I nearly knocked over my hot chocolate.

“Louisa is president of C5!”

I winced. I, too, was a member of the Crystal Cove Climate Change Club, though I hadn’t been to a meeting in months. Great. Now I felt silly for not knowing Louisa was president, and guilty for not attending all year.

We scrolled through Louisa’s social media, where she’d posted a series of photos from environmental events, behind-the-scenes looks at the local recycling center, a few very detailed videos showing off her composting skills—and climate protests. Lots and lots of climate protests, where she held signs and megaphones, her cheeks pink from exertion.

“So maybe Louisa doesn’t want Cursed to film for environmental reasons?” I shrugged. “But aren’t we looking for someone who fits the description of Silas Mohl? Tall, red cloak?”

“I mean, she could have a red cloak …” Daphne’s voice trailed off. Louisa was short—tinier than I was, even. There was no way she was the one who’d run us over, unless she was wearing stilts. And no one could run that fast in stilts.

“What about the usual suspects … like Samuel Rogers?” Daphne circled Samuel’s name on her paper.

“And Jack Rogers.” I crossed my arms. “That guy really gets under my skin.”

Daphne wrinkled her brow. “Jack is strange, that’s for sure. What’s up with all those walks he’s been taking Scooby on? He never paid attention to Scooby before!”

“He’s the same height as our suspect,” I realized. “And his hair is kind of rusty, like Shaggy’s, but maybe in the dark …”

“Why would Jack want to stop filming? Is he mad he’s not a movie star?” she cracked. But then her eyes went wide, and her laugh froze. “Wait! Maybe that’s it!”

I snorted. I couldn’t see Jack on screen. He was nothing like the picture-perfect, handsome actors on set. Like Cooper. Or … Fred.

I buried myself in the remains of my hot chocolate, my cheeks burning. “What’s up?”

“We know it has to be someone who’s mad that Cursed is in production. Someone who probably wants people to be too scared to come back to set. And so far, Cooper’s been the biggest target, right?”

I nodded. Flashes of a recent magazine I’d read danced through my head. “There was a piece about all the leading men Cooper had to beat out to get this part.”

I racked my brain, trying to remember the photo that had accompanied that juicy tidbit of gossip. Daphne nodded encouragingly. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to see the page laid out before me. Cooper’s deep brown skin … his wide smile … and right next to him had been …

My eyes popped open. “Wyatt Smith.”

Daphne snorted. “I feel like, if Wyatt Smith had wanted this part, he would have had it. He’s a full-on movie star.”

I shrugged. “I’m just saying, that’s what the magazine said.”

“I forgot you’re a celeb savant now,” she sighed.

“And then there’s Izzy Flores …” I considered what we knew about Izzy. “She’s going through that divorce. What if it’s her ex-wife trying to destroy her career?”

Daphne looked thoughtful. “It’s the same issue as Wyatt. Quinn Moss is a superstar. A legend. I could understand her wanting to mess things up just to drive Izzy mad … but would she really put her whole career on the line for that?”

I clicked my tongue. An image of Fred flashed before me. “Love makes people do funny things.”

Daphne’s shoulders slumped. I could tell she was mired in memories of her own parents’ bitter divorce, the one that I had unwittingly helped activate by catching her mother kissing the man who would become her stepfather. The barista began grinding beans, and over the whirring of the machine, she murmured, “So does hate.”

*   *   *

By the time we each finished another hot chocolate and two more pastries, I was pretty sure we had worn out our welcome at The Mocha. Daphne had some work to do for her Howler internship, and I wanted to see what was happening on set. Maybe I’d notice something that would trigger an idea that would help us solve the mystery.

That day, a few small scenes were being shot throughout town—I’d seen some cameras being set up at the beach, and Daphne had said downtown was being prepped for some B-roll—which meant the Haunted Village itself was quiet. I studied it from our front porch. In a weird way, it almost looked more abandoned now than it did before the production company had moved in, all half-erected scaffolds and construction, all dimmed lights and empty trailers. And, even in the midday sun, kind of spooky.

“¡Mi amor!” My mom’s voice surprised me, and I jumped. She chuckled and waved me inside from the open door. “Hungry? I made your favorite.”

No one could turn down my mom’s enchiladas, so I eagerly trailed her into the dining room, where she’d just put out a heaping pan. My mouth watered. Teenage girls can only survive on craft services for so long.

“Your father’s sleeping,” my mom said before I could ask. I nodded and held up my plate. She studied my face as she scooped out a generous serving. “How are you, Velma girl? I haven’t seen you properly in days.”

I nodded, tucking into the fresh enchiladas and answering through a full mouth. “Busy.”

“Mmmm.” She served herself and made a big show of slicing an avocado before casually asking me, “How’s it going on the set?”

I took my time responding. (To be fair, I had taken a really big bite.) It’s not that I thought my mom was fishing for intel; it’s that so much had happened—so much was happening—and most of it was stuff I couldn’t reveal.

“Oh, you know. Protest-y.”

My mom chuckled. “I was wondering if you’d seen yesterday’s.”

I kept my eyes on my plate. “Everyone saw it, Mom.”

“Yes, it was very successful.”

“In what way?” My fork chimed against the plate as I dropped it and crossed my arms. It occurred to me that I wasn’t clear on my mother’s ultimate end game here. Were she and Samuel Rogers just trying to stop the show from filming in the Haunted Village, or were they trying to stop it from filming at all?

My mom, sensing my accusatory vibes, took a deep breath. “Well, Velma, it brought out more people than all my previous protests combined.”

“Those people were there because Samuel Rogers promised them free stuff,” I countered. I struggled to keep my voice even, but the mere thought of Shaggy’s dad always seemed to raise my blood pressure. “And because Samuel is taking advantage of Louisa Wharton.”

My mom looked surprised. “Free stuff is a normal recruitment tool for events like these, Velma.” She sipped her water; her expression softened. “And I promise, no one is taking advantage of Louisa Wharton. In fact, yesterday’s protest was her idea. When filming was announced, she single-handedly brought it to the mayor’s attention that marine life would be endangered by all the set construction by the beach!” My mom glowed with admiration. “She worked with local ecologists to erect a sea wall in a matter of days. Very impressive kid.”

I scowled.

“When I found out, I offered to give her some pointers on effectively demonstrating,” my mom continued. She smiled ruefully. “I guess I did too good a job. She’s really gotten into the protests, hasn’t she?”

“Maybe a little too into them,” I muttered, thinking of the letters Daphne’s mom had received.

“Look, I know you’ve always had a thing against Samuel,” my mom sighed. “He’s big business, and he hasn’t always been on the right side of things. But the first lesson I learned in organizing is that people can hold conflicting ideas. Just because Samuel disagrees with a lot of what we do, doesn’t mean he can’t be on the right side of this particular issue. Politics makes for strange bedfellows, as they say.”

I kept my eyes down, feeling out my words. I didn’t want to burst my mom’s bubble. She was celebrating a successful protest, and I was happy for her—but I was also wary about her alliances and confused about my own feelings about it all. “I don’t trust him, Mom.”

She was quiet for a moment. Upstairs, the floor creaked. Dad must have been moving around.

Finally, she responded in a murmur. “I’m not sure I do, either, to be honest. But right now, he’s being generous with his time and money. He’s helping me. Us.”

“Samuel Rogers has never done a selfless thing in his life!” I couldn’t take it anymore. I pushed my chair back and grabbed my messenger bag. “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe he’s just using you as a way of distracting from his own problems?”

I stormed out of the house, marched down the front steps, and strode across the lawn. I was seething. Samuel Rogers may have hoped everyone would forget about his legal issues now that he was rebranding himself as some big Crystal Cove history hero, but I still had a Google Alert set for him, and that very morning there’d been a new report about his finances. The dude was shady. I didn’t understand how my own mother could have fallen for his dirty tricks.

I’D DEFINITELY BEEN NEGLECTING my internship in favor of working on Cursed, so I made a point of stopping by the Howler offices when I knew Ram wouldn’t be around. I needed to put in some face time with Milford.

A couple hours into reorganizing the entire filing system, my fingers were raw, my eyes were burning, and I was itching to get out of earshot of his crowing about how much all the news coverage about the show was doing for the Howler’s ad sales.

When I took a break, I saw Bennett had been blowing up my texts. Each of his texts was punctuated by a level of excitement I’d never seen from him before:

Daphne, I think I’ve found it—the answer to Crystal Cove’s mysteries, and the perfect arc for season 1 of the show!

I’m going to present my findings to your mom later today, but I could use your help to finish things. This is big, Daphne. Very big.

Come straight to the writers’ room when you can. Oh, and bring Velma. She needs to see this!

By the time I finished reading, my stomach was doing funny things. Were we really about to get some answers to the very questions that had plagued us for so many generations?

I called Velma and told her to meet me at the Vanishing Tree ASAP. It felt significant to meet there—it was where the legend of Crystal Cove began, and maybe it would be where it would end, too.

“This better be good,” she grumbled when I rushed over to meet her. My feet hurt (I was still in my office getup, which included heels), and I eyed her combat boots jealously.

“Sure sounds like it,” I said. I swiped us into the writers’ room.

“You’re here!” Bennett exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “Ace. You’re not going to believe what I’ve discovered. Ready?”

I nodded, a bit breathless already. “Sure. Definitely.”

Velma sniffed as we settled in at the big table. When she’d agree to meet, she’d warned me to manage my expectations about Bennett’s news. “We’ve been learning about the Vanishing our whole lives, and we still don’t have answers,” she’d told me. “So forgive me for doubting that Bennett de Soto has solved the mystery in the week that he’s been here.”

But I was ready to hear what he had to say. And while I knew Velma meant well, and that if anyone could solve the mystery of the Vanished, it was us, all told, we still didn’t have answers. Maybe Bennett actually did.

He took a deep breath and launched into his story. And soon, I found myself rapt at his words, his delivery, his ideas.

“Six months ago I was asked to lead the research and writing for this show. Little did I realize just how much this town’s story would seep into me, keeping me up at night with its ghosts, its mysteries. Crystal Cove has gotten inside my head.” He cleared his throat. “In fact, throughout my travels across the world, I’ve never seen a town quite like this one before. It’s a place absolutely brimming with stories. Legends. Lore. Some of it conflicting, some of it correlating, all of it compelling.”

I settled back in my chair, Bennett’s voice soothing me. Velma’s brow creased more deeply, two roads traveling up the planes of her forehead.

“I began my research by considering the promise on which Crystal Cove was founded. A group of hearty travelers, rabid dreamers, settling on these shores to make a life for themselves. And a hundred years later, another group, searching for what they believed would set them up for life, would create their future, pave their paths for generations to come. And it did, in a sense. Because here we are, hundreds of years later, creating a television show about their very existence.

“What I’ve found from my research is that the people of Crystal Cove have a deep, strong connection to one another, but more importantly, to the past. They’re committed to honoring their ancestors’ legacies, even though they don’t quite know what the truth is. And perhaps that’s the fun of it! Perhaps that’s where this abiding, unbreakable link is built. The chase keeps the past in the present and keeps the origin story alive.”

Next to me, Velma coughed her annoyance at Bennett’s song and dance. But I was into it. Bennett was a storyteller, after all, and he was telling a good one. And besides, Velma and I solved mysteries precisely because we grew up learning about the biggest one of all! The chase for answers about our past was woven into the fabric of our town, our families, our very own lives. I nodded at Bennett to continue, hungry for more.

“Now, the idea that an entire town could disappear is not unique to Crystal Cove. All around the world, it’s a tale as old as time. Unconfirmed reports of entire towns, vanished. Hundreds of families, gone without a trace, their houses and businesses left empty, their farms grown feral. But nowhere else have I seen a place where the legends live on in the present day the way they do here in Crystal Cove. Where the mystical mingles with the real, the old with the new. Where there are no answers, but life goes on just the same. Where possibility is everywhere.

“Crystal Cove is, quite literally, a ghost town. A town built on the bones of a story with unanswerable questions. You believe in ghosts because you have no other explanation for what happened to your settlers. But.” He paused, his gaze lingering on us. “I believe I’ve found one. The one. The answer that makes sense, that’s feasible.”

I almost couldn’t hear him through the tingling in my head, the buzz of anticipation. The idea that we might have an answer to the Vanishing—right here, in the Haunted Village, a place meant to re-create the world our vanished ancestors lived within—left me breathless.

“What is it?” Velma’s voice, awed and combative at the same time, cut through my mind’s whirring. I knew what she was thinking then: What about all our research? What about our orange notebook?

Bennett’s eyes glittered. “Over the years, many theories have been posited: natural disasters, like a flash flood that wiped everyone out to sea, or an earthquake that swallowed them up. Sinister forces, such as a traveling cult that convinced them to leave this land for even greener pastures, or brainwashed them into a mass suicide. Maybe a roving band of robbers forced them to hide in the sea caves, where they were trapped by the tides. Or perhaps something in the science fiction realm—some kind of atmospheric anomaly, a hole in the sky, a tear in the space-time continuum.” Bennett chuckled, rubbing his hands together. “But I believe the answer lies right under our noses.”

He strode over to the side window and pointed. “What’s beyond these pines?”

“The old Pizza Panic?” Velma said dubiously.

“Beyond that.”

“The rest of the Village,” I said. “And then the parking lot, and then a bunch of trees.”

“And then?”

I swallowed. “The beach.”

“The sea caves.” Velma stood up, tugging at her hair. Her voice had a quiet kind of awe to it. “You think it’s the sea caves, don’t you?”

The sea caves bordered the north end of the beach, a vast network of countless caves that stretched along the shore, into the sea, and back again. Supposedly, there were miles and miles of caves that had never been mapped—and most were too dangerous to try. It was a fact that, over the years, people had wandered in there, convinced they’d be the ones to discover treasure or secrets or whatever else humans search for, never to come out again. Because once you passed a few hundred feet inside, all light disappeared, and there were hundreds, if not thousands, of ways to get lost. To … disappear. Velma and I knew from personal experience.

Bennett nodded, pleased at Velma’s guess. “I’ve studied every map that exists of this place, including the hand-drawn maps cartographers have created over the years, trying to understand the structure of the caves.”

“I hate to break it to you,” Velma said in that way that meant she very much did not hate to break it to him, “but there are no accurate maps for those caves. They’ve never been mapped; they’re too dangerous.”

He strode over to his laptop, tapped the keyboard a few times, and then spun around the screen to show us. It was a crudely drawn map of sorts, the ocean on one side, surrounded by elaborate circles and lines. “Well, piecing together what I’ve been able to find, I’ve sort of drawn my own map. I believe the sea caves don’t just exist on the shore. I think they’re under us. Under our very feet. Even right here, under the Haunted Village.”

I couldn’t help it; I looked down at my boots, at the scratched wooden floor planks beneath them, and tried to imagine it. Under the floorboards was cement; under that, dirt. And under that—more of the mysterious labyrinth of caves? My heart began to pound.

“Your theory is that there are caves right here? Under this ground? But we’re almost a mile away from the beach,” I pointed out.

Bennett nodded. “No one would expect the sea caves to be this far inland. That’s why no one’s considered it before.”

“And you think … the original settlers ventured too far into the caves?” Velma clarified. She seemed unimpressed.

“Not at all,” Bennett said smoothly, almost giddily. “I think there was a seismic shift underground, and it rearranged the roofs of the entire channel of caves. The ground, to put it simply, collapsed. And in doing so, it literally changed the landscape—and swallowed up everything, everyone, nearby. A new ground was formed; a new layer of earth, wiping away all traces of people.”

I closed my eyes, seeing rolling waves of blue, grassy knolls, endless horizon. Children playing in fields, the sound of the crashing waves in the background, the bright sun overhead. And then the ground falling out from under their feet.

“What about the Rogers boy?” Velma asked, tucking her faded green strand of hair behind her ear. “The lone survivor, found under the Vanishing Tree. What about him?”

Bennett waved his hand. “Right place, right time. He must have been far enough away not to be affected.”

“Must’ve been some nap to sleep through a massive earthquake,” she muttered. Clearing her throat, she added, “There’s no written record of seismological shifts in that time period. No earthquakes. No evidence the ground disappeared. Where’s your proof?”

“Right here.” Bennett tapped the keyboard again; a new slide appeared on-screen. “Look. A couple years ago, a company called Rogers Enterprises did some ground testing while they explored potential new builds. Ever hear of them?”

“We’re familiar,” Velma said dryly.

“Crystal Cove has an ordinance requiring comprehensive ground testing for any new construction, luckily for me. It’s all those earthquakes you Californians suffer. Anyway, Rogers Enterprises, at first, tried to overturn the ordinance.”

“Sounds about right,” I sighed.

“But they failed.” Bennett’s eyes lit up with excitement. He wiggled his eyebrows up and down. “And when they were eventually mandated to test the ground here, they found layers of sedimentary rock that shouldn’t have been there. Records show there was also a series of echolocation tests. And get this!”

Velma’s lips had practically disappeared. She stood with her arms crossed, staring at Bennett. Clearly looking for some kind of reaction, he swiveled to face me. I did my best to arrange my face in an acceptably excited way that wouldn’t piss off my best friend. “What happened?”

“The echolocation shows a void. A hollow area that ends—quite abruptly, I might add—and then reopens nearly a kilometer away.” Bennett clapped his hands together once for effect. “It’s scientific evidence that the ground underneath the Haunted Village isn’t quite ground at all. It’s hollow. And, I suspect, filled with evidence of the Vanished.”

My body felt like an electric shock had just been administered. If this was true …

It was a big if. But it was more than we’d had to go on in a long time.

“I have a favor to ask,” he said, his voice hopeful. “I would like to look through your old notebook, the one where you interviewed everybody. I want to see if there are any family legends that corroborate this idea.”

I glanced at Velma. She flicked her eyes from me to Bennett a few times before nodding, and then she pulled the orange notebook out of her bag and slid it across the table. “I scanned every page of it, anyway,” she assured me—and, more likely, herself.

An image of my mom’s face flickered before my eyes. “So is this going to be the arc of the first season of the show?”

Bennett laughed. “Bigger than some little show. I mean, no offense to your mom, Daphne, but I’m ready to produce. Direct. The whole thing! I want to put together a docuseries about it. Maybe a feature film. Even a book! People will eat this up, don’t you think?”

“Excuse me,” Velma interjected, staring at her phone. Her voice sounded off. I glanced at her. She knew something Bennett and I didn’t, I could tell. “Just curious. Where does your research live? All the work you’ve done? Is it online somewhere? A shared server? Have you emailed it to anyone?”

“Whoa, whoa,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. “That’s a lot of questions.”

“I’ll wait.”

My head ping-ponged between Bennett and Velma as he scratched his chin. “Let’s see. The documents are saved on my hard drive. I’ve communicated over email with some experts—historians specializing in old mining towns, seismologists, scientists studying geo-fissures, that kind of thing. Why?”

“Does anyone else know about this specific theory?”

Bennett’s brow crinkled. “No.”

Velma held up her phone. “Then how did this just happen?”

It was a breaking news alert from the Howler, splashed on their website and already all over social media. I could see one of the major news networks had already picked it up, too: Art Mimics Life as “Cursed” Writer Discovers New Evidence about the Vanishing. Click Here to See How Samuel Rogers Is Implicated!

Forget the ground under our ancestors’ feet; I could have sworn I felt movement underneath my own feet, shifting and ready to swallow me whole.

HERE’S THE THING: You don’t grow up in Crystal Cove without hearing from the entire world, all the time, about how spooky your town is. How strange it must be to live here. How stupid we must all be to not be able to figure out what happened here. People whispered; laughed. Beyond these borders, we were outsiders. And as someone who already had that title, who already knew she was different from most of the others at school, thank you very much, it stung. And worse than that, it made me worry that, no matter where I went, Velma Dinkley would always be the odd girl out.

So. Did I have a chip on my shoulder about our reputation? You could say that. And I think I was allowed to. We all were. Which explains why I was so salty about Bennett treating this—treating us—like some kind of science experiment.

I gnawed at my lip, thinking. Was I also, maybe, a little worried? It took me a minute of soul-searching to uncover that, yes, I was worried. Worried that Bennett had found something I’d missed. That he’d beaten me to the punch. Stolen my thunder.

It wasn’t that I had ever explicitly decided I needed to be the one to solve the mystery of the Vanished. It was more like … an idea that had hovered around me my whole life, ever since I realized I was good at asking questions and even better at finding answers. The Vanishing was close to me. I lived on the land where it happened. My mother’s research, her insistence on honoring our legacy, was part of the fabric of our family. Maybe I wasn’t as important as Shaggy, with his direct lineage to the event, but my family helped preserve these stories; honor them. And I guess I always assumed I would be the one to figure out the answers. To find out what, exactly, had happened here three hundred years ago, on the very ground that sat under my bedroom.

While I stewed, the news about Bennett’s theory and about the graffiti on the set spread. After he had fled the writers’ room to go find Izzy Flores—ostensibly to do some damage control—Daphne dragged me downtown.

“We’ve got to get out of the Haunted Village and into the real world,” she insisted. She was in full reporter mode. “We have to see what people are saying.”

Now, I’ve been told before that I’m highly skilled at worrying about problems that don’t yet exist. Personally, I choose to consider that an asset, because once I identify all the potential problems ahead, I go about finding their solutions, too. Unfortunately, we didn’t quite have time for that. And worse, I seemed to be finding way more problems than usual.

So on the way to The Mocha—our second visit of the day, but that wasn’t unusual, given Daphne’s caffeine dependency—I kept up a running dialogue. “Any time someone peddles a new theory about the Vanished, this place goes wild,” I complained, hustling to keep up with Daphne’s long stride as we pounded pavement down Main Street. “People stop trusting their own eyes and ears and start listening to everyone else’s stories. Rumors spread. You know by tomorrow, a ton of people will be calling the police swearing their backyards are sinking!”

“Maybe they already are,” Daphne countered. “Velma, you have to admit, Bennett’s theory is a good one. Scientific, not spiritual. At the very least, it’s the closest we’ve come to a plausible explanation.”

I was speechless—or maybe it was just the fast walk catching up to me. The Mocha was packed with people, their voices carrying over the grinding of the beans. There was a buzz in the air, and it wasn’t just from caffeine.

“Did you see this?” I heard Shawna Foster’s breathless voice as she flashed her phone to Haley Moriguchi. Daphne tossed them a wave and then pulled me to the counter to order, but even the barista was so busy reading his phone, his eyes round as saucers as he leaned against the pastry rack, that he didn’t notice our approach. Daphne cleared her throat. And when he continued ignoring us, trapped in whatever headline he was presumably reading, she cleared it again.

“Dude,” I finally snapped. “Coffee, please? That is, if you can spare the time?”

He shot me a withering glance but then filled two cups to the brim. (I still tipped him. I’m not a monster, despite my reputation at school.)

Daphne had found us a table near the front window, so I looked through the rising steam and into a picturesque view of downtown Crystal Cove. It was just a few days before the winter holidays, and the streets were bustling with shoppers. Emotionally, I was all over the place—jealous of Bennett, mad at whoever leaked his story, worried about the safety of the set. All of it a jumble inside that I was too frazzled to sort through.

I tried to anyway. “How did the Howler find out about Bennett’s research?” I drummed my fingers against the table. My knee shook against Daphne’s seat. I couldn’t sit still. “And why does it seem like this show was doomed from the start?”

“Maybe someone overheard Bennett?” Daphne suggested. She paled. “Izzy Flores is going to freak out.”

“I bet Samuel Rogers is, too,” I pointed out. Bennett’s research into Rogers Enterprises’ willingness to disobey safety ordinances and risk constructing more buildings on what appeared to be shaky ground (literally!) did not paint him in a good light. Surprise, surprise.

“Look at them all,” Daphne huffed. I followed her gaze to a group of girls outside the coffee shop—Thorn, most notably, who spotted me and lit up, her dark lipstick curling into a grin. I nodded in return. The other Hex Girls and the rest of their crowd huddled close, comparing phones.

A faint throbbing started behind my eyes. “The stories about Bennett. The accidents. This show, and the people involved in making it, are all anyone can talk about around here.”

Daphne surveyed The Mocha. The buzz was still in the air, eager and excited. The table next to us had the Howler’s homepage open on a laptop; Milford had published a couple of new stories about Bennett’s theory. I squinted, grateful for my strong lens prescription, to read the opening lines of each article. Somehow, the Howler had learned nearly everything he had just told us: that the sea caves might be even more extensive than initially thought, stretching farther inland than people assumed possible; that there was evidence indicating the entire ground we stood on was at risk for collapse if given the slightest provocation. That maybe the Vanished had been just under our feet all this time.

“Velma.” Daphne leaned forward suddenly, her voice steely and hushed. “What if that’s been the point all along?”

I processed her words as I took a sip of coffee, making a face when it hit my throat. It was bitter and scalding. (I’d crack a joke about how I was the same, but I was too annoyed for jokes … which I suppose just proved my point.)

“Say more,” I demanded. She shifted forward, glancing around to make sure no one could hear us.

“What if someone wants the show to be all we can talk about? Whether it’s for good reasons or for dangerous ones. All press is good press, right? Like how two celebrities will pretend to date right when they’re doing promotion for their new movie. Or how someone on a set leaks secrets to the press just to raise its profile.”

I swallowed. When you’ve been solving mysteries as long as we have, you start to notice the signs your body gives you that mean you’re onto something—the tingles, the hums, the tastes in your throat. And my whole body was on fire in that moment, thrumming and singing like I was on a stage. “Celebrities plant stories in the gossip rags all the time, usually because they have a very specific road map of what will happen when they do.”

“So the question we should be asking is, who benefits if Cursed is on everyone’s minds at all times?”

“Or,” I pointed out, mind churning, “let’s take it further. Who benefits if the show gets canceled and filming stops altogether?”

There was a frenzy in Daphne’s eyes. We were onto something. “Time for another list.”

She pulled out her reporter’s notebook. “We already have a list of potential people posing as Silas Mohl. Let’s run this list, and then cross-check.” A thrill raced up my spine. It was time to figure this out.

“Okay, first up: Izzy Flores.” I drummed my fingers on the table. “Motive: press for the show, which equals money for the studio, and gets her ex-wife off her back.”

“Bennett de Soto.” Daphne counted on her fingers. “Motive: making the show look so dangerous, it gets shut down … and he can make his own show about solving the Vanishing.”

“Addie Hubbard,” I said next, feeling a slight thrill at the thought of her being some kind of mastermind. (I’m not proud.)

Daphne’s forehead crinkled. “I know you don’t love the girl, but what’s the motive?”

“Her social media following has doubled since the fire, and she’s getting more media attention than ever!” I countered. “Or, what about this? Everyone knows about Addie’s spate of bad luck on sets recently. She herself even joked about it being cursed. What if she’s so scared, she wants to get out of her contract, so she’s forcing the issue?”

“Fine,” Daphne surrendered. “Leave her on. But put a star next to her name to note my objection.”

“Well, if you object to Addie, you’ll probably object to the next name on my list. Cooper McBeal.”

Daphne’s expression softened. “Velma. No way. Cooper got seriously hurt. He can’t be a suspect.”

“What if Cooper wasn’t meant to be hurt? What if that truly was an accident?” As I added his name to our list, a thought occurred to me. A memory. Cooper’s last movie was supposed to be his big breakout role, but the film had flopped. I’d seen the headline, along with a paparazzi image of a forlorn Cooper, on the cover of a magazine months ago. “Or … what if Cooper is in on it?”

“You think Cooper McBeal planned his own injury?” Daphne shook her head. “No. No way. He’s too …”

“Think about it. His star isn’t rising quite as fast as Addie’s. But one well-placed headline could change all that.” I watched as Daphne’s face fell. “I’m just saying. We can’t rule him out yet. He has a motive, too.”

“Fine,” she yielded. “Who else? Samuel Rogers, of course.”

“Always happy to put him on the list.” But my fingers paused over my phone’s screen. “We know Samuel doesn’t want the show to film. What if it’s because he knew someone would dig a little too deep into his background and reveal everything Bennett just revealed?”

“Yeah, this news makes him look even worse. And with his trial coming up …” Daphne crossed her arms and shook her head, scrunching up her face. “You know what I’ve been wondering? What is Jack still doing in town?”

I put down my phone and stretched my arms over my head. “Helping manage the mess Samuel made of his businesses.”

“He’s, like, barely out of college,” Daphne said. “And not to age discriminate, but Samuel Rogers can hire the best of the best. No way is Jack qualified to lead him out of this disaster. Of his own making, I might add.”

“That’s true … when Jack first got here, he said he was staying for just a few weeks.” I remembered because it had been at Shaggy’s party, right before I danced with Fred, and I had somehow memorized nearly every beat of that night. Ugh, tragic of me, I know.

“So why’s he still here?” Daphne pressed. “It’s shady. He’s shady.”

“He’s been kind of … combative, too, wouldn’t you say?” Something else occurred to me then. “Hey, remember what Ram said?”

Daphne scowled and crossed her legs. “Who?”

“Good one,” I said appreciatively. “But seriously. That day we found Noelle Burnett in the caves, Ram had gone back to the Rogers house, right? And he saw Jack there. He told you.”

“Putting boxes in his car,” Daphne remembered. She sat up straighter and met my eyes. “Velma, that’s it. Jack’s moving records around for Samuel Rogers. Hiding important documents—anything that they wouldn’t want the feds to get their hands on, knowing a warrant to search their house is inevitable. It’s the only thing that makes sense!”

I held up a hand. “Cool it, Nancy Drew. Great theory, but that’s all it is right now. Conjecture.”

She huffed and tossed her hair. “Well, he definitely goes on the list, and you can say his motive is ‘saving his uncle’s butt from jail.’ ”

“Noted.”

We were quiet for a moment, racking our brains for additional suspects, but I was pretty confident in our list so far. I told Daphne to flip back in her notebook to our previous brainstorm so we could cross-reference.

“Let’s see,” she said, shuffling through. “Well. There are just three people that appear on both lists.”

I nearly spat his name. “Samuel Rogers.”

“Jack Rogers,” Daphne sighed.

“And Izzy Flores,” I finished. My stomach reeled. Usually writing out suspect lists helped smooth out the edges in my mind, calming me down and giving me a solid path on which to travel. But there were conflicting motives here, and too many suspects.

None of it made sense.

*   *   *

My head was filled with whispers and rumors, and I needed to escape. To blow off steam. Luckily, Shaggy had decided to throw a last-minute party, and I didn’t even care that it meant I’d be in close proximity of Samuel Rogers. For maybe the first time in my life, I just wanted to be surrounded by enough people so their noise could drown out my own.

After we’d narrowed down our suspect list, Daphne and I each returned home to change for the party. In my room, looking through the window to the Haunted Village, I tried to imagine this spot of land, all those years ago. For sixteen years I’d been hearing the questions about the Vanished. Was it possible the answers were literally under our feet? And for a town built on ghost stories, how would people react if they discovered science could reveal all our truths?

I changed into a burnt-orange jumpsuit that sort of highlighted my dark brown hair, cleaned my glasses, and bundled up in a jacket. Downstairs, I mumbled something to my mom about a party, but she was busy doing some kind of letter-writing campaign at our kitchen table, surrounded by three of her like-minded friends. She barely looked at me before I bounded out the door.

My mind churned as I stomped through the grass in the direction of the Haunted Village. To get to the Rogers mansion from here, I could’ve just jumped over the security gates, cut straight through the park, and then angled down Main Street. But as I approached the Village—still lit up and rigged with random new construction, still empty and, admittedly, eerie at this time of night—my gut told me to swerve right, to go the long way through the small copse of trees that bordered the south end of the beach. And one thing I’ve learned in my sixteen years is that my gut is rarely wrong.

The moonlight cut sharp angles through the leaves above, raining funny little shapes on the ground. Crunch, crunch went my boots, breaking twigs and snapping dried leaves. Visible puffs of air floated from my mouth as I breathed. For the first time that season, it was downright cold.

As soon as I saw the streetlights filter in through the trees ahead, I knew I was close to Beach Street, where I could turn onto Main. I wondered who would be at the party—Daphne and Shaggy, Daphne’s old crowd of friends, the Hex Girls and Taylor, who still traveled most places Shaggy went—and tried to tamp down my nerves about seeing Fred.

I got caught up in a momentary memory of the last time I’d gone to one of Shaggy’s parties, when Fred and I had first danced together. That had felt like the first time he’d ever noticed me—really noticed me, the Velma underneath the brains and the glasses and the no-understanding-of-social-situations. And thinking of that dance made me think of the other day, when we’d almost … well, I shook that particular idea away. It didn’t matter what we’d almost done. I wasn’t about to get lost in some useless fantasy, swept up in some one-sided romance with the town lothario.

Snap. Hush.

I faltered, nearly tripping over my own feet. And when I looked up I saw it. Him.

Red cloak, flapping in the soft wind.

My body froze. I wanted to run, I wanted the ground to drop out from under me, I wanted the skies to open up, to shine with a spotlight that would show me his face. But all I saw was his silhouette, a hood draped loosely over his head, casting dark shadows where his face should be.

In a panic, I thought, Does he even have a face? I thought of the silly old folklore I’d grown up hearing about Silas Mohl. He was mean to his core but also had a way of manipulating people, of casting a spell that would confuse and mystify people.

He stood fifteen feet to the left of me: far enough away that I could get a solid head start on a chase if I were a runner. But he was also close enough that I knew he could reach out and grab me in just a few seconds, especially if my body continued refusing to cooperate. I was stuck, my limbs glued in place. Breathing was a struggle. Panic, thick and hot, flooded my chest. Ghosts aren’t real, I told myself, even if this one seemed intent on convincing me otherwise.

We stared at one another—he into my face, me into the gaping hole where his face was supposed to be—until he slowly held up a finger to his nonexistent mouth.

“Sshhhh.”

And, I swear, in that moment, it didn’t sound like a hush a human would make. It was an otherworldly noise—guttural, grating, infiltrating my ears and my brain and my whole body all at once.

I opened my mouth and screamed. The noise seemed to throw him off; he faltered, his hood tumbling off his head. I seized the opportunity to run, taking off at a fast clip straight ahead—toward the streetlights, toward the beach, toward the Rogerses.

I wasn’t sure if he followed me. All I know was, I didn’t feel safe until the lights of the massive Rogers house began to loom over me, glowing like a lighthouse, beckoning me to safe shores.

*   *   *

“And you’re sure he didn’t follow you?”

I shook my head. “Nope. I’m not sure. For all I know, he’s downstairs right now.” I swallowed. My head felt hot, feverish. “Looking for me.”

Daphne paced Shaggy’s bedroom, wringing her hands. “Jeepers! Don’t say that!”

“But, like, what if she’s right?” Shaggy said. He sat on his bed, Scooby curled up at his feet, and raised his eyebrows so high they nearly leapt off his forehead.

When I’d finally reached the Rogers house, I’d fled inside without knocking, desperate to lose myself in the throngs of people I knew would be dancing and talking in the front rooms. Shaggy’s parties were legendary—hundreds of kids packed tight, every room on the first floor lit up with energy, snacks and drinks flowing. Shaggy only ever had one rule: no going upstairs. But when I’d found Daphne inside, talking to Aimee Drake and looking bored, she’d taken one look at me and said, “Upstairs. Now. I’ll get Shaggy.”

I guess I must’ve looked pretty spooked.

We’d gathered in Shaggy’s bedroom, unmade bed and piles of clothes on the floor, empty pizza boxes littering every surface. And when Shaggy arrived in response to Daphne’s 911 text, I finally felt my adrenaline diminish, my heartbeat slow. I told them everything. Well, almost.

“I wonder who it could be,” Daphne mused, arms crossed. She stared out one of Shaggy’s bedroom windows, the one that overlooked his expansive backyard. The turquoise pool glistened. It was too cold for anyone to hang out outside, and I wondered if she was looking for someone. Something.

Shaggy scratched his stubbly chin. “Can you describe him again?”

I closed my eyes, recounting the whole, terrifying sight. “Tall and broad. Red cloak with a hood. No face.”

“I mean, I hate to say it,” Shaggy stuttered, “but, like, it’s Silas Mohl! Everyone knows he, like, haunts this place! Especially the Haunted Village.”

“But ghosts aren’t real!” I threw off the blanket Daphne had wrapped around my shoulders. The yawning chasm of blackness where the cloaked figure’s face should have been flashed before me and I reconsidered. “Maybe … maybe I just imagined it?”

Daphne shot me a look. “Yeah, that sounds like you.”

“It’s just— I don’t— I can’t—” I stammered. I paused, took a deep breath, and started over. “None of it makes sense. Who is this guy? Why do I keep seeing him, but nobody else does?”

“Well, I saw him,” Daphne reminded me. She crinkled her forehead. “Kind of. I saw something. The dirt stains on my favorite jeans can certainly attest to that!”

“Have you, like, seen the police blotter recently?” Shaggy said, his voice sounding even creakier than usual. He swiveled his laptop to us and pulled up the Crystal Cove Sheriff’s Department website.

I peered over his shoulder as the day’s police blotter loaded. Here’s what we read:

- On Sunday at approximately 5:15 a.m., a resident of Beach Street reported seeing “unusual lights” that “resembled a ghostly aura” over the Haunted Village and its surrounding areas. After monitoring the situation, police determined the culprit to be the early morning crew of Cursed preparing for their day’s work.

- Several reports of suspicious activity were called in from the block surrounding the Crystal Cove Towers apartment complex between the hours of five and seven this morning. Residents complained of footsteps on the roof, disturbing them from their sleep, and two residents claimed to have seen “bloody monsters” floating outside their windows. Police were dispatched to the area, but due to a lack of evidence they were unable to corroborate the multiple reports, and no damage or theft was discovered.

- A local Crystal Cove business owner reported seeing an unusual figure in a long pink dress at 9:00 a.m. in the downtown area of Crystal Cove. No evidence was found, and it had not yet been determined whether a crime has been committed. The business owner claimed the entire street was covered in a fog that disappeared once the figure departed.

I felt like I’d swallowed the sea on a stormy day. Once again, Crystal Cove was seeing ghosts everywhere. And once again, that would make our jobs—finding out what was really going on—even harder. I realized it was suddenly hard to hear; my heart had begun beating louder, drowning out my own thoughts.

“Really helpful,” I huffed. “While they all see ghosts, I get to see a strange man without face?”

“Okay, let’s reassess,” Daphne said, pulling out her trusty reporter’s notebook. In an instant she pivoted to full-on detective mode. “So either you’re seeing one person multiple times in various places around town, or you’re seeing multiple people who happen to be wearing the same red costume. Right?”

I nodded, feeling soothed already. Watching Daphne’s transformation into her collected, confident self helped ease my panic. Sticking to the facts, to the evidence, had always served us well.

Daphne continued. “To figure out who it is, we need to understand what connects all the locations the red man has been found. Where did you first see the hooded figure?”

“In the Haunted Village on Friday night,” I recalled, screwing up my face in concentration. “By the trailers. Which were then eventually broken into, where I saw the figure again!”

“Those trailers are dressing rooms, mostly,” Daphne said, jotting down notes. “Addie and Cooper each have one, but so do some of the other supporting stars. And some of the studio’s offices are there, too.”

“Scooby and I have seen, like, a ton of tourists around there,” Shaggy croaked.

“Yeah, there are definitely a bunch of celebrity-crazed fans in town.” She chewed on her pen, looking thoughtful. “So it could be someone trying to get close to the stars.”

“You know what else I heard?” I was thinking about all the snatches of gossip I’d picked up about the filming over the past few days—random comments on the show’s message boards, tweets, Instagram replies. “Some kid swears they saw Wyatt Smith on the beach the other day!”

“Huh.” Daphne was silent, and I remembered she’d thought she’d seen him, too. “It must have been the same person I saw the other day. Someone with blond hair like his. Wyatt and Addie aren’t together anymore, and he’s way too famous to sneak around a small town without being noticed.”

It was a mistake bringing up the gossip I’d heard about Wyatt. Because when I thought about Wyatt, I thought about Addie. And where Addie went these days, Fred followed. “Then there was that run-in at my house,” I said doubtfully, chewing on my lower lip. “But I didn’t see anyone myself.”

“Well, I’m listing it anyway,” Daphne said. Her pen flew across her notepad. “Your dad said someone was there, and he said the person was in red.”

“Yep. And then he knocked us over the next day …”

“Followed by your potential sighting right before Cooper’s accident, near the Ferris wheel.” Daphne flipped a page and I felt a rush of adrenaline, of hope. We’d figure this out. We had to! “Which brings us to tonight.”

“He’s always at the Haunted Village,” I declared.

“Or near it, like in the woods,” Daphne nodded.

“Or your house,” Shaggy added. “Which, like, practically is the Haunted Village.”

We were all silent for a few minutes, just staring at the police blotter (them) and wishing ghosts had never been invented (me) until Shaggy broke the silence. “I think better on a full stomach,” he said, standing up. “Like, let’s get some food?”

So we trudged downstairs, following the sounds of the party. The large foyer was full to bursting, but there was some space for a few more bodies in the kitchen, where we also found Jack. He was sitting alone at the kitchen island, making steady progress through an open box of steaming pizza.

“Phew!” Shaggy cheered, folding himself onto the stool next to his cousin and pulling out a slice. I did the same, only instead of inhaling mine the way Shaggy did, I pulled at the strings of cheese and tried to talk myself into taking a bite.

Shaggy and Jack made small talk—mostly about the pizza—while music pumped through the Bluetooth speakers strategically hidden throughout the house, drowning out my thoughts of running, headless ghosts, of curses and vanishings and crystals.

Here’s the thing about music: If it’s done well, it can really change your mood. And this music was good. I began to really feel the beat flow through me, fill up my veins with energy; I nodded in time to it, making steady progress on my slice, feeling like a sliver of blue sky was finally peeking through all my dark clouds. Maybe everything would be okay. I’d ask around at the party to see if anyone had any useful intel. There probably wasn’t a ghost chasing me. I didn’t need to worry so much. Right?

Then the music stopped.

Daphne daintily wiped her mouth. “Hey, I love that song.”

“Wi-Fi go out?” Jack asked Shaggy, who shrugged.

My ears rang from the sudden silence, almost buzzing, until I realized it wasn’t the contrast of the silence I was noticing, it was a steady murmur. A crowd of people, whispering. The whispers built, invading the kitchen, until everyone around our little island of three was huddled together, clearly partaking in some big secret.

I shoved the final bite of my slice into my mouth, waiting for some intel. It didn’t take long.

The kitchen door swung open.

“Hey, guys,” Fred said casually, strolling inside like he owned the place, his blond hair white under the kitchen lights.

My heart did its spastic little dance in response to my brain registering Fred’s arrival. I chewed, desperate to swallow, but my throat felt too tight, like someone was squeezing my throat.

Because Fred wasn’t alone. Next to him, gripping his hand like her life depended on it, was Addie Hubbard.

He feels like thunder. And, in the corners, just under the skin: a bit like a god.

None of this is intentional, he reminds himself, jogging back to his home base. He is simply reacting. No one can fault him for that. He is just a man, after all. Not a god. Not even a ghost, even though it’s so, so easy to pretend to be.

The girl in the woods is probably not so convinced of his lack of power, he realizes. Damn. That part, that run-in, was definitely not planned. She surprised him as much as he surprised her! She had appeared before him all at once, like she’d materialized out of thin air. Just remembering that moment—that blink-and-she-appeared sensation, that sudden understanding that he hadn’t been paying attention, and how that meant he was at risk—made a shiver trail down his spine. He’s not one for being scared. He is used to doing the scaring.

But, listen, it’s just the atmosphere in this place, he thinks, pulling his cloak tighter against his neck. It makes you do things you never thought you’d do.

Take, for instance, everything he’s managed to do so far. Dismantling a few screws in the lighting rig—one guy down, no big deal. Prying some newly tacked boards off the shack. Another guy, poof. Little things that only one person would ever notice, goofing around in the trailers, behind the scenes. Watching. Waiting.

He’s been waiting awhile. He is getting impatient. That’s not part of the plan. He pounds a fist into the closest thing he can find, a tree behind his shoulder. Fire, heat blasts through his knuckles. He groans out loud, breaking the silence. “Arrghhh!”

A few heavy breaths later, his hand throbs, but his chest feels looser. Hitting is the easiest way for him to let go, to relinquish all the power and rage he usually keeps hidden. He wipes blood on his dark jeans and decides the wound isn’t too bad. Adds character, in fact.

He glowers at the word: character. It reminds him of him.

Calm down, he tells himself. He breathes in and out, letting the final drops of blood stain the dirt. That’s better. It usually works, this kind of breathing. He just … can’t always bring himself to stop the other stuff and start to focus on the breathing. But he’s getting better. None of this is his fault! They make him react like this, all those people! They do this! Not him.

He shakes his head. Not him. No way.

He’s been around these parts just long enough to know the private paths, the winding ways around the main drags. Shadows are our friends. Now he leaves the copse of trees, chuckling a little at the girl’s face after he shushed her. She had fled. It had almost made the whole mistake worthwhile, just to see her fear.

What will the rest of the night bring? He has some ideas. Especially if you-know-who pushes him. But, again, it’s not intentional. None of this is intentional. It all just … happens. It’s not his fault.

He holds that truth in his body like an illness. None of this is his fault. He’s the victim here. Whatever happens next is out of his hands. This is all out of his hands! He is just the messenger. The deliverer. The destroyer.

It’s the greatest role he’s ever played, and the most vital.

This village, though. As he approaches it he can feel his shoulders droop, his chest sag, like it has a force field surrounding it that tries to worm its way into your skin. If he’s being honest with himself, he absolutely hates this place. Despises it. Wishes the whole dang thing would burn to the ground. Again. Its reputation only told half the story. The other half, you had to experience to believe. He should know—he’s been out here every night, all hours. He sees what happens when the sun sets. He feels the presence of history, and most of it is way too close for comfort.

Well, this will all be in his rearview mirror soon enough. He’s getting out of here as soon as he can. He is just reacting. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do and all that. He’ll leave soon; he can feel it. But not yet.

They haven’t received the message yet.

OVER THE YEARS, LOTS of strange things have happened at Shaggy’s parties. There was the time freshman year when twenty of us dove, fully clothed, into the Rogerses’ pool—in unison, at midnight. Then there was the night that Aimee Drake and Sammie Daniels decided to teach everyone how to country line dance, culminating in all forty guests dancing in the backyard, under the dazzling lights that were strung across the trees and over the deck. (Someone had filmed the whole thing; we went viral.) And one night last summer, I personally witnessed Shaggy give the very last scrap of pizza in the house to Scooby after they’d both realized they’d been hiding out upstairs in Shaggy’s room for too long. (It was then that I realized just how much Shaggy cared for his dog.) And of course—arguably the strangest sight of all—I could never forget the time I accidentally saw Shaggy’s parents sneakily grabbing a bottle of wine from the kitchen at the tail end of the annual Goodbye School, Hello Summer shindig, holding hands and giggling, surprised to see me in the kitchen, wiping down the mess the party had left behind.

So, yes, there were often strange goings-on at Shaggy’s notorious parties. But none of them held a candle to what I witnessed at this particular party: Velma Dinkley, speechless. Struck dumb. Or, more accurately: heartbroken.

When Fred walked in holding hands with Addie, the two of them looking cozy and close, it was the equivalent of a record scratching. (I mean, someone actually did pause the playlist, so, basically, it was as close to a record scratching as my generation will ever get.) I found out later from Sammie Daniels, who’d been showing off the latest cheer routine to the crowd in the den, that a hush had fallen through the room when they’d first opened the front door, and it had spread like wildfire on a kerosene-soaked house. “Fred looked like he couldn’t believe his luck,” Sammie had explained.

But later, when I was listening to Velma confess her feelings, I realized it was much more than that. Of course Fred could believe his luck. Fred’s whole life had been one of fortune and favor, of accidental greatness and goodwill. It was like the world looked at his finely carved face, so open and pretty, and just collectively agreed that someone that genial, that delightful, should get everything he ever wanted.

The problem, if you asked me, was that for once I didn’t think Fred actually wanted this. It was something about his eyes. Normally, they shone with laughter, with utter joy at his lot in life. But when he walked in the door, hand in hand with the country’s biggest teen star, the girl everyone at that party wanted to be (or be with), Fred’s eyes seemed grayer, shadowed. His smile seemed forced. And as people pulled out their phones to take pictures—most of which would end up on gossip websites the next day, not to mention all over the social media feeds of every person in town—he shot them angry glances, shooing them out until we were alone in the kitchen.

Since when had Fred Jones ever turned down a photo opportunity?

“Hey, everyone,” he said while Addie smiled brilliantly under the bright kitchen lights and Velma turned the same shade of gray as Marcy that time she had mono last year.

Shaggy, bless him, appeared to have no idea what kind of bomb Fred had just set off in his house. He mumbled his greeting in between bites of the folded-up pizza slice that was hanging out of his mouth.

And because someone had to smooth things over, someone had to keep the energy in the room level, I pretended there was absolutely nothing unusual about Crystal Cove’s biggest heartthrob strolling into a casual party with a famous actress on his arm.

Like this wasn’t all deeply, wildly, spectacularly out of control.

“Hi, Fred!” I replied, overenunciating and pasting on my smile, dialing up my register to a cool seven. (Eight would have been too obvious; six would have been offensive.) “Hey, Addie. Nice to see you again!”

She nodded at me, her smile widening, but I noticed her protectively cross her other hand—the one that wasn’t wrapped up in Fred’s big bear hand—across her body and grab on to Fred’s forearm. You know, just to really make Velma’s night.

Fred expectantly turned his eyes to Velma, who by this point had just full-on forgotten how to swallow and who was blinking furiously behind her glasses. Who was also, apparently, absolutely unable to say a single word in response.

The silence stretched. Addie’s smooth skin crinkled as she registered Velma’s lack of participation. I cleared my throat and leapt in between the triangle, breaking the couple’s line of sight to my best friend. “So! What are y’all doing here?”

As Fred began to say something about “hitting the town,” I heard Velma shuffle off the bar stool and then the faint swish of the sliding glass door open.

“But just as we got here, Addie remembered—” Fred said, gesturing to Addie, who was rolling her eyes good-naturedly.

“I remembered I forgot my phone in the actor’s lounge, and I obviously can’t live without my phone!”

I nodded as Addie and Fred laughed about Addie’s dumb mistake. “Silly,” I teased, my voice thick with mockery that Fred definitely picked up on, even if Addie did not.

“This one would forget her head if it wasn’t attached to her neck,” Fred cracked.

Addie shrugged. “Yesterday, when I put on my wardrobe for the day, I realized I’d even forgotten where I’d put my shoes!” A shadow fell over her face. “Or maybe someone took them. I don’t know. There’s been some weird stuff in my dressing room all week. I’ve definitely had more bad luck on this set than all my others combined.” She forced a laugh. “I mean, someone told me this place was cursed, but I thought they were just saying that to get me into character!”

Something pinged in my stomach. “Oh yeah? What kind of bad luck?”

Addie shrugged the shoulder that wasn’t nestled under Fred’s arm. “Well, all the stuff everyone knows about—the break-ins, the falls, stuff like that. Then there was the time my stylist almost accidentally bleached my hair!”

I shot her a questioning look, and she giggled charmingly.

“Can you believe it? She somehow mixed up the labels on some bottles. Luckily she caught herself before she did any damage.” Addie pulled out a strand of her hair and tugged on it, as if to demonstrate its strength. Then she shrugged. “Weird, considering she’s been my hair person forever and has never made that kind of mistake before …”

Her voice trailed off, and I jumped to fill the gap. Something was bothering me about Addie. Her picture-perfect persona didn’t quite represent who she was in real life. Maybe Velma was right, and Addie had ulterior motives. “You haven’t mentioned anything weird on your social.”

She gave a tinkly little laugh. “Oh. That. Social media is just a means to an end, isn’t it?”

Super, sickly sweet, I cocked my head and asked, “Meaning?”

She laughed again, but this time I noticed it was teetering on the edge of discomfort. She glanced up at Fred before responding. “Just. You know. I have a certain image to uphold. It’s like my agent says—if I want a long career in this biz, I have to curate an image that can last me through all the phases of it. Nobody wants to hire an actress who brings drama with her everywhere.”

Old photos of Addie, papered on magazines and online, danced through my memory. Addie had always seemed to have a don’t-mess-with-me whiff about her. “And do you want a long career in this biz?”

Addie’s eyes glinted back at mine. She answered like it was a dare. “The longest.”

We played the staring game while Addie’s naked determination cast a pall over the kitchen. In a world where we’re all taught to be uncomfortable with female ambition, I had to hand it to her—at least she was honest. Way more than I’d ever been, anyway.

“Addie, we should head out,” Fred said. To us, he added, “Gotta grab her phone.”

Jack frowned. “It’s kinda late.”

“Nah,” Addie said. “The night’s just getting started.”

And then, I swear, she winked at Fred. Winked! Like they were some kind of couple, off to do couple-y things, and I got so mad on Velma’s behalf, on behalf of all the girls who’ve had to deal with boys like Fred, that my little rage friend that lived inside me lit up like the Fourth of July.

“Cool, cool,” I interrupted, my jaw clenched. “I need to get some air.”

I left Fred looking confused (and Shaggy looking for another slice) and escaped onto the back deck. The burst of cold air made me gasp. A single strand of white lights stretched across the deck, lighting up the back of Velma’s head as she stared out at the pool. I approached her cautiously, like she was some kind of wounded bird.

“Oh, V,” I said, anger and empathy commingling on my throat. “Don’t stress about all that. I’m sure Fred’s just hanging around Addie as part of his role. He smells fame and he wants in. That’s all!”

She didn’t respond, and I followed her gaze to the turquoise water of the pool, little waves lapping against its edges from the wind. The trees whistled, and I shivered. I thought I heard Velma sniffle.

We stayed like that for a long while, just watching the pool move. We were out there so long, I began to regret saying I needed air. What I really needed was a sweater. Why couldn’t Velma have escaped into the Rogers library, where a roaring fire was probably keeping the room nice and toasty?

Finally, when my lips were probably turning blue, Velma spoke. “It’s just …”

“I know,” I murmured. I was talking about Velma and Fred, but thinking about me and Ram, too, about how it can hurt so impossibly bad to lose something you don’t even really have, and how that had to be the most unfair thing about life.

“But …” Velma interjected, and I hushed her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders for a hug.

“I know, it really sucks.”

“Daphne!” Velma struggled under my arm before pushing me away. “Not that! Look!”

“Huh?”

Velma pointed. Over the pool, over the tops of the trees that patterned the hill that sloped down the Rogerses’ backyard, over the faint outline of the Haunted Village.

It was a thin plume of silver, trailing up the navy-blue sky. For a brief moment I thought it looked like a candle, and I was reminded of birthday parties when I was a kid, of how Velma and I would shriek with laughter as we ate ice-cream cake. Of celebrations and family, of how, once upon a time, we’d all been so, so happy.

But then I blinked and my emotions cleared. With a start, I realized it was smoke. And where there’s smoke, there’s …

“Fire!” Velma yelled.

*   *   *

Velma dialed for help while I raced inside to get Shaggy’s car keys. He was alone in the kitchen, and I didn’t even wonder where everyone else had gone. That was my first mistake.

My second, though, was telling Shaggy.

“The Haunted Village is on fire!” I screamed. His expression morphed from one of contentment to confusion to, ultimately, fear.

“Like, what?” he whispered.

“Let’s go!” I yelled, grabbing his arm. “Your car, now! We have to get over there!”

But Shaggy was frozen in place, pizza in hand.

“Shaggy,” I begged, tugging at his arm. “Come on. Where are your keys?”

“But … Fred …”

I sputtered. “Who cares? We have to go see what’s happening! What if Velma’s house—”

“Fred’s there.”

Shaggy’s words punched me in the stomach. I lost my breath for a second. When I finally regained it, I said, in a low, tense voice, “Fred is where, Shaggy?”

He blinked. “He and Addie went back to the Village, like, fifteen minutes ago. She left her phone in her trailer.”

Velma ran inside, her frantic energy matching mine. “Fire department is on their way! Come on!”

She stared expectantly at us. My own jaw was hanging slack while Shaggy was swallowing over and over again, like there was something inside he couldn’t let out.

“What? What is it?” Velma demanded.

A fear gripped my lungs. It was hard to breathe. What if … I mean, Fred was …

No. I shook the thought away. It was too much.

“Velma, Fred’s inside the Village,” I whispered. “With Addie.”

The air in the kitchen was heavy while Velma processed my announcement. Then I blinked, and she was gone.

*   *   *

I’d never really thought about what wood sounds like when it burns. Now it’s something I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to stop hearing. It snaps and pops; it creaks and crackles. And when it’s a large amount of wood—like, say, a two-story building that used to be the Haunted Village’s souvenir shop, the one that had recently been converted into a lounge for the various actors starring in a new show—it sounds like an orchestra of heat, an unending song of destruction.

It felt like it took forever to get back to the Haunted Village, but it was probably only about ten minutes. By the time Shaggy and I found his keys and drove over, Velma had run the entire way. We found her, panting, standing under the Vanishing Tree, looking up at the old souvenir shop right inside the gates. Flames danced on our faces, reflecting in Velma’s glasses. The Crystal Cove Fire Department as well as support from nearby towns were already on the scene, hoses out. The thin trail of smoke in the sky had multiplied into a massive cloud, and it hovered over Crystal Cove like a bad omen.

A crowd had gathered, but Lieutenant Rogers and her team were there, blocking us from the entrance, keeping us at a safe distance. The whites of Shaggy’s eyeballs glowed in the dark and he raced to her, shouting her name. We followed him, of course; we had to find Fred.

“Stay away! It’s not safe!” Lieutenant Rogers ordered as she saw us approach. Smoke and soot had begun to blanket the Village; I could already feel it weighing us down. I coughed.

“But, Mom! Fred’s in there!” Shaggy cried, pointing to the souvenir shop.

Her eyes widened, her fingers already reaching for her radio. “Are you sure?”

When we all nodded, mute from fear, she sprang into action. Her radio cackled to life and she issued instructions to it, yelling a final “Be safe! Stay away!” to us before running toward the fire.

Panic threaded through my bones. I kneaded my hands. The three of us stood behind the entrance gates, the Vanishing Tree overhead casting weird shadows over our faces, watching as the center of the Village burned. The old Pizza Panic was right next door to the souvenir shop, and flames began to lick its walls, hopping from one building to the next. Firefighters ran across the Village, hauling gear, performing their orchestrated dance. The top-floor window of the souvenir shop burst, raining shards of glass over them, prompting shouts. From its high-up spot a half mile away, lights in Velma’s house flickered on. By now, nearly everyone in Crystal Cove would be aware the Haunted Village was on fire.

“Oh my god,” I cried. This can’t be happening, I told myself over and over. He has to be okay. Fred. Our old friend, our fourth musketeer; the guy who knew how to make everyone love him. “Do you really think …”

Shaggy’s shoulders drooped, his hands covering his mouth as he choked back a cry. On my other side stood Velma, still as a statue and just as silent. She hadn’t said a word since we’d left the Rogers house.

Everything turned to slow motion. Even the cracks and pops of the fire slowed down, like I was watching the scene from underwater, or through a thick glass, keeping me distant. Removed.

I held my breath and counted as two firefighters in full gear ran into the building. When I got to twenty, and then fifty, and then a hundred, I felt hot tears run down my face. I gripped Velma’s hand, squeezing, but she was like a robot—expressionless, silent, still.

And then, a shout. A chorus of relief. A tingle started in my toes and raced up my limbs, landing on my tongue so that I, too, joined in the cheers coming from the crowd, even before I could see them.

I blinked, and there they were: Fred and Addie, each huddled under the protective shoulder of a firefighter, each coughing and weeping, each covered in black soot and dust.

Shaggy yelled—a primal holler that rang out over the Haunted Village, that drowned out the crackling and popping of the fire. I sobbed, saying words that probably didn’t make much sense, something about gratitude and friendship and sorrow. And when I looked at Velma, when I tried to shake her to get her to acknowledge that Fred was okay, was alive, she sucked in a sharp breath of air and then fell to her knees, her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking.

*   *   *

“We were trapped,” Addie heaved, her face freckled with black soot, creased with fear.

Fred nodded and took a long gulp from a glass of water Velma’s mom had given him. “We went in the front door of the shop—Addie used her badge—and everything seemed normal.”

“My phone was right where I left it,” Addie continued, her voice shaky and thin. “In that back room near the couches.”

“So we were back there, just hanging out for a few minutes,” Fred added. “Addie was getting some sodas from the fridge for us.”

“And I heard a noise,” Addie trilled. Her eyes lit up with fear. “Not like a person, but a …”

Her voice trailed off as she stared into the distance. The five of us—me, Velma, Shaggy, Fred, and Addie—were sitting in Velma’s living room, wrapped in blankets. Fred and Addie had already given their statements to the police and been given the all clear by the EMTs. Fred hadn’t wanted to go home (his parents had stayed with him through his statement and checkup), and Addie had said she wasn’t ready to be alone yet in her Sandy Winds room. I’d suggested Velma’s house, since we were right here anyway, and even though Velma still hadn’t spoken a word, she’d nodded and led us across the wide expanse of grass and inside her front door. The lingering lights from the fire trucks flickered on the No Trespassing sign on the front porch.

“A hiss,” Fred concurred, nodding. He stared at his hands, thinking. His face was closed tight.

“A hiss.” Addie blinked back a fresh round of tears. I refilled her water glass and handed her a tissue. “And then … smoke just poured in.”

“And it’s weird, right?” Fred sat up straighter, his face coming to life again. “Because there’s another door right there, right? Next to the fridge? So I tried to open it.”

“But it was stuck or something.” Addie’s voice was high and scared.

“It wouldn’t budge,” Fred explained. He stood up and walked over to the living room window, rested his forehead against the glass. “By then the fire was in the hallway. We couldn’t go out the front.”

“There’s only that one tiny window in that back room,” Addie continued. “It’s high up, but we tried. I threw a lamp into it and it shattered, and we climbed up on the couch to reach it, but neither of us could fit through it.”

“I could see what was blocking the door, though.”

Fred turned away from the window. The planes of his face had rearranged themselves. He wasn’t scared anymore. He was angry.

“Like, what was it?” Shaggy said nervously.

Fred blinked. Addie coughed. I glanced back and forth between them, the unmistakable knowledge that some new bomb was about to be dropped weighing heavy in the air.

“Someone had shoved a dumpster in front of it.” Fred exhaled, running his fingers through his hair. Specks of black soot puffed off his head, swirling in the air. “That door swings out, and with the dumpster there, we couldn’t move it.”

“That dumpster wasn’t there earlier in the day,” Addie whispered, still staring at Fred.

He nodded once, grimly. “I think someone put it there intentionally,” he announced. “To trap us inside.”

At Fred’s words, I tasted copper on my tongue. The red lights of the last remaining fire truck flashed on the walls, circling around the room.

Something bad was happening, I realized then. And it wasn’t the ghost of Silas Mohl. It wasn’t a curse or a bad dream or a hoax. Someone was after us.

And they’d almost succeeded.

BY THREE IN THE morning, the moon had settled into a neat little nook on the horizon, nestled evenly between the tall peaks of trees beyond the Haunted Village. I had given up on trying to sleep. Instead, I looked out my bedroom window, tracing the arc of the moon, and wondered if I’d ever feel safe in Crystal Cove again. How could I, when my own backyard had been targeted? My own friends? It was impossible, I realized, the moon sinking another millimeter, round and yellow and grainy through the thin layer of ash that seemed to hang in the air.

I couldn’t stay in this room one second longer. I crept through the dark hallway, skipped over the creaky planks in the floor, and padded downstairs. The remnants of my friends’ visit were still visible—an empty pitcher of water on the coffee table, a few blankets strewn about the couches, and yesterday’s issue of the Howler, which Daphne had fished out of her bag when she’d searched for some tissues at Addie’s request.

While I waited for the kettle to boil, I slumped miserably against the counter, rubbing my tired eyes. Other than mumbling goodbye to everyone, I hadn’t really spoken in hours. My silence had been an act of self-preservation; I was afraid that, once I opened my mouth, I wouldn’t be able to stop what came out.

When my tea was ready, I sat down at the breakfast nook and took my time sipping it, lost in thought. I’d always felt safe in this house. Even after so many years in the dingy little apartment, this was still the only place that ever felt like home. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t safe anymore. That some kind of flood was creeping up our shores, threatening to cross the threshold of our porch, our front door; desperate to claw its way up our stairs, to submerge us in its waters. Inky black and writhing, full of the bones of the Vanished, the water gushing through the cracks of the doorway, dripping from the ceilings; an old miner, clawing his way through our house, looking for gold.

I jerked suddenly, rousing myself. I’d fallen asleep at the kitchen table, dreaming of the ocean and all its buried secrets.

“Honey?”

Tea, now lukewarm, sloshed over my mug as I jumped up and inadvertently kicked a leg of the kitchen table. “Dad!”

He flicked on the light above the sink and a warm orange filled the room. “Do you know what time it is, young lady?” he teased.

Hearing my father crack a joke meant he was having a good day. Er, night. I forced a chuckle to reward him for his effort. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“I know the feeling.” He opened the refrigerator, rummaging around. “Aha!”

I pushed away my tea and watched in silence as my dad pulled back some foil to reveal my mom’s freshly made rice pudding. He grabbed two spoons and sat next to me, the dish between us, and offered me one. “Your mom’s cooking is what usually gets me through these kinds of nights.”

Well, I would take whatever help I could get. After we’d plowed through most of the bowl, I reheated my tea and decided maybe it was time to talk.

“Dad?” I asked when my back was turned toward him, waiting for the microwave. “Did Mom tell you what happened tonight?”

My dad grunted. I took that as a yes and soldiered on.

“Do you …” I hesitated. Beep. I blew on my now-steaming tea and rejoined him at the table, where he was busily fiddling with an old lamp that, even though it hadn’t worked in forever, we’d moved back with us from the apartment. “Do you think someone could’ve set that fire on purpose?”

“In my fifty years on this earth, Velma, I’ve learned that anyone can do anything, at any time, no matter how well you know them,” he said. He leaned back in his seat, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked me in the eyes. He was tired, my dad, with deep lines around his eyes and gray flecks peeking out of his beard. And I was tired, too, but I knew it was a different kind of tired, an easily fixable kind. In that moment, seeing him in the low light, in the middle of the night, trying to fix a broken lamp—well, it sounds dumb, probably. But in that moment I could have cried at how much I loved him. At how he was right here, giving me his time in the middle of the night, when he had so little of it for himself.

“Do you really think that?” I wondered. “Anything? Even the people you know best?”

My dad nodded. “Especially the people you know best. So you have to keep all options open. All lines of thought.” He shrugged. “You’re pretty good at that already.”

All lines of thought. All options. But I hadn’t really been doing that, had I? Rule number one of being a detective, and I’d somehow let it slip. Everyone is a suspect, until they’re not. No one is a suspect, until they are.

Even my friends.

By my final swallow of tea, I knew what I had to do. I had to talk to the Rogers family. I had to get Samuel and Jack on the record, about everything: their history, their motives, the massive chunks of time they were nowhere to be found.

Now, before someone else got hurt … or worse.

*   *   *

It felt like my eyes stayed open the rest of the night, glued to the ceiling. My mind raced between thoughts and ideas and memories until it finally fell quiet into an unnerving stillness that made me feel hollow and numb. Eventually, I fell into a loose, dreamless sleep, only to be startled awake by an early text message from Shaggy, which is always a surprise. (He’s not the biggest fan of texting … or calling … or technology of any kind.) But even more of a surprise was what it said.

Meet me at the police station at seven?

A surge ran through my chest. Finally! The police were ready to use the excellent sleuthing skills Daphne and I had perfected over the years to help them figure out how the fire started, and who was to blame for the problems on set. Maybe, I told myself, tamping down my excitement, Shaggy was ready to talk about his family’s own myths and legends—with his mom, at her office, and without his dad. Good. I knew Samuel Rogers was the one holding this back—he’d been doing so for years. Now I wouldn’t have to force the issue anymore, and with any luck—and with solid, good detective work, I reminded myself—we’d be closer than ever to the truth behind the history of Crystal Cove.

I responded with a thumbs-up emoji and then scrolled through the rest of the texts I’d missed. They were all from Daphne, and they’d all come through less than an hour ago.

V, did you see Shaggy’s invite to the station?

I can’t believe we’re finally going to get a chance to interview his parents!

What does one wear to a date at the police station?

(I was kidding about the date part. Not a date! It’s just a meeting with Shaggy!)

I mean … he did invite you, right? It wasn’t just me?

NBD. He’s our friend. That’s all. Forget it.

Are you even awake? Sorry if I’m waking you. I couldn’t sleep.

Ignore all that stuff I just wrote about Shaggy and friendship. I’m in a strange mood.

And then, finally: I’m coming over.

I sent Daphne the hand-over-woman’s-face emoji in response. It was still dark outside as I brushed my teeth and put on some presentable clothes (well, presentable to me; Daphne would have probably disagreed).

I crept downstairs, aware my parents were both still sleeping and would ask way too many questions if they saw me trying to leave the house this early. When I heard the telltale creaking of the front porch steps, I rushed to the door to stop Daphne from ringing the doorbell and waking them.

When I flung open the front door, the first thing I saw was the morning edition of the Howler, and it was groaning.

It only took me a second to realize the paper wasn’t actually groaning. Daphne was holding it over her face like a mask, and a low, tragic moan was coming from her throat. She pushed the paper into my hands and stomped inside. Her auburn hair was pulled into a bouncy ponytail and her lipstick matched her sweater. I myself am a big proponent of the “no lipstick before breakfast” rule—which I invented—but apparently Daphne did not subscribe to that.

“Morning,” I mumbled, studying the paper.

“Bottom left,” she instructed, sailing past me through the living room. “But first, coffee. Remind me why we’re awake before the sun?”

“Because Shaggy’s mom was booked all day and this was the only time she could talk?” I guessed. Then I glanced at the paper, and my knees buckled.

I caught up with Daphne in the kitchen, where she had already set the coffeepot to brew. Its grunting noises matched what was happening inside my stomach. “Are. You. Freaking. Kidding. Me?”

Daphne snorted and held her mug directly under the drip, tapping her foot. I let the paper fall from my fingers and flutter to the counter.

Glaring back at me was a giant photo of Fred and Addie, fresh from their rescue, locked tight in an embrace as smoke wafted behind them. Teen Starlet Addie Hubbard and Local Student Fred Jones Trapped! And then, in smaller script: Fire on set sparks romance rumors; “He’s a total hero,” gushes Hubbard of her new boy toy as they recover from near tragedy.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” I said. A deep, hot flush settled over my cheeks, my neck, my chest. Fred and Addie. Addie and Fred. We’d almost lost Fred last night in that fire … so why did it seem to hurt even more now that I’d realized I’d lost him as a boyfriend?

Daphne’s left eyebrow shot up. “She speaks now?” But when I didn’t answer, she clucked her tongue and rushed in to hug me. “I’m sorry, V. I’m just glad to hear your voice again. For what it’s worth, I don’t think Fred and Addie are actually …”

She didn’t finish her sentence, leaving me to wonder what it was she thought they were doing. It couldn’t be any worse than what I’d been imagining.

She switched gears, turning all business as she sipped from my mom’s favorite mug. It said Una Madre Poderosa in red script, with a Rosie the Riveter silhouette underneath. I’d bought it for her one Mother’s Day a million years ago. “Have you heard from him this morning?”

I didn’t meet her eyes. “No. Should I have?”

“Oh.” She cleared her throat. “Um, he texted me overnight. Just saying he was fine and all that.”

“What’d he say about Addie?” I wondered glumly. The counter was suddenly very interesting, and I focused all my energy on rubbing what looked like a dribble of honey from last night’s tea off its edges.

“He said they’re both doing okay, all things considered.”

Both. So Fred answered for two people now—him and Addie. That was serious. “I’m glad.”

Daphne drained her mug and placed it into the dishwasher. “Velma, I’m just going to say it. I’m really worried about you.”

I stared at the counter. That stupid honey was still there. I scraped some more.

Daphne made a strangled sound. “Velma! Are you okay?”

“Did I tell you that Fred and I almost kissed the other day?”

One of my biggest regrets in life is that I wasn’t looking at Daphne when I said that, so I missed what must have been an epic facial expression in response. Instead, a loud thump pulled me out of my head. I turned around to find Daphne on the ground. Like, literally.

She gaped at me, arms and legs spread like she was forming snow angels on our old, peeling floor tiles. “I have passed. I am no longer of this earth. Send my regards to Scooby and the gang.”

Despite my sour mood, I felt the beginnings of a smile curl up my face. I reached out a hand. “Come on. Get up.”

She scrambled to her feet. “Velma Dinkley! When were you going to tell me? You and Fred? I knew he liked you! I told you so!”

I shook my head, deflating at the memory. “Even if he did, he doesn’t anymore. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

“Velma,” she implored, grabbing my shoulders. “We’ve known Fred forever. This is just how he is. Addie’s his flavor of the week. It’ll pass. But you? You’re …”

I groaned. “Please don’t say I’m his lobster.”

“But …” She blinked, screwing up her face to hold back what I can only assume was an ear-to-ear grin. “But you are his lobster!”

I held up a hand, amused just enough to remember that we had other stuff to deal with at that moment. Critical stuff. Dangerous stuff. “Okay, enough. Stop. We don’t have time for this right now.”

“I just don’t want you to give up,” she begged.

I inhaled sharply and checked the clock on the wall. Time was running out—for what specifically, I couldn’t be sure, but with the accidents on set getting more and more dangerous, I knew we had to act. Now.

“You know me, Daphne. I never give up.” I pulled her toward the back door. “Come on. We have a date with the cops.”

CALL ME ROMANTIC, BUT I’ve always appreciated the way the sun rises so beautifully over the mountains to the east of Crystal Cove. As its first rays began to stretch over their craggy tops, I yawned and tried to focus on the bright side of things. Fred and Addie were alive! Velma’s mom stocked good coffee! We were finally going to interview Shaggy’s parents! I don’t know, it just felt like a lucky day. Like the worst was behind us, and now we were finally going to get some answers.

Velma led us the long way around the Haunted Village in order to avoid the officials still milling about, logging evidence and checking damage. I sniffed; the scent of charred wood still filled the air. It had taken me three bouts of shampooing to get it out of my own hair; too bad we couldn’t wash it out of the morning air in the same way.

We trudged through the large expanse of lawn, the grass tickling our ankles, as the midnight blue of the sky slowly began lightening. I glanced at Velma. Her silence was beginning to worry me. She seemed way more in her head than usual. I knew it had to be about Fred and the Howler headlines. I opened my mouth to tell her that very thing when I tripped.

“Oof!” I stumbled, landing hard on my hands in the shadowy grass. “Ouch.”

“I thought you were the graceful one,” Velma joked, sticking out a hand to help pull me up.

“Me too.” As I tried to get to my feet, I realized my boot was stuck on something, but it was too dark to see what it was. I contorted myself into a sort of crouch and tried to kick my foot out of whatever it was attached to, but it felt like the boot’s zipper was caught on something. “What is that?”

“Here, let me.” Velma fumbled in her pocket for her phone while I pulled the bottom half of my body toward the top half, my hands patting the ground, praying the whole time that a snake wasn’t lying in wait, ready to snap.

Just as Velma’s flashlight clicked on, my hands felt something new. Hard but yielding, covered in a familiar fabric.

“What …”

“Daphne.”

“What is it, V?” I blinked into Velma’s flashlight. Her voice was tight; strained. She shifted the flashlight until I was no longer blinded by it and could see her face.

But, oh, I wish I hadn’t. She was ghostly white, her jaw slack, mouth soft. And her eyes … well, they seemed frozen open, fear pulsing through them. Within milliseconds, sweat—slick and warm—puddled in between my shoulders, behind my knees. It took me a moment to find my tongue, to figure out how to move it so I could speak. In a flood of adrenaline, I tore my ankle from whatever it was stuck on and leapt to my feet. I’d seen Velma scared before, but I’d never seen this.

I stood next to her, my best friend, and found the courage to follow the arc of the flashlight, shining on the grass where I’d just been.

The light shone on a pair of sneakers, dark gray and streaked with dirt, toes planted in the long grass.

“Oh my god,” I whispered. My lungs tightened around my heart, squeezing my chest until I was afraid I wouldn’t breathe again, talk again, know normalcy again.

Velma’s flashlight hovered over the sneakers. I knew we should move the light, follow the peek of ankle crawling out of the tops of the sneakers. But her arm didn’t move, and I couldn’t move, so we stood in place, staring at dirty sneakers—dirty sneakers with a set of feet inside them—for far too long.

Something inside me released. I found my voice. “We have to help! It might not be too late!”

She met my eyes, fear glowing behind her glasses. “I …”

“Velma, come on!” I jostled her arm. “Detective Dinkley, remember?”

She blinked. Behind the fear in her eyes came a stoic, steely resolve. She took a deep breath and then, together, we stepped forward, gripping each other’s arms.

Velma slowly moved the light over the body. Blue jeans. Brown jacket. Red hair, cropped short. Something about the whole scene was familiar, maybe; I couldn’t decipher what was calling out to me.

When I saw that the man was facedown, I knew that nothing would never be the same. This was a line that would mark the trajectory of our lives forever. Everything, for the rest of time, would fall into two camps: Before we found the body, and After.

My throat seized; cramped. For a moment I thought I would throw up or pass out, but the idea of collapsing on the ground next to a body made me push the idea away. I couldn’t fall apart. There was too much to do.

Next to me, something had stirred in Velma, too, like we both realized at once that this was real, and it was serious. She jumped into action. “I’ll check for a pulse,” she announced, her voice high-pitched and scratchy.

“I’ll call the police!” It was hard to dial, my hands were shaking so much. When the emergency line picked up, I stuttered the news, all the while wondering if this was a bad dream, if I’d stumbled into some kind of nightmare. Maybe I was really asleep inside the Dinkley house; maybe Velma and I were ten years old again, dreaming about mysteries and ghosts and vanishings under her bedroom window.

By the time I hung up, I could already hear the reassuring sounds of sirens in the distance. Suddenly, Velma’s limbs jolted. She spun around and pushed me, forcing me to walk backward away from the body.

“Is he dead?” I cried. It was a stupid thing to say; I already knew he was dead. But I hadn’t realized until that moment how much hope I’d been holding on to, thinking there was still the smallest of possibilities that the man was alive—injured, sure, but alive and breathing.

Velma’s eyes bored into mine, urgent and afraid. “He’s dead,” she confirmed. Again, that voice: scratchy, like she’d been crying for hours but also high and unusual, like she was unsure. Not herself. “Daph …”

I held my head in my hands, rubbed my eyes. I realized too late that I probably had mascara all over my face. It actually felt right, to be a disheveled mess at a time like this.

Velma repeated my name. That voice, her voice, set me on edge. “What, V?”

She swallowed, stalling. “I … I have to tell you something.”

I stared at her. The sirens grew closer. They’d arrive in just a few seconds. Above us, the sky was a few shades lighter; the stars had disappeared. “What? Tell me.”

“It’s …” Velma quickly grabbed my shoulders and gave them a little shake. “Daph. It’s …”

In a flash, a memory floated by. I snatched at it, feeling around for its importance. Something inside me told me to keep looking, that this was important.

Those sneakers. I closed my eyes, looking for my memory of those sneakers. Muddy, but with a spot of red peeking through. Sharp angles.

A star.

“Oh no.” I opened my eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” Velma whispered. “It’s—”

But she didn’t need to finish. I knew it already.

“It’s Bennett.”

*   *   *

I moved through the morning like a robot. Automatic; stilted. The arrival of the police, the ambulance, the coroner’s office—it all felt like I was watching it from a distance, on a screen. This isn’t real, I kept reminding myself, only to be abruptly pulled back to reality when someone new inevitably voiced the truth within my earshot: Bennett was dead.

Murdered.

At some point, I ended up on the front porch of the Dinkley house, wrapped in a quilt and sipping a cup of tea, though I couldn’t say who had led me there or given me either of those things. Velma sat next to me on the padded bench, and occasionally one of us would grip the other’s hand, like we were sending messages in an unspoken shared language.

By the afternoon, Lieutenant Rogers and a few of her officers had visited. I’d watched them cross the grassy lot that separated the Dinkley house from the Haunted Village, their knees moving up and down as they climbed the hill, the badges on their shirts shining in the muted sun.

My mom had turned up by that time, and Velma’s, too, and we four went inside when Shaggy’s mom and her team asked us to, so we could all speak in private.

I know I told Lieutenant Rogers what happened—that Velma and I were on our way to meet her when I tripped, in the dark, over a body that shouldn’t have been there—but I kept to myself any simmering theories I had about just how much her own husband and nephew might be involved.

Because it had struck me like a bolt of lightning when we’d been on the porch, watching the scene unfold in front of us: We weren’t talking about ghosts anymore. Ghosts didn’t murder people. Only living people could do that.

At the beginning of all this, someone had warned my mom to stop Cursed from being filmed. But filming had started anyway.

And now someone was dead.

*   *   *

There’s that brief moment in the mornings, before you open your eyes to the sunshine but after your brain has already shifted into wake mode, where everything seems normal. Good. Peaceful.

The next morning, though, that moment never came for me. Instead, when I opened my eyes, sunshine dancing on my own bedroom ceiling like it was just another normal day, the truth of what had happened crashed into me. Hard.

I sat up in bed and tried to piece together the events of the previous afternoon. After Lieutenant Rogers had questioned us at Velma’s house, we’d watched Bennett’s body be zipped into a gray body bag and wheeled off into an ambulance. The man who’d thought he’d just figured out our unanswerable mystery, and who was ready to tell the world about it, just … gone. My mom had driven me home, and we’d spent the rest of the day curled together under blankets, crying and talking. My heart felt raw.

In bed, I rubbed my forehead, aching from a lack of sleep, when there was a gentle knock at the door. I pushed my hair out of my face and tried to find my voice, but only a grunt emerged from my mouth.

The door opened and my mom’s head appeared. “Oh, baby. You hanging in there?”

I stared dully at her. Rings of purple lined her eyes; she wore old sweatpants and a mismatched sweater set. Under normal circumstances, Elizabeth Blake would never. And for some reason, it was that—my mom’s absolute disaster of an outfit—that caused tears to spring to my eyes.

She noticed and rushed in, diving into my bed and squeezing me. “Oh, my girl. It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m so sorry.”

I sobbed into her shoulder. “It’s so stupid,” I choked. Bennett’s shoes popped into my head, upside down in the grass, and I tried to blow up that memory in my mind and replace it with something else. But it seemed impossible. “I barely even knew him!”

“No, it’s not stupid,” she said, smoothing my hair. “Not at all. It’s horrible.”

I took a deep, shaky breath. It helped a little to know that my mom was probably equally unmoored. She’d known Bennett longer than I had; she’d helped hire him, even. No wonder she hadn’t gotten any sleep. She’d probably been up all night with the folks from Meddlesome Films, on the phone with Izzy Flores and the other executives, mapping out a crisis response plan. I pulled myself out of her grip and wiped my face with my pajama top, watching the splotches morph into widening craters.

“Is there any news? About anything?” I looked hopefully at my mom. Murders weren’t usually solved overnight, of course—but then again, Crystal Cove didn’t have many murders.

She winced. “I take it you haven’t checked your phone yet.” Then she reached over to brush a lock of hair behind my ear.

I couldn’t remember a time I’d wanted to check my phone less than in that moment. “Give me the overview?”

She smiled thinly. “It appears Bennett was stabbed to death. If the police have a suspect, they’re not saying who it is.”

Stabbed. Until that moment, I’d held out some small hope that maybe Bennett’s death had been an accident—a sudden medical emergency, maybe, or some kind of freak misstep or fall, or an unexpected bite from whatever creatures roamed through the Dinkleys’ wild acres—so to hear that it was an intentional act, a purposeful destruction of a life, was tough to process.

“And …” She hesitated.

“What?”

She scrunched up her eyes and gave a half shrug. “The set is closed, of course. And we’ve decided to stop filming. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Oh,” I said haltingly, searching for the right words to say. “I’m sorry. I know … I know how much this meant to you.”

She nodded, patted my cheek, and stood up to leave. “It’s the right thing to do,” she repeated. The angles of her face rearranged themselves, and she added, almost to herself, “Not that it was easy convincing Izzy to shut down. I swear, that woman …”

When she left, I checked my phone, which had been pinging with alerts. As I skimmed the messages from my old crowd—people like Aparna and Sammie and even Trey Moloney—my mind kept circling back to Meddlesome Films. More specifically, to Izzy Flores, who ran the studio. And to how my mom—the Elizabeth Blake, one of the most successful women in the entertainment industry, the woman who’d never been afraid of anyone—seemed to shrink in her presence.

As my fingers scrolled, I mused on what I knew of Izzy so far. She seemed to have a one-track mind, and it was laser-focused on launching the show, on making sure Cursed was successful. Even when it meant people were getting hurt. And now … worse.

What if …

Through the fog of grief and lack of sleep, I wondered, what if Izzy Flores had found out about Bennett’s desire to leave his job at Cursed and go out on his own?

I needed to see Velma. Something had shifted in me, and I realized our list was all wrong. Because Izzy Flores deserved to be at the very top of it.

I WAS HOLDING MY phone in my hand, preparing to respond to Daphne’s cryptic message about Izzy, when it rang. I gazed at the screen in horror. A phone call?!

Crystal Cove Police Department, it read. So I gulped and tapped the green button.

“Hello?”

An officious voice I soon recognized as Lieutenant Rogers’s assistant replied. “Hello, is this Velma?” Then, without waiting for a response, she continued, “Lieutenant Rogers needs to meet with you. She’s free in about thirty minutes. We’ll see you then.”

I stared at the phone, speechless, as the assistant hung up without even waiting for me to confirm. It was just like a Rogers, to demand my presence somewhere and just assume I could make it. The entitlement came naturally to them.

Of course, I could make it, and even if I couldn’t, I would rearrange my schedule. Because there was a murderer on the loose, and I suspected the police were finally ready to hear what Daphne and I had learned.

Daphne and I met up at the midway point between our houses. We linked arms, but both of us were uncharacteristically quiet. The air felt heavy. Daphne’s face was drawn; sad. I tried to find some comforting words but my mouth, usually the thing to get me in trouble, was all out of things to say.

When we rounded the corner, the police station came in view—and with it, Shaggy and Jack (and Scooby), loitering on the sidewalk. There was an antsy, frenetic quality to their movements. Shaggy was holding a giant ice-cream cone, and even his handling of it seemed frenzied. And Jack—well, he’d grown more and more frantic every time I saw him, and today was no exception.

“Why is he always so shifty?” I murmured to Daphne. She gasped, and I wondered if she’d misheard me. I didn’t have time to ask, though. We’d arrived.

“Like, hi, you two,” Shaggy barked. Vanilla dripped down his fingers. Scooby’s eyes never strayed from the cone, his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

“Hi,” I said haltingly. It wasn’t unusual for Shaggy to hang around the station because of his mom, but it felt like they were waiting for us, which confused me. I gestured to the police station entrance. “Are you—?”

“What? Oh, yeah. We’re going in, too.” Shaggy laughed nervously, shoving the last of the cone into his mouth. I frowned. “Like, let’s go?”

“After you,” I said pointedly, holding the door open. Jack ducked his head and jostled Shaggy to be first to enter. Daphne met my eyes and shrugged, and we followed Shaggy and Jack through the hallways to Lieutenant Rogers’s open door.

“Morning,” Lieutenant Rogers clipped. Alone behind her desk, she straightened a stack of papers and placed them neatly in a folder before standing up and gesturing to the small sitting area in her office. “Have a seat.”

I bit my lip and perched on the small couch, with Daphne to my left and Shaggy on her other side. Lieutenant Rogers sat in a chair facing us, leaving Jack to hover around, looking nervous and significantly increasing everyone else’s stress levels.

I’d assumed Daphne and I would be meeting the Lieutenant privately to talk about the events of the past twelve hours. A million thoughts raced through my head. One of them, tiny but insistent, bubbled to the top. Maybe this meeting wasn’t about Bennett after all? Maybe Shaggy had arranged this, and it was a chance for us to finally interview his mother about their family history?

Lieutenant Rogers interrupted my thoughts, clapping her hands as if to get our attention, even though all four of us were waiting in rapt silence. “Thanks for coming today, everyone. How are you all doing after the—er, events of the past couple days?”

None of us answered, and Lieutenant Rogers nodded at our silence, as though she had expected as much. Gruffly, she said, “I know it’s all so difficult. These are trying times.”

Daphne nodded sadly, her eyes glistening.

I swallowed the little lump in my throat and added, “Daphne and I, as you know, have a lot of experience solving crimes. We—”

“Mysteries,” she interrupted.

I froze. “Excuse me?”

“You have experience solving mysteries,” she said patiently, like she was talking to a group of toddlers. “Not crimes. There’s a difference.”

I opened my mouth to respond—that was a silly distinction, not to mention an untrue one—but Shaggy interjected. “Like, Mom? Let’s not quibble.”

Scooby raised his head hopefully.

“Quibble, not kibble,” Shaggy whispered to him. “Like, sorry, Scoob.”

“Regardless, I brought you here today because we’ve discovered something curious. And we think you might have some answers for us.” She pressed a button on her desk, and we heard a buzz in the hallway outside. Swiftly, her assistant strode in carrying some items wrapped in evidence bags. As she left, she closed the door behind her.

“We’re always happy to help where we can,” Daphne said quietly. “Anything for Bennett.”

“Actually, this is about the fire.” Lieutenant Rogers opened the evidence bags and held up something that made me gasp.

It was my face. Everyone’s faces.

Almost everyone’s faces, I realized.

“What is that?!” Daphne said in wonder. I took off my glasses, rubbed my eyes, and placed them back on my face, squinting.

Lieutenant Rogers was holding up a large black-and-white image I didn’t recognize. Centered in the middle were Fred and Addie, arm in arm, big smiles stretched on their faces, walking out of a familiar storefront in the Haunted Village. In the background behind them, through a window, I stood with a half-eaten burrito hanging out of my mouth.

It took me a second to process the image, but ultimately, the burrito gave it away. “Alejandro’s place?” I said, stunned.

“Tacos so good they’re scary?” Shaggy said, sounding equally confused.

“Taco Terror, yes,” Lieutenant confirmed.

The answer came to me in a rush. “That must have been taken the day of the code green on set, when I got locked inside with Fred and Addie. Once we were free to leave, they stepped out together. But what …” My voice trailed off. I hadn’t noticed anyone taking photos. And what did it have to do with the fire?

“Wait a minute.”

I jumped at Jack’s voice. Honestly, I’d kind of forgotten he was there. He had been resting on the ledge of the office’s only window, and he stood and strode over to his aunt, staring at the picture. He held it close, in a way that made it more visible to Shaggy than to me and Daphne.

Suddenly, Shaggy gasped. “Like, it’s me!”

Jack jolted like he’d been hit by lightning, and the photo slid out of his fingers. Shaggy caught it and pointed to the far left side of the photo, where what I’d assumed was a small shrub or tiny tree was situated, blurry and unnoticeable.

Unless you squinted, really, really hard. Because then, the fuzzy tree looked an awful lot like Shaggy Rogers.

I grabbed the photo from Shaggy. In it, he was holding something the size of a pizza box. Only it wasn’t a pizza box—he was holding it sideways, which everyone knows would ruin the pizza, and Shaggy would never ruin pizza. He appeared to be trying to tuck it under his large T-shirt. It was hard to tell, though; the image was grainy at this size, and covered in gray shadows.

I swiveled to face Shaggy. He looked just as surprised as I was. He glanced at me helplessly before turning his attention to his mother.

“Like, what is going on here?”

She slid the photo back into the evidence bag, where a flash of color caught my attention. There was something else in that bag, and I started to understand what was happening.

“Paparazzi,” I declared.

“Exactly, Velma,” Lieutenant Rogers said. “Have you all noticed the paparazzi around town?”

“Sure,” Daphne said. “My mom told me to expect swarms of them. They’re not allowed near the Haunted Village, though.”

“No, they’re not,” she agreed pleasantly. “But Taco Terror is right on the outskirts of the Village. Any skilled photographer with a good lens would’ve been able to get this shot.”

“And then sell it to a magazine,” I finished her thought, pointing to the evidence bag. “Which you found at the scene of the fire. Right? A magazine with a picture of us?”

She eyed me for a moment before responding. I wanted to scream at her that she could trust me, could trust us. We weren’t little kids. We had a history of helping, in fact. But when I glanced at Shaggy, who still seemed confused at his presence in the photo, I wondered if maybe she was right.

Maybe we couldn’t all be trusted.

“We found the magazine, yes,” she confirmed. Her fingers drummed against the tabletop. “More specifically, we found the magazine opened to the page where this photo was published, front and center.”

Daphne shook her head. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I don’t get it. So Velma and Shaggy ended up in the background of some paparazzi shot, and the magazine was found near the scene of the fire.”

“It’s not me!” Shaggy protested, but Daphne waved him off. I frowned. Did he really not remember carrying a giant pizza-like box around the Haunted Village?

“So what does one have to do with the other?” Daphne continued. “There are probably a hundred candid shots of us floating around out there from this week alone!”

“Good question.” Lieutenant Rogers shrugged, sliding the magazine out of the bag. A paper clip marked the spot she needed and she quickly flipped it open, holding it up for us to see. “Here’s why.”

It was the actual magazine in which the image had been printed, and in the center of the page was the image of us, full color, the sky a bright blue that matched the brightness of Fred and Addie’s expressions. They looked absolutely delighted with each other, while I looked like a shadow. A nobody.

The magazine was dusty and torn in places, and smudges of soot and ash darkened the page. But there was something else.

Someone had circled the photo in bright red marker and then drawn a great big slash across it.

Almost as if someone were tracking us and marking us for their next kill.

And considering the close call Fred and Addie had had … they’d almost gotten their wish.

“NONE OF THIS MAKES SENSE!” Velma paced outside the police station, muttering to herself. “What was Shaggy doing loitering around the Haunted Village that day like some kind of creepy ghost?”

I squinted into the sun. “And why didn’t he remember being there?”

Velma groaned, and I blinked away the sun spots. The day felt entirely too bright for our circumstances. We needed gray skies and choppy waters; a looming thunderstorm to match the unpredictable waves inside me.

“We’ll figure it out,” I assured her, feeling anything but confident myself. But that was the trick I’d long ago learned—fake it till you make it.

A few feet away, Shaggy and Jack were whispering to each other. I eyed them curiously. We’d been summarily dismissed from the lieutenant’s office when her phone rang, and when we tumbled out into the sunlight, we’d split up. “What do you think those two are up to?”

Velma paused her pacing to check them out. “You know what? I’m tired of guessing. I’m just going to ask.”

Her eyes were bugging out of her head, her voice was at an octave I’d never heard before, and something had visibly shifted inside her. It was like all her cool, rational edges had been smoothed over into something rock hard and cold. Dangerous, if you disturbed it. I liked this new version of Velma.

We stomped over to Jack and Shaggy. (Well, at least Velma did.)

“What’s the deal, Shaggy?” Velma crossed her arms and glared at him.

“Er, like, huh?” Shaggy asked nervously.

Jack stepped protectively in front of him. “Chill, Velma.”

“There’s a picture with a target on it, and I’m in the picture,” she snapped. “And you are, too. So no, I won’t chill. I think you know something about that picture, and I want to hear what it is. Right now.”

“I’m sure Shaggy has a perfectly reasonable explanation,” Jack said, cocking his head at his cousin. His voice was smooth and cool, but he wiped a smattering of moisture from his upper lip. Meanwhile, I was shivering in my purple puffer coat. “Right, Shaggy?”

But Shaggy looked helplessly at Jack before barking out a nervous laugh and rubbing his head until his sandy-colored hair stuck up in funny lines. “Like, I don’t know what to say. That’s not me in that picture. I, like, don’t remember being there …”

As his voice trailed off, for the first time, I saw a world in which Shaggy wasn’t honest with me. I’d never imagined I could think that, and it was unsettling. Ground-shaking, even. “But, Shaggy,” I croaked. “You’re in the picture.”

“He said it’s not him, so it’s not him,” Jack said eagerly. “Deal with it.”

“But—” Velma started.

“Are you calling him a liar?” Jack demanded, and both Shaggy and I winced at the same time. Our eyes met, and a tiny little crack formed inside my heart.

“I’m saying, he needs to do better!” Velma shouted. “I need you, Shaggy Rogers, to explain what you were doing in that photo, looking all sneaky and secretive like your fath—”

“Hey!” Shaggy was angry now, and Jack was, too. He began shouting at Velma to watch herself. Velma yelled back, and Shaggy joined in, and I looked at Scooby and, I swear, we both ticked our eyes to the sky as if to say, What can we do?

But the shouting grew in both volume and intensity, and I saw an officer inside the station lift up his window shades and peek outside at us, shaking his head in disgust.

“Everyone, stop!” I burst, stamping a foot for emphasis. Scooby barked helpfully, and Shaggy looked chastened.

Jack took a few steps backward and looked off at the water, like he wanted to run to it, dive into the waves, and swim far away. I didn’t blame him.

“This shouting match isn’t helping us. Unless your goal is to make us all look like children, in which case, you’re doing a fine job,” I said.

“Daph—”

“Stop it.” I cut off Velma. “Someone is dead. Remember?”

Silence. Velma’s lips were pursed. Shaggy cast his eyes to the ground, Jack in the general direction of the ocean.

“Like, listen,” Shaggy said, his voice low and regretful. “I am telling you the truth. I don’t know how I ended up in that photo. But I’m not a liar. I’m not, like, this bad person.”

“None of us are,” Jack added, crossing his arms defiantly. And then he repeated it under his breath as if he were trying to convince himself. “None of us.”

The phone call comes late that night, an unexpected interruption to an already fretful evening. Her fingers are tired from all the wringing; her shoulders ache from tension. It’s impossible to get comfortable in this place. The room is too bright, even when darkness falls. The waves are too close, with its murky tides and washed-up broken shells. Everywhere she turns here are reminders that the ocean and the land hold more secrets than we can ever imagine.

She doesn’t want to answer, but there’s a guttural pleading deep inside her that makes her pick up her phone. She’s gotten this far by following her gut instincts, so she supposes it’s only fair to follow them even when they war with her brain. Her fight-or-flight instinct is strong, honed by years of experience in this business.

But “business” has never been like this before—menacing, risky. Treacherous.

She tightens her jaw as the voice over the phone tells her what to do next. Don’t panic, is the first instruction. Don’t say a word, is the second.

Sometimes she grows very tired of all the assignments. She’s been guided by forces beyond her for so long now, she often wonders if she’ll ever known herself fully again. If she didn’t have someone else telling her what to do, how to act, would she even be … her?

When the news is relayed, a crack forms in her outer shell. It’s horrible. Tragic. And, she can’t help but feel, inevitable. They were on a roller coaster careening toward a dead end this whole time. Anyone who’s been watching closely should have predicted it. She should have predicted it.

Everyone on set knew Bennett de Soto, and now everyone in the world will know he died here, working on this show, sacrificing his life to tell a story that, she was beginning to fear, maybe shouldn’t be told at all. It’s a gnawing feeling she hasn’t been able to shake, that the set of Cursed itself is under a spell. That the string of bad luck and accidents, of injuries and, now, fatalities, is simply prophesizing some impending, inevitable doom.

She feels the burst of warmth from fresh tears behind her eyelids and blinks them away. Someone is dead. This has gone too far, finally. She suspects the truth will come out eventually, but who else will be in danger until then? Who else? Her? Him?

She closes her eyes, a dull ache streaming from her heart down to her toes. Not him. Please, she whispers to herself, not him.

When the call ends, she approaches the window and stares blankly into the gray fog that hovers. The ocean roars outside, riled up from the harsh winds that have haunted Crystal Cove for days. There is no horizon. Just mist. Just mystery. Just this feeling that she is teetering on a ledge, her toes dipping off the side, a wall firm behind her back, palms gripping its rough siding. She can’t look down or she’ll fall.

No, that’s not right. She’s been falling for years.

There. That’s better. That’s true. Somehow, she’s found a core truth inside her, and she’s admitting it to herself: She has been free-falling since this all began. Now she’s crashing, just like those waves, rising and falling like her chest as she sobs silently, tears streaming, until her vision is so blurry she can’t tell where she ends and the ocean begins.

A few things are finally coming to light. She sees them now. What is she going to do? What if … this is all her fault?

She blinks; the tears fall. The mist creeps closer. She squints. It’s changing shape, shifting into new angles, climbing over the beach, the street, the steps. Are those … arms?

A jolt; a breath. She rubs her eyes and the mist has retreated. She’s wary, though. She’s seen ghosts before. This job takes her to lots of unusual places. She’ll see Bennett’s soon, she’s sure. She just hopes it’s a friendly one. Eyes squeezed shut, she says a little prayer for him.

Then, for her.

She wishes she’d never laid eyes on this place.

WE MAY NOT HAVE known what the heck was going on in the Haunted Village, but the rest of the world seemed to think they did. The headlines. The posts. The police blotter. The message boards about the show that had soared in popularity over the past few days. The rumors, the accusations, the fear. Overnight, Crystal Cove had changed. Whatever curse we’d thought about being under before suddenly became very, astoundingly, appallingly real.

As Daphne and I collapsed on a bench a couple blocks away from the police station, my anger drained out of me, leaving behind a shaky residue of fear. We checked our phones. The Howler alone had covered nearly every angle my fried brain could think of:

Head Writer of Cursed Found Stabbed to Death on Dinkley Property

Real-Life Mystery on Set as Rumors Fly

Will the Show Go On? No Way, Says Crystal Cove Police Department

Whodunnit? Town Wonders if Killer is One of Their Neighbors

Is Cursed Cursed? Highly Anticipated TV Show on Hold after Death, Accidents, and Threats

Next I turned to the Crystal Cove police blotter. Unsurprisingly, calls to the police had exploded in the wake of Bennett’s murder. I read the blotter with a growing sense of dread, knowing that with each outlandish report about ghosts and hauntings that the police had to respond to, they were losing time trying to find Bennett’s real-life killer. And so were we.

- At approximately 11:00 p.m., a resident of Montgomery Road reported two hooded figures in their backyard. Police responded to the scene but were unable to find any unidentified persons, and owners reported no damage to their property.

- Between the hours of midnight and 1:00 a.m., police responded to multiple calls from residents in the 600 block of Beach Street as multiple families reported seeing a figure roaming their block. Two families identified the figure as “the ghost of Silas Mohl” but asked that they remain anonymous.

- At approximately 5:45 a.m., a resident of Montgomery Road reported a car break-in. No suspect was found at the scene, but enough evidence was discovered to file a police report, and neighbors are advised to lock their car doors at all times.

- At 6:00 a.m., police received a call about “an alarming fog” encroaching on Beach Street and limiting vision. Police have set up roadblocks on either end of the road until the mist recedes, for everyone’s safety.

As for the posts on message boards, each was worse than the last:

I’m just saying, it’s suspicious how bad things keep happening on set of a show *about* bad things happening! (AllThingsGaming_25 from The Curse of Crystal Cove Fan Forum)

Haunted Village? More like Haunted Graveyard. (HeckYesItsaGhost19 from The Curse of Crystal Cove Fan Forum)

First stars were injured, now the writer is dead? Someone doesn’t want that show to reach the public. I smell a conspiracy. (DeepStateinGaming from The Curse of Crystal Cove Fan Forum)

My cousin’s best friend lives near there. Says Crystal Cove is totally haunted, and the cops have always covered up all the proof! (IKnowThatTown! from The Curse of Crystal Cove Fan Forum)

It’s just like in the video game. The Vanished are seeking revenge. I’m relieved I live on the other side of the country! I don’t want any Vanished coming after me! (TheVanishedareComingBack from The Curse of Crystal Cove Fan Forum)

Seriously, this is what happens when you disturb the past. Silas Mohl is mad at that writer for painting him in a bad light, and he’s seeking payback. I don’t blame him! (SilasMohlFan from The Curse of Crystal Cove Fan Forum)

Reluctantly, I scrolled through my social media feeds next. It was more of the same, with the added layer of fans gushing over the show’s stars in between gossiping about the murder:

Whoa. You could not pay me a million bucks to visit that town now. Crystal Cove must be cursed! Addie, come home! Call Wyatt! (AddieandWyatt4Ever on Addie Hubbard’s Instagram)

Really? I’d love to visit. I wanna see ghosts! Starting a GoFundMe to book my flight now! (JaneLovesGhosts on Addie Hubbard’s Instagram)

I’ve heard Wyatt Smith is a jerk. Just sayin’. (TVfan1234 on Addie Hubbard’s Instagram)

You’re just jealous. Addie and Wyatt are perfect for each other. (AddieandWyatt4Ever on Addie Hubbard’s Instagram)

Omg, I go to school with the Dinkley girl! (Aparna Din on Meddlesome Films’s Instagram)

Cooper are you okayyyyy? Get out of that town now! You have to stay safe! We <3 you! (CoopersNo1Fan_11 on Cooper McBeal’s Instagram)

I sell sage and essential oils. DM me, and I’ll clear the energy on set. Cheap! (OilsCanCure35 on the network’s Instagram)

And when I came across the official studio statement, signed by Izzy Flores and quoted in every news article, I felt a flame spark inside.

OFFICIAL STATEMENT ON THE PASSING OF BENNETT DE SOTO FROM MEDDLESOME FILMS

We at Meddlesome Films are deeply saddened to learn of the passing of Bennett de Soto, head writer for Cursed. Bennett was a talented writer with a bright future, and we are cooperating fully with the local police department as they investigate this tragic crime.

While Bennett has been involved with this project since its inception, the studio was unaware of his independent exploration into Crystal Cove’s history and his unauthorized plans for future works based on the story of the Vanished. Our deepest sympathies go to the entire de Soto family. We thank you for your patience as we mourn his loss and consider the future of Cursed.

Frustrated, I nearly threw my phone onto the sidewalk, but Daphne’s cooler head prevailed. “I know the world feels like it’s on fire right now, V, but let’s not destroy perfectly good tech. Okay?”

I grunted in reply, and we sat in silence for a while. Eventually, Daphne started clearing her throat and wiggling around on the bench.

“Just say it,” I huffed.

“I have an idea.” She bit her lip and looked up and down the street. “But we’re too close.”

“To what?”

“To the Haunted Village.” She met my eyes; they were sharp as glass. “It’s clear we’re not safe there. No one is. Not from the murderer, or the ghosts, or the paparazzi. Let’s go.”

We turned away from the direction of the Village, toward the beachfront. Crystal Cove felt like a ghost town. Beach Street was blocked on both sides thanks to a slithery silver blanket of fog that had settled on its shores. Fog was normal around here, something about the mountains trapping the salt air, turning it thick and cottony, but this was really something to see. Small clumps of people had gathered to witness it for themselves and snap some pictures. I scooted past the street’s barricade, reaching out my hands until they disappeared into the mist. An unexpected panic gripped me and I pulled them back, relieved to see them still intact.

I suddenly knew where Daphne was taking me.

The Sandy Winds Resort was sleek, with sharp edges and long windows, twelve stories high and taking up nearly half the block. It stuck out like a sore thumb, a modern work of art smack in the middle of seventy- and eighty-year old cottages that lined the rest of this neighborhood. As I surveyed the building, a thought struck me: Bennett had been staying here.

I didn’t have a ton of experience with death. My mom’s dad had passed away when I was a baby, along with a couple of uncles and cousins on my dad’s side over the course of my childhood. But this immediate sort of death was new to me. And, of course, I’d never found a body before. When I closed my eyes, I could still see it. I wasn’t sure I’d ever not see it.

Inside the Sandy Winds Resort was a marble-floored lobby where, compared to the other people checking in and out at the front desk or lounging about on the pristine couches, I was clearly underdressed. But no one paid me any attention. It was a perk of being short and, in my opinion, kind of plain—most people didn’t bother me. It was useful, at least.

It was only there, in that pristine lobby, that I noticed how un-Daphne-like Daphne was looking. Hastily combed hair, a sweater I’d only ever seen her wear on weekends when our only plans were to binge TV, and a pair of sneakers. Sneakers! On a Blake! This was serious.

She led me to a private set of empty lounge chairs behind a column, near a roaring fireplace. She leaned in close and dropped her voice to an urgent whisper. “Velma, I’m more convinced than ever that Izzy Flores is our culprit. She has the clearest motive—she found out Bennett was ready to jump ship from Cursed and get his own show, and she couldn’t risk that. By killing Bennett, she solved her two biggest problems: keeping him from leaving to make his own show about the same subject and getting massive publicity. Everyone’s going to watch Cursed now! It’s exactly what she wanted.”

I winced. “After that conversation we just had? No way. It’s Jack Rogers.” Daphne rolled her eyes, but I held up a hand. “Hear me out. The Rogers family is totally messed up! Did you see how he nearly blew up back there? He’s shady and dangerous. And now that we have proof Shaggy was creeping around the set …” I cut her off before she could object, which I very much knew she was about to do. “I don’t care that he’s denying it, Daph, And I’m sure Jack put him up to it or whatever. But there are so many unanswered questions about them. And remember, Ram told us Jack was moving big boxes of paper around? I think the Rogerses have information about the Vanished. Samuel tasked Jack with hiding it. And Bennett got too close. So Bennett had to go.”

Daphne’s jaw dropped. I took the opportunity to plow ahead, conscious that our world had shifted yet again, now that I’d voiced the theory that had been tickling my mind since the night before: Jack Rogers murdered Bennett in order to protect the Rogers family secrets about the Vanishing … and he might have roped Shaggy into helping him, even if unknowingly. “Daphne, we have got to get Shaggy and Jack in a room together and catch Jack in his lies.”

Daphne set her jaw. I knew she wanted to explore the Izzy option more. But I felt this one in my bones.

Shaggy must have, too, because just then our phones rang with a text from him.

Can you come over?

*   *   *

The Rogers family’s housekeeper opened the door. Mariela had been taking care of Shaggy forever, and I gave her a warm hug. “Shaggy’s somewhere upstairs,” she said. “Go on up. Wait! Take a little snack with you.”

Armed with bags of chips, carrot sticks, hummus, and a pitcher of lemonade, Daphne and I took the grand staircase to the second floor. You know how you can usually tell a house is empty when you step inside it? That’s what the Rogers place always felt like—empty, even when I knew there were people moving around inside its walls. Too many rooms, all of them too large, none of them filled with the typical sounds of a household—laughter, shouting, television in the background, a washing machine running, something simmering on a stovetop.

So it was quiet on the second floor, and between the general sense of absence and the looming sense of anxiety about having this conversation, Daphne and I didn’t make a sound as we walked down the hall. In fact, we were so silent, the faint sounds of someone else’s words began to take shape the closer we got to Shaggy’s bedroom. It was a low murmur, steady in the way my dad’s soap operas form a kind of musical backdrop to afternoons in our house. Something told me to slow down. But I didn’t. Neither did Daphne.

It was like we both knew what to do—keep quiet, lighten our steps—without communicating that to each other. When I paused just outside Shaggy’s closed bedroom door, I felt Daphne’s breath tousle my hair. I could hear my own heartbeat. The hallway, this never-ending stretch of darkness lined with portraits of Rogers ancestors, felt like a tunnel into another world. Like we had stepped into an alternate universe.

Daphne whispered, “Should we … ?”

I assumed she was going to ask if we should knock, and I was going to tell that obviously we should stay and eavesdrop a bit, but then from behind the closed door we heard Shaggy loudly exclaim, “Like, come on, Dad! Just tell me the truth!”

It took everything in me not to gasp out loud. Daphne gripped my arm. I thought of something my dad used to say: in for a penny, in for a pound, which I guess meant we had already started listening in on what was clearly a private conversation between our good friend and his (bad) father, so we may as well stay for the rest of it.

On the other side of the door, Shaggy continued pleading with his dad. “Like, I don’t even get what’s happening here! You and Jack are so secretive. I know I’m young, but … like, why don’t you trust me?”

Samuel Rogers cut off Shaggy’s last words. “That’s right—you are young. And you should be focused on school and surfing and whatever else you do all day long. Don’t worry about the business. Don’t worry about Jack. That’s an order, do you hear me?”

“Dad!” Shaggy yelled. Scooby let out a low growl, and someone shushed him. Immediately, I felt a pang of remorse for poor Scooby. He was just trying to protect Shaggy. “Don’t you get it? I’m so stressed. I’m not sleeping. I’m barely eating.” (I raised my eyebrows.) “I swear … like, sometimes? I swear I can hear Scooby talking to me. That’s how out of it I am!”

“Son,” Samuel said. I heard a shuffle of some footsteps. Then his voice, even closer to the door. “This is all clearly a misunderstanding. I want to protect you from dealings you don’t need to worry about right now. My father … your grandfather, he was a smart man, a successful one. He wanted to bring me into the business early, so he got me started in Rogers Enterprises when I was fourteen. A kid, Shaggy. And I didn’t want to do the same to you.”

I swallowed something that had risen in my throat. Not a lump—I just didn’t have it in me, I believed, to ever feel sympathetic to someone like Mr. Rogers—but maybe a promise of a lump. This was the first time I’d ever heard Samuel Rogers say something even remotely … well, human.

“Dad,” Shaggy replied. I had to lean in to hear him, and even then it was tough. “I just … I wish you would see …”

“I see now, son.”

I wanted to keep listening, to inch closer, but Daphne tugged urgently on my sleeve. In my ear she hissed, “We have to hide, now!”

Regretfully, I let her pull me backward a few steps, into the closest open door. We disappeared into a guest room just in time, hearing the click of Shaggy’s open door within seconds, followed by the regular, sure footsteps of his dad. We held our breath and squeezed ourselves against the wall. Unless there’d been a change in sleeping arrangements, we were safe.

After Samuel Rogers’s shadow passed and his footfalls petered out, I exhaled.

“Did we seriously just hear that?” Daphne whispered, her face alight with awe. “Shaggy’s father … being decent?”

“What a time to be alive.” While I was happy for Shaggy that his dad had finally shown some empathy toward him, the truth was, Samuel Rogers had done way too many shady things for me to ever trust him. Or forgive him.

“How long do we have to wait here until we can go see Shaggy?” Daphne wondered.

I shrugged. “Five minutes?”

She sighed while I tracked the second hand on my watch. When that got too boring, I let my eyes wander the guest room. As kids, we—Daphne, Shaggy, Fred, and me—used to play epic games of hide-and-seek in this house. I was pretty sure I’d once been hidden in this very room for a solid thirty minutes.

“Okay,” I finally said. “Let’s go.”

Shaggy’s door was half open, and I used the tray of food I was still carrying to nudge it the rest of the way while Daphne called his name.

“Oh. Hey.” Shaggy stood before us, hair and T-shirt equally rumpled, his eyes wide and glassy. He’d been crying, I realized. I’d never seen Shaggy actually cry, though he’d come close a couple times. I didn’t know what to do with that information, so I did what I do best in emotionally fraught situations: I ignored it.

“Hey,” I said, holding out the tray like a peace offering. “Mariela sent us up here with some snacks.”

“We, uh, just arrived,” Daphne said too quickly. I shot her a look, but Shaggy didn’t notice.

“Cool, cool,” he said, in a way that indicated it was not, in fact, cool. “Uh, I guess come in?”

I followed Daphne inside and placed the tray on Shaggy’s desk (after I cleared my throat and Daphne moved a random assortment of items from it). Scooby gruffed a greeting, and I scratched his ears.

“So.” I crossed my arms. We stood in a circle in the middle of Shaggy’s room as he looked at me expectantly. For once, I almost didn’t know what to do, how to progress.

“Shaggy,” I began, taking a deep breath. “I know there’s a lot going on right now. And I know you think that I’m being ridiculous, or overstepping my boundaries, or whatever. But Bennett is dead. And … well, I have concerns.”

He stared at me with big eyes. He looked shell-shocked, like whatever had happened with his father had been wholly unexpected. “Yeah, that’s, like, pretty clear. Go on.”

I paused. Was I really doing this? Was I really telling my friend that I thought his cousin was a murderer?

My heart raced as Bennett’s face flashed before me. Bennett’s body. Daphne’s eyes when I told her to turn around. Cooper, crashing to the ground. His stand-in, blood oozing from his temple. Silas Mohl. Addie. The feeling of packed dirt on my palms, the weight of this whole town, of the Vanished, pushing down on my shoulders.

And then, finally, Fred—running out of a burning building, covered in soot, the world around us in flames.

I was really doing this. For them.

I blinked. “Shaggy … it’s about Jack.”

And then, to my utter surprise, Shaggy nodded. “I know. And, like … I agree.”

AT SHAGGY’S ADMISSION, my jaw dropped.

So did Velma’s, but she quickly recovered. “What do you mean? Tell us everything.”

Shaggy rubbed his eyes, then his hair, and finally Scooby’s ears before responding. “So, it’s like this. My dad and I don’t, like, have the best relationship, or whatever. As you know.” We nodded. If anyone knew what it was like to have a fragile parental thing, it was the two of us, that was for sure.

He continued. “And I couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew more than he was letting on. Like, you know?”

Velma quickly nodded. Sensing Shaggy’s fragility, I tried to be a little more casual about the whole thing. “There’s a lot of weird vibes going around right now. I get it.”

He nodded. “So yesterday, I started to suspect my dad was, like, involved. Like, in some deep, complicated ways. Otherwise why would he care so much about stopping Cursed from being shot? He doesn’t, like, even watch television. And why would he bother with Velma’s mom?”

“Ouch,” Velma muttered.

“Like, sorry, Velma,” he said hurriedly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“No big,” she mumbled.

“It’s just … the thing is, what’s been going on is not my dad’s MO. Dead bodies? No way. That’s not him.” Shaggy paused, and I swear, his stomach rumbled. Coughing, he hurried on. “And then I realized … I started matching up things in my head. Like how Jack is never really around when the bad stuff happens.”

I gave Shaggy an encouraging nod.

“And then this morning, Jack told me he had an errand to run?” Shaggy ran his fingers through his hair again. It was like he suddenly had too much energy coursing through his body—he paced, cracked his knuckles and his neck, waved his hands around—the opposite of his typical chilled-out, lazy movements.

“What happened, Shaggy?” I prodded.

He paused. He pointed out the window and I glanced outside. From here there was a view of the side yard—a slim line of green grass and a wide, white, stone-paved path from the street to the four-car garage in the backyard.

“Well, I got a call from Taylor. She was at The Mocha and wanted to know why I’d ignored her when she’d seen me walking by.”

I tried not to roll my eyes. Taylor was into Shaggy, even if he denied it. “So?”

“So, that’s the thing. I wasn’t downtown. I was home when she called. And I got to thinking … the other day, like, Addie swore she’d met me already, with Scooby, right? But we hadn’t met. I think I’d, like, remember meeting a celebrity!”

I remembered Addie asking him that—she had seemed convinced she’d met Shaggy before. I nodded my confirmation.

“And then once Fred asked me what I’d been doing on set, when I was actually at the beach hitting the waves. And, like, the other week, someone at school told me they’d seen me in the library. And, like, no offense, but I’m not a library-going kind of guy.”

He swallowed noisily. Shaggy was tall and lanky, and in that moment he was hunched over so much we were nearly the same height. I wanted to rush across the room and squeeze him, straighten him out, help him find his spark of life again. I had to physically restrain myself from doing it.

“And then, today, with, like, the photo.” He shook his head miserably and then glanced at me. “Like, that wasn’t me.”

Velma clucked her tongue. But I could see it in Shaggy’s eyes. I don’t know, maybe I knew how to read him better. Or maybe I just trusted him more, on some instinctual level.

Maybe because Shaggy needed me to, when no one else would.

“I believe you,” I whispered.

He blinked, and I could swear he was blinking back tears.

“But I do know who it was.” He said it so quietly, and my heart was beating so loudly, I had to ask him to repeat himself.

“What? Who is it?” I choked on the words. My mouth was so dry I could barely speak, and a rash of goose bumps popped up on my arms.

He was silent for moment. Then—

“It was Jack. Jack’s in that photo. And, like, I think he’s been pretending to be me!”

*   *   *

Desperate times called for desperate measures. And I must have been absolutely, critically desperate to agree to what happened next.

“We need to set a trap,” Velma said definitively. “It’s the only way to lure out Jack.”

“Or whoever is doing this,” Shaggy quickly corrected her. He looked miserable.

I probably did, too. So I smoothed my hair, reapplied some lip gloss, and decided it was high time we ended this, for once and for all.

We got to work, tossing information and ideas back and forth. All the while, as we stumbled into roadblocks, I had an idea brewing. I tried batting it away, ignoring it, insisting it was dumb, until we had exhausted all other options. And when I finally told them, everyone—even Velma, her expression resigned and grim—eventually nodded in agreement.

Which is how I ended up calling Ramsay Hansen.

He picked up on the first ring. Actually, before the first ring had even ended. Part of me wanted to read into that, but part of me was annoyed that I had to even resort to this step at all. I was violating my own rule about calling exes, and it didn’t feel good. (Thank goodness Marcy wasn’t around to witness this; I’d never live it down.)

“Daphne? You okay?” His voice was warm, urgent. Concerned.

I cleared my throat. “Hi. Fine. Just … well …” Just say it, I screamed internally, my throat locking into place, forcing my words back down my throat. Say it! You’re being super weird by not saying anything!

“Blake?”

“Hrmmnn,” I groaned, managing to finally pry open my mouth. “Um. Sorry. Yes. Hi. It’s me.” Smooth.

“Right,” Ram said slowly. “And to what do I owe this honor?”

I inhaled, counted to five. On my exhale, I let it all out: “I-need-your-help-with-solving-Bennett’s-murder-if-you-can-spare-the-time.”

I winced, waiting. Thank goodness I had locked myself in Shaggy’s bathroom to take this call. My friends definitely did not need to see me go down in flames this way.

When he finally responded to my request, Ram’s voice sounded amused and incredulous in equal measure. “I thought I just heard you say you needed my help, but that can’t be right.”

“Don’t make me regret this,” I warned him. “Besides, you owe me.”

A low sigh came through the phone. And then, the words I’d been waiting to hear: “You’re right, Blake. How can I help?”

*   *   *

The plan was a little crazy, but it was all we had.

First, we needed Fred. Or rather, Fred’s newfound fame.

Shaggy asked Fred to meet us at the Haunted Village. “Like, wear something … cool?” Shaggy said uncertainly, looking miserable at the fact that I had ordered him to say that.

We heard Fred’s confusion over the line, but we were in a rush, so Velma and I barely had time to chuckle. Hopefully, if all went well, there’d be plenty of time to laugh about it later.

The Haunted Village was deserted. The police had ordered the cast and crew off set while the investigation into Bennett’s murder and the fire continued, and after we met Fred under the Vanishing Tree (wearing what was indeed a cool shirt, his hair perfectly coiffed), we four snuck in under the yellow tape that lined the entrance.

We were subdued as we walked through the Village. The whole place—the place I’d spent countless hours with my family and friends over the years—felt off. Wrong, almost. And passing by the old souvenir shop—now just a husk of a building, the second floor hollowed out and charred—was even worse. Like we were walking into a bad dream, a mistake.

But we soldiered on, keeping to the shadows. It was nearly dusk now, and clouds had rolled in, casting a moody pallor over the place.

“Is someone going to tell me the plan?” Fred finally whispered.

“As far as you’re concerned, the plan is to keep looking pretty,” Velma ordered.

We were headed to the center of the Village, to the benches just outside the writers’ room. As we passed the Ghost Coaster, a rickety roller coaster that offered thrills and chills for everyone (provided you were under the age of ten), I froze. “Look!”

The Ghost Coaster was known for its massive backdrop of a painting straight out of an old Western: a covered wagon rolling into the promised land under a sunny sky. Only, because this was the Haunted Village and ghosts were required, the backdrop had an eerie feel to it, with long shadows creeping behind the wagon and a single dark cloud in the distance, giving the impression the wagon was headed toward danger. And in the bottom corner, a small skeleton hand beckoned visitors inside the ride.

There was something new, though. Graffiti was splashed across the entire backdrop.

STOP FILMING OR ELSE

THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING

“Zoinks!” Shaggy cried.

“Sshhh!” Velma hushed him.

“We have to keep moving,” I reminded them, even though my stomach had dropped, and we quickly made our way to the front of the writers’ room. What we were about to do was incredibly dangerous, or incredibly brave. Probably both.

“Fred, sit,” I commanded, pointing to a bench. He sat, and Shaggy, Velma, and I busied ourselves positioning his arms, fixing his hair, and shooing Scooby out of the way of the shot. It needed to look like Fred was here alone.

When he was ready, I stepped back and took a photo. In it, Fred looked thoughtful as he stared off into the distance. Behind him was the deserted Haunted Village; if you knew the park at all, you’d just have to look at the photo for a second to see exactly where Fred was. Which was the point.

With a tap of a button, I texted the photo to Ram.

*   *   *

Within minutes, the Howler’s social media accounts had a new post.

Accompanying the photo I’d taken of Fred was the caption: Breaking news! We spy up-and-coming local actor Fred Jones on the set of Cursed in the Haunted Village RIGHT NOW. Our sources say he’s filming something special—even though the police have ordered the set closed. Drop an emoji below and tell us what you think Fred’s up to!

I sent a quick message of thanks to Ram. He’d really come through for me. To be honest, I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that.

I could get fired for this, he texted back. But … worth it.

We watched as the emojis and comments and likes lit up the screen on the Howler’s post. After a few minutes, it was time.

“Places, everybody!” Velma ordered.

“Are you sure this is safe?” Fred asked. He was shaking his leg back and forth as he sat on the bench; when he realized it, he set his hands on top of his knees to make the shaking stop. I saw Velma’s eyes soften.

“We’re not sure, Fred,” she said. “But we’re trying our best.”

“Like, what now?” Shaggy asked as we began to find our hiding spots.

“Now … we wait,” I said simply. I climbed behind an empty snack stand; Velma hid behind the ticket booth, and Shaggy and Scooby ducked behind the corner of the writers’ room. It was nearly dark now, and a few gusts of wind made a whistling noise, blowing some pieces of debris up in the air.

The four of us glanced at each other one final time before properly disappearing from view.

“If you had told me when we were kids that someday we’d reboot Mystery Inc., I’m not sure I would have believed you,” Fred sighed. Then he shot us a thumbs-up, waved us off, and waited for his fate.

*   *   *

Fate arrived in the form of Jack Rogers.

From my hiding spot, I immediately stiffened up, but inside? Inside, my body was anything but calm. Pinpricks of heat dotted my neck; sweat bubbled behind my knees. Something inside me clicked; turned.

Was Velma right all along? Was Jack the murderer?

I had never been more scared in my life.

Jack strolled in, straining under the weight of a massive box. When he saw Fred, he froze. “Umm …”

I heard Velma’s triumphant hoot from her hiding spot. Suddenly, she appeared, dust and grime marking her face. She pointed at Jack. “Got you!”

“Like, hey, cuz.” Shaggy stepped into the circle, laughing nervously. I, too, slid out from my spot. The four of us circled around Jack, who was a deer in headlights, his eyes round saucers and a disbelieving half smile stuck on his lips. He flicked his eyes to each of us and then behind him, like he was debating making a run for it.

Fred noticed, and he jumped to his feet. “Don’t even think about it!”

“What’s going on.” Jack drew out his question and turned it into a statement. Shaggy, who’d been prepped for this moment, nodded thoughtfully, like it was a great question from his cousin.

“Right. Like, you probably didn’t expect to see us all here.”

Jack’s face hardened. The sides of his jaw caved in as he gritted his teeth. At that slight movement, fear began to course through my limbs, my veins. This could all go wrong, in lots of ways, very quickly. “That’s safe to say.”

“Have a seat, cuz,” Shaggy said. I kept all the muscles of my face perfectly still, but inside, I was bursting with pride over Shaggy’s cool, collected manner, over the way he was performing exactly as we’d rehearsed. I’d never really seen Shaggy like this before—mature, almost. Determined.

Reluctantly, Jack slid onto the bench. He took a deep breath.

“Just so you know, we are one tap away from the police arriving,” Velma said, waving around her phone. I gaped at her. In her leather jacket and combat boots, her hair blowing around her face, with its grim, steel resolve, she looked … tough.

“So,” Shaggy said easily, like we had all just seen a movie together and he wanted to know how we felt about it. “Jack.”

Jack’s face had morphed into something less surprised and more nervous. He swallowed noisily and waved his hand in our direction. “What are you all doing here? What do you want?”

“The truth!” Velma shouted.

“We set a trap, and you’ve walked right into it,” I said, my voice starting off shaky but finding its strength. I inhaled deeply and then realized we had done it. We had caught the murderer.

Our plan—to post what was essentially a thirst trap of Fred on the Howler’s social feeds, to make the world think Cursed was filming again and draw out the person who’d been trying to stop it all along—had worked. I couldn’t believe it!

But Jack jumped up from his seat, nearly knocking over the bench. I sucked in a breath as Shaggy leapt up in response, holding his hands out in front, palms facing out. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!”

“Somebody better tell me what this is really about, or I’m going to call my uncle right now!”

“Like, call him!” Shaggy’s face was pink, his voice hot. In the span of a minute he’d lost that mature, composed vibe. Fear was floating through the Village, so thick I could almost snatch it.

“Sit,” Velma demanded. Her voice traveled across the Village, blowing into the wind that was picking up around us. Because she’s Velma, Jack listened to her. “We have some questions. We know it was you in the paparazzi photo. We know you’ve been running around town dressed like Silas Mohl. We know you wanted to stop this show. But why?”

I burst in. “And why did you have to kill Bennett to do it?”

Jack’s eyes widened. He sputtered as two bright pink spots appeared on his cheeks. “You think … Wait, you really think that I … that I could …”

Shaggy shot me a helpless look—so helpless, so desperate, that I rushed in to backtrack. “We set a trap for the murderer, and now you’re here. What else are we supposed to believe?”

“Not to mention, you’re shady as heck!” Velma cried. “You unexpectedly moved to town a few weeks ago, and even though you told everyone you were only staying a few days, you’re still here. You’re heavily involved in your uncle’s business, which has imploded to such an extent that he—and presumably you—are facing serious legal challenges. Weeks ago, Ram saw you carting lots of boxes from the Rogers house to your car. You’ve been sneaking around town pretending to be Shaggy! And now, the head writer of the show is dead, just after he discovered what is supposedly a very credible theory about the Vanished. You know, the very Vanished that you and your family are famous for being a part of. Plus? Honestly? You’re a total jerk to everyone, all of the time.”

She slapped the seat of the bench for emphasis, but she didn’t need to. Everyone, most of all Jack, appeared to be shocked silent. After a few seconds Velma glanced at me, nervously, and said meekly, “Am I missing anything?”

Of all the things Velma had accused Jack of, it seemed to be the idea of his meanness that affected him the most. He soaked in her words and then, slowly, took a deep breath. He met Shaggy’s eyes. “You think I’m a jerk to everyone?”

“Like, I mean, like, I love you, you’re my cousin, but, like …” Shaggy fumbled, his hands tugging at the ends of his hair again, like he was hoping to find the answer somewhere in his sandy locks.

Jack nodded. “Whoa.”

It was the little slump of his shoulders just then, the way he collapsed, defeated, against the back of the bench, that made me realize: He wasn’t our guy. Jack hadn’t killed Bennett or terrorized the set. I knew enough about the psychology of crime to know that if he had, he’d be acting much different.

So he wasn’t our murderer. But he was definitely hiding something.

“Jack,” I implored. “There’s one thing Velma forgot to mention. The paparazzi photo found at the fire.”

His brows furrowed. He seemed to be considering something very deeply. And even though I didn’t think Jack had killed Bennett, this photo sure implicated him in something. I just couldn’t figure out what.

“Like, the time is now, cuz,” Shaggy said gently. “Because if you don’t start talking, I gotta call my mom.”

Jack looked at the sky, thick with clouds and almost fully dark. Around us, the lamps had flickered on. I held my breath. Every second we wasted in here was another second the murderer was out there.

Or in here. With us.

“Jack,” Shaggy pleaded. “Like, you’re freaking me out. You and my dad whisper and disappear and I see you with boxes and you always dodge me and … Like, I need to know what’s going on. You’re my family.”

Jack groaned, his arms crossed over his chest and his head still tilted at the sky. But Shaggy was dogged. “Jack. Cuz. I’m, like, at my limit here. If you don’t tell me, these two will just find out anyway.”

Shaggy pointed at Velma and me. Velma nodded vigorously while I thought of what Marcy had said all those months ago: Shaggy needs your help.

“Okay, okay.” Jack cleared his throat. Whatever he was about to say, it was clear it was going to be painful. “Um. Err. I’ve actually been … well … you know how you keep asking me where your clothes are?”

Shaggy lit up. “Like, yeah! My best shirts keep going missing from the laundry!”

Velma and I exchanged glances, biting our lips to keep from giggling. All of Shaggy’s shirts looked the same, and I knew for a fact that he bought them in bulk at the discount store a few towns over. Not that there was anything wrong with that—for him, anyhow—but it was amusing to think Shaggy even noticed his clothes. I’d always assumed he just wore things because it was illegal not to.

Jack was nodding. “Yeah. Mariela keeps putting your clean clothes in my room.”

Shaggy hooted. “I knew it!”

“Well …” Jack’s neck was going to get a kink in it if he kept looking at the sky. “So, uh, what happened was, one day … I wore one of your shirts. And someone downtown … well, they thought I was you. And they were really nice to me.”

“Yes, because everyone here likes Shaggy,” Velma said, exasperated.

If Jack registered the burn, he didn’t show it. “And I guess I just kept … wearing your stuff. And more and more people thought I was you.”

“But what are you doing in that photo?” Shaggy wondered. He scratched his chin. “And, like, why didn’t you tell people who you were?”

“Get to it already,” Velma said icily, crossing her arms.

“The longer we’re here, the longer we’re all at risk,” I confirmed, glancing around the center of the Village. It was empty and still except for the whispering wind and our own voices echoing through the deserted lot. It was downright spooky here.

As I glanced around, waiting for Jack to confess whatever it was he was up to, a chill raced up my spine. My eyes darted around, peering into the shadows. Nothing looked out of the ordinary … and yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was staring at me. At us. That we were putting on a show for an unseen audience.

That’s silly, I told myself, finally tearing my eyes away from the darkness. Clearly, I’d been on set way too long.

But then Jack cleared his throat, and as I turned to face him, a flash of red slid through the shadows. I gasped.

“What?” Velma whispered.

I held up a hand to ask for silence and stared harder, my eyes searching for that flash of color. Or, more precisely, for anything that could give me a reason to think I’d seen something.

As if in response to my unspoken question, the wind howled.

There! Behind Fred, I saw movement. Without thinking, I dashed forward, into the shadows. “Who’s there?!”

My heart pounded. I scanned the darkness, fists clenched. I was conscious—barely—of the murmurs of the gang behind me, or of the rising wind that flung my hair into my eyes, strands sticking on my lips. Mostly, I was convinced that someone was out there. With us. Watching.

“Show yourself!” I yelled. My eyes were playing tricks on me as the shadows lengthened and stretched in response to the wind, but I was sure that I’d seen something. Something tall and red, topped with a bright splash of white.

I felt Velma at my shoulder, panting. She didn’t say anything for a few seconds; we just watched the darkness. We waited. And then, when my heart slowed enough that I could no longer hear it pulse in my ears, when some of the adrenaline had dissipated, she said, “Daph, I don’t think anything’s here.”

I swallowed a lump in my throat and gave the perimeter one last scan.

Velma was right—nothing was there.

It was just this place, I decided. Another instance of the ghosts of Crystal Cove being figments of our own imagination, our own anxieties. And I had fallen for it.

I trudged back to the circle. Jack scratched at his chin. Shaggy looked at me, his face etched with concern. “You, like, good?”

“The wind is playing tricks on me,” I muttered. His gaze lingered on me for a moment too long before he gestured to his cousin.

“Where were we?” Velma said. “Jack, you were saying?”

“Okay. Fine. Here we go.” Jack cleared his throat again. Then he let loose a torrent of words that took me a moment to process, considering half my brain was still staring into the void of the Haunted Village. “I’ve-been-transferring-important-Rogers-family-documents-and-artifacts-out-of-the-house-for-safekeeping-and-I-thought-I’d-be-less-conspicuous-if-people-thought-I-was-you-so-I’ve-been-wearing-your-clothes-and-letting-everybody-think-it’s-you-to-protect-myself.”

When his words clicked, my jaw dropped. Velma said “Whoa” out loud. And Shaggy, poor guy, looked like his cousin had just punched him in the gut. Which, in a way, he had.

“I’m gonna need you to, like, back up,” Shaggy said quietly.

Jack nodded. “I can explain. See … your dad has a lot of valuable stuff in your house. Like … beyond valuable. Not even necessarily monetarily. Just … historically.”

I nodded. I’d been in Samuel Rogers’s office, aka his war room, more times than I could count. It housed his business things but also lots of family heirlooms, like battle swords and family albums and generations of correspondence. It also housed the infamous Crystal Cove Crystal.

“Your dad’s case has had a lot of media attention. Like, a lot.” Jack glanced at me. I nodded. Ram had been the one to break the first story about Samuel Rogers’s business dealings, and his report had had a snowball effect, but I’d been the one who’d really fished out the story. “He and I were afraid that either the house would be robbed now that this story was out, or that, more likely, the feds would raid it sooner or later. And we wanted to keep certain things safe.”

“What, you’ve been putting them in a storage unit or something?” I asked.

“Not exactly.” Jack winced. “They’re kind of … all around town.”

“What’s all around town? And where, exactly?” Shaggy stood up and began to pace. “I can’t believe this. Like, I really can’t believe this.”

“Shaggy, it’s for the good of the family,” Jack insisted.

Shaggy swung around and pointed a threatening finger at his cousin. “I am part of this family! For better or worse! So tell me what it is!”

Jack nodded. “You’re right. You’re totally right. You are a Rogers. But these people …”

“Anything you can say in front of me, you can say in front of them.” Shaggy’s voice was sharp, firm, and absolutely unlike anything I’d ever heard from him before. Ironically, his changed demeanor made him look more like Jack. And I understood, then, how easy it must have been for Jack to morph into Shaggy. Put on a T-shirt, sure. But more important, slip into Shaggy’s trademark easygoing, chilled out, is-there-food-involved kind of vibe.

After a moment of hesitation, Jack nodded. “Fine. Okay. If you say so. It started off as just some papers—business records and such. I put those in one of the office buildings Rogers Enterprises owns. Then I realized we should be more concerned with the irreplaceable stuff. Like the Crystal.”

“Where’s the Crystal?” Shaggy asked in horror. He slapped his hand against his forehead. “Please don’t say the sea caves!”

Last time the Crystal had been stolen, Taylor Burnett’s mom had taken it deep inside the sea caves, intending to return it to where it had originally been found.

“No. The Crystal is safe in the police station.”

Shaggy exhaled with relief. “So what else?”

“Well,” Jack said. He was charged with nerves now, his face covered in a sheen of sweat. “There’s an artifact you don’t know about. I only just found out about it myself. And I had to hide it someplace safe. So safe no one could ever get to it, except for me. Us. It’s a … map.”

Shaggy narrowed his eyes. The room was on high alert; you could have heard a pin drop. “What kind of map?”

“A map from the original settlers of Crystal Cove.” Jack licked his lips. “From before the Vanishing. Shaggy, your dad thinks it shows where they were headed next, and why they disappeared.”

THE EXISTENCE OF AN old map, something that could potentially change the doomed fate of Crystal Cove, was something I wasn’t sure I’d ever get over.

We peppered Jack with questions, but he clammed up. Tight. “That map is Rogers property,” he said, and I wanted to throttle him and his insistence that the Rogers family had some kind of ownership over Crystal Cove’s story.

And maybe, I realized, I also wanted to throttle myself for getting it wrong. Jack wasn’t the murderer. Our trap had failed.

I had failed.

And we still didn’t have our murderer.

“Dude, like, come on,” Shaggy begged. But Jack’s face was red and his lips were closed and he wasn’t telling. I knew that much.

“Like I said. Rogers heirs only.” Jack sat back in his chair.

“Let’s all take a deep breath,” Daphne said, eyeing me meaningfully. I choked back the torrent of words I’d planned on letting loose on Jack and nodded. We’d get to the map. Eventually. Someday.

“You should probably know,” Jack added, “that one night, when I was hiding some stuff around town, I saw someone in the Haunted Village. It was the middle of the night. Neither of us should’ve been there.”

“What was he doing?” I asked icily. I was so angry. It was just like a Rogers to keep a secret like the map. Jack was just like Samuel, in all the worst ways. He was right: I didn’t like him. None of us did.

“I couldn’t figure it out at first.” Jack shook his head. “He was up on a ladder. And then the next day … that was when that star’s body double got hurt. When the lighting rig crashed into the building?”

I stared meaningfully at Daphne. She stared back, jaw hanging open.

“You saw him,” she whispered.

Jack shrugged. “In retrospect, yeah, that was probably the murderer.”

“What did he look like? What did he do? Tell us everything,” I demanded.

But no matter how many times I prodded, how many different ways I asked, Jack had no more details. Which meant we had no more details.

Other than crossing one—admittedly major—suspect off our list, we had nothing.

*   *   *

We needed to regroup, and we needed to regroup fast. After Jack’s bombshell, Shaggy insisted Jack tell him everything, from a list of objects he’d been transferring out of the Rogers estate to a detailed log of where he’d been hiding everything. He also demanded that Jack recount every single person he’d managed to trick while posing as Shaggy—just in case, Shaggy explained, he needed to do damage control. “I, like, have a reputation to uphold,” Shaggy had croaked, shaking his head. “If someone in Crystal Cove thought I was snubbing them … like, I need to make that right.”

So the Rogers boys fled into town, handling their business, taking Fred out with them (“Sorry my picture didn’t work,” he’d said wistfully. “Was it my lighting, do you think? My angles? Should we try again?”) and leaving me and Daphne alone.

The truth was, I was reeling a bit from everything. I’d really thought Jack was our guy. Maybe, I thought as we headed out of the park and toward my house, I’d wanted it to be true more than I actually felt it to be true. The Rogers family, sans Shaggy, had managed to worm its way under my skin, and I wasn’t sure they’d ever do enough good in this town to inch their way out of my bad graces. And Samuel’s recent partnership with my mom had clearly bothered me more than I’d been willing to admit.

I led Daphne the long way home—I wanted to avoid the backyard, which was still cordoned off with yellow police tape and the unmistakable weight of trauma—but we had both agreed we needed a private place to plan our next move, and with her twin sisters bouncing around her house at all hours of the day, my house was the de facto answer.

We trudged up the hill to my front porch. Another gust of wind attacked us, so strong it sprayed bits of debris and sand into our faces. “My mom was totally right about this garbage,” I muttered. “People are slobs.”

“Ugh!” Daphne spat a clump of hair out of her mouth while I blinked rapidly to avoid any dirt getting into my eyes.

Suddenly, something flew up from the ground, twirling and spinning in the wind before wedging itself against my stomach. I gingerly peeled it off. It was a piece of paper, crumpled and dirt-stained, damp from the overnight dew. I waited for the wind to settle into something more reasonable and then examined it. It was a copy of the Cursed shooting schedule, grimy and barely legible.

On days filming occurred, each day’s shooting schedule was posted and distributed all throughout the Haunted Village—to crew, to cast, to makeup and hair, to interns, to anyone and everyone who had anything to do with the show. The one that had blown up and attached itself to me was from two days ago—the day Bennett was killed.

I skimmed it as we climbed the steps to my front door. Daphne was checking her phone, and part of my brain was busy wondering if my dad would be having a good afternoon or a bad one, and whether I’d need to explain his situation to Daphne. But as I read the schedule, something tickled at the back of my mind.

“Daph?” I said, reading the paper again. I opened the screen door and turned the knob to the front door. It was unlocked—surprising, since my mom had been extra careful to lock everything since filming had begun. “You okay?”

She grunted in a very un-Daphne-like way. “Just … weirded out, I guess.”

I nodded. “You really thought you saw something back there, huh?”

Her eyes fixed on mine, clear and focused. “Yes.”

“What was it?”

She blinked. “Red cloak. Glowing white hair.”

I froze. Daphne had been quiet ever since we’d left the boys, but I’d just assumed it was because Jack’s map announcement was a heavy thing to carry around. Really, though, it was fear.

Daphne was scared.

“You think someone was watching us?” I breathed.

Slowly, she nodded. “Whatever’s going on, Velma … it’s not over.”

With a heavy sigh, I stepped inside the living room and closed the door tightly behind us. “Well, then, let’s get back to work.”

As Daphne perched on the couch, I studied the shooting schedule again. On the day of Bennett’s murder, there’d been one scene being shot—a big, important, newly written scene between Addie and Fred (new because the producers and director had loved the look of Fred, had adored his chemistry with Addie, and as a result had created an entire subplot surrounding him. Because of course; he’s Fred Jones, and those kinds of things just happened to him). So the schedule listed everything one would expect—the location of filming, the time to arrive, the estimated length of shooting, and who should be on set.

I threw my bag onto the dining room table. “I need some energy first. Want something to eat?”

“Definitely,” she said, following me into the kitchen. As I rummaged through the half-eaten bags of tortilla chips on the counter and grabbed some salsa from the fridge, I thought about that schedule.

“Daphne, you got a copy of the shooting schedule yesterday, right?”

“Of course. I made the copies.” Her lip twitched into the beginnings of a smile. “The glamours of being a writer’s assistant.”

“What was scheduled for the day?”

Daphne narrowed her eyes, thinking. “Um, some small scene down at the beach between Cooper and his friends.”

I glanced at the paper. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I remember because I really wanted to go watch it, because …” Her voice trailed off, ending in a note of embarrassment.

“Because it was a beach scene with Cooper McBeal and you hoped to see him in some skivvies?” I nodded knowingly. “Girl, I got you.”

She laughed, and I felt a whoosh of relief. An uneasy Daphne made me nervous. “Okay, fine, you got me. Yes. I remember because of Cooper. Why?”

“So what’s this, then?” I waved the paper around. Daphne wrinkled her nose as she reached out to grab it. A cluster of dried dirt fell off one corner.

She skimmed it. “Oh. This was supposed to be the schedule, but they changed it last minute.”

“You’re sure?” I prodded.

“Completely. About five minutes after I made all the copies and the production assistants began to pass them out, Bennett gave me the updated schedule, but by then the copier was out of toner … so then we had to email the new schedule to everyone instead of printing it.”

“So this old version was definitely distributed?”

“Yes, that’s what I’m saying. Everyone had this schedule first.”

“And what was different about the changed schedule?”

Daphne sighed. “Do I have to do all the work around here?” I swatted her arm in jest as she pulled up the email on her phone. “Here. Look. Canceled: Addie Hubbard at the ice-cream shop. Rescheduled for tomorrow. Which, of course, is no longer the schedule, but as of that morning, that was the new plan.”

I tasted something on my tongue—sharp and sweet, like an unripe apple on a fall day. There was a buzzing in my ears. My body was trying to tell me something. “Who got the email with the new schedule?”

Daphne raised her eyebrows. “There’s a list of people who get schedule changes. It’s maybe twenty or thirty people.”

“Is it public information?” I pressed.

“I don’t think so … they never are, for safety reasons.” She chewed her lip; paused. “Velma, what’s going on?”

I stared at the salsa. Things were falling into place in my head, levers moving and buttons clicking. People skulking around town, unknown motives, white hair. I was so close. “It’s possible someone out there, someone who doesn’t work on the show, thought that Addie and Fred were filming that day.”

“And that night. It was an extended shoot.” She nodded slowly. “These schedules are passed out to the people who need them, and then posted in the offices each morning. It wouldn’t be hard to get ahold of one … if you knew where to look.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek. “So, if you’d ever been on a set before.”

“Right.” Daphne placed her half-eaten chip on the counter. “Someone who knows show business would absolutely know where to find this kind of information.”

I continued to talk this through. “Let’s say someone had a copy of the schedule and made an entire plan centered around it. But the schedule changed without them knowing. And when they showed up looking for Addie or Fred … only to find the set empty—”

For a moment, Daphne looked so pale she was almost transparent. She froze. “Not empty,” she whispered. “Most people had left the Village to go to the beach …”

“Except for Bennett, who was still in the writers’ room,” I finished for her. My heart was beating in triple time, so loud I worried it would wake my dad, who was probably sleeping upstairs.

Daphne was quiet for a few seconds, her face a stone mask. I focused on breathing. I wanted to yell, to scream, to call the police, but first I wanted to hear what Daphne thought. After my rush to pin this all on Jack, I was a little hesitant.

“Bennett was never supposed to be there,” she finally whispered. Tears welled up in her eyes. “He wasn’t the intended victim.”

“First the dressing room was destroyed, and all of Addie’s hair and makeup stuff was ruined,” I ticked off on my fingers.

“And then Cooper’s stand-in got hurt … but maybe it was meant to be Cooper. Addie’s costar,” Daphne said.

I rolled with her, knowing we were headed toward the same place. “And then Cooper himself was the second victim.”

“And then Addie caught in the fire, together with her new costar, Fred …”

I struggled to breathe. Every headline I’d ever read about Addie flashed before me: the drama of her personal life, the routinely unlucky things that happened to her on her sets, the reputation she had that didn’t seem to be warranted. It was all stuff that was easy to brush off … until you looked at it as a whole. Not to mention, the mean comments her ex-boyfriend would make on the record when they were broken up or the look in her eyes I sometimes noticed through the pages of the magazines—fearful, worried. Lost. Hurt.

“And that picture in the magazine of Addie and Fred … with a target drawn on it.” I swallowed a lump in my throat.

“Zoinks, Velma,” Daphne breathed. “This means … someone has been after Addie this whole time!”

“Daphne,” I croaked. A flash of white-blond hair ran through my mind. Green eyes. A famous Hollywood face, one that had graced the cover of nearly every magazine over the past few years. “I think I know who it is.”

My body felt it before the rest of me did, and I let it rise inside me—the shiver of something unknowable suddenly becoming known. I was hot, suddenly, so heated I almost checked the jar of salsa—my mom liked to buy the kind with extra jalapeños—when Daphne’s eyes flicked to something behind me. Her face broke open into a look of horror. “Velma!”

I didn’t have a moment to turn, to see what Daphne saw. I just felt the sharp sensation of pain land on my left shoulder, making me collapse to the ground on my knees. When I caught my breath, I dared to turn my head up.

A figure stood over me, knife glinting under the glare of the kitchen lights. A brown cowboy hat stood atop his head, shading the face I’d seen so many times before, in so many magazines, on so many websites, but his shoulder-length white-blond hair was a dead giveaway.

“Wyatt Smith,” I announced.

WYATT SMITH WAS JUST over six feet tall, according to every celebrity profile ever published on him in Teen Celebrity magazine, which I had a subscription to all throughout middle school, those crucial stargazing years. His favorite color was green, like his eyes. He knew karate and liked to swim, and had the stocky, strong body to prove it. He’d grown up on our screens, first as a child actor and then launching a record-breaking YouTube channel. He’d had a lot of famous girlfriends, but only his relationship with Addie Hubbard had landed them both on the covers of Teen Celebrity, its spin-off, Junior Teen Celebrity, and a host of other magazines, from People of Interest to This Week in Hollywood to Young Men’s Health. He was a model of male behavior, according to his management team. He was who every girl wished to be with, and who every young guy wished to be.

And on that day, in Velma’s kitchen, he almost killed us.

*   *   *

Velma’s back had been facing the swinging door to the living room when I saw the shadows suddenly move and heard the creak of the hinges. For a second, I expected to see Velma’s mom, or even her dad (although I rarely saw him anymore), peek in a head to say hello. So when a tall, six-foot-and-change figure stepped through instead, holding a knife with a blade so sharp it looked fake, it was like my brain couldn’t process the sight. My synapses fired in recognition (“Hey, that guy looks like Wyatt Smith!”) but then immediately began revolting (“Wyatt Smith, get out of here with that knife, you don’t belong in our movie!”). I knew I had to warn Velma, but most of me was still confused as to why a Wyatt Smith movie I hadn’t seen yet was playing out here in the Dinkley kitchen.

I remembered then: I’d thought I’d seen him in town a few days ago. And other people had mentioned it, too.

He’d been under our noses the whole time, traipsing around Crystal Cove with all the other tourists and celebrity-watchers.

Wyatt rammed his elbow straight into the back of Velma’s neck, that soft spot on her shoulder, bringing her to her knees. I must have yelled something, because an echo rang through my ears, but I couldn’t remember what, or whether it was loud enough to make a difference.

Wyatt Smith was in Velma’s kitchen. With a knife. Just when Velma and I had figured out that he was the culprit, that he was the murderer. That the guy who’d been chasing us was the one we should have been chasing all along.

Once I came out of my Wyatt-induced shock, and once Velma—still on the floor, pretending to be out cold—opened one eye to quickly wink at me—I began to form a plan.

See, I’ve been told most of my life that I’m really good at making people think they’re making decisions, when really, I’m the one pulling the strings. So I pulled the only act I knew how to pull. And it all began with a dazzling smile.

I leapt up from my seat at the counter. “Like, oh my goodness! Wyatt Smith! Is that you?”

Wyatt blinked. I kept up my gushing; it was clearly keeping him off guard, and I needed to buy some time.

“No way! No freaking way! I kissed my poster of you every single night before bed during middle school.” I feigned an embarrassed laugh. “Do you know how mortifying it is to say that to you? Wow. I can’t believe I just outed myself like that. I—”

“Shut up!” Wyatt snarled.

On the floor, Velma’s eyes widened. She was still slumped over, pretending to be knocked out, but Wyatt’s knife was still poised next to her neck. I rearranged my face into an expression of confusion.

“Oh no, wait. Am I wrong? You look just like Wyatt Smith! You know, that awesome actor? Has anyone told you that before?”

Wyatt took a long step toward me, stretching his arm away from Velma and in my direction. Ever-handsome, for the first time I noticed how his beautiful eyes, the ones This Week in Hollywood had once coined “the greenest eyes that make all the girls swoon,” were blank. Dead. There was no light in them, no recognition. Wyatt Smith either had an evil twin (which was a plot from the first feature film he’d ever starred in), or Wyatt Smith was a psychopath. Since I didn’t really believe in evil twins, I went with the latter.

Still, the closer his knife got to me, the more I began to lose confidence in my plan.

Especially considering it wasn’t really a plan at all.

A series of shallow, hurried breaths rang out in the kitchen. I realized they were mine and tried to swallow back the panic that was seizing up my throat. Wyatt took another step closer. The knife was aimed toward my stomach, just under my ribs. I held my breath.

On the floor Velma sat up a bit, gently, eyes flashing. Wyatt’s back was to her now, rendering her out of his eyesight. I felt myself staring at her, even though I didn’t want to—I didn’t want to tip Wyatt off to her consciousness—but she began making a gesture I couldn’t figure out.

She pointed to her mouth, then her throat. I kept one eye on the knife and one on her while I tried to figure out what code she was speaking in.

And that’s when I realized what she was saying—get him speaking. Make him talk.

“Listen,” I said, my voice husky, intimate. “Whatever’s going on, I can help. I’m a big fan. Huge. And I have connections in this town.”

Wyatt was silent for a second. Then his face crinkled into amusement. “Oooh, congratulations, little girl, for being so well-connected to this creepy place. Like this hole of a town matters at all. Second-rate people, second-rate shows, second-rate stars.”

I stiffened. I couldn’t help but retort, “Addie Hubbard is just as famous as you!”

His eyes lit with rage. “Because of me. Me! I did that! I made her who she is. And she has the nerve to walk away?” He sputtered. The knife dangled dangerously close, its point almost eye level. If I leaned in too close …

I shook my head. “I just meant, I can help you.”

“Poor little rich girl, I get it now.” He smirked.

The thing is, I don’t take well to being called a poor little rich girl. I struggled to keep a smile on my face, to keep my cool. I had to. I didn’t have another plan. I took a deep breath and tried again. “Whatever you did, I’m sure you had reason to. Both my parents are very important. I can help you get out.”

He snorted. “I promise you, I’m more important than your parents. I’m a god. Addie forgot that once. But I won’t let her forget it again.”

Gotcha, I thought. A confession, an acknowledgment, that Addie had been the target all along.

Or rather, I would have thought, only I was distracted by Wyatt raising the knife high in his hands, arching over his head, and plunging it down onto me.

“Arrrggghhh!” Velma leaned forward and wrapped both arms around Wyatt’s knees, tugging him backward with all her might. At the same time, the door to the living room flung open again and there was Velma’s dad, dressed in his bathrobe, clearly coming from his bedroom to see what all the fuss was about. He was carrying an old lamp in his hands. Big, wrought iron. Heavy.

He assessed the scene—Velma screaming on the floor, a man on top of her, writhing his legs and waving around a knife, and me, the poor little rich girl, gesturing to Velma’s dad to toss me the lamp.

He complied. I caught it, brought it up as high as I could, and then smashed it down with all my might, right on top of Wyatt Smith’s beautiful face, the one Young Men’s Health had called Teen Face of the Year just last month.

VELMA

WHEN YOU’RE AS ARROGANT as Wyatt Smith turned out to be, you leave a pretty big trail of evidence behind you, assuming that you’d never be caught. Things like booking a multi-week stay at the most expensive hotel in town under the same fake name you’d been using for years, the one every Wyatt Smith fan knew by heart; like having a collection of call schedules taped to the walls of said hotel room, with your ex-girlfriend’s name highlighted on them; like stockpiling a collection of items Addie had reported missing from her dressing room since she’d arrived on set—hair barrettes and compact cases, her favorite pen, her trademark red lipstick.

I had to hand it to my dad, who’d trusted Daphne enough to listen to her without hesitation when she’d pointed at the broken lamp in his hands. According to the report he gave Lieutenant Rogers that night once she and her officers had arrived and cuffed Wyatt Smith (his face was covered in some white gauze I’d used to hastily mop up the blood from the lamp), my dad had been upstairs napping when he’d heard my scream. He’d grabbed the closest thing he could find, thinking he’d just have to scare off the same guy who had been peering into our windows last time. He had crept downstairs to catch the kid off guard. And instead, he caught us, locked in a knife fight with People of Interest’s Most Beautiful Teen of the Year.

The whole story came out pretty quickly: Addie had finally broken up with Wyatt for good just before coming to Crystal Cove for Cursed. And Wyatt, according to Addie and the witness statements from several of her friends and colleagues, had not taken the breakup well. In fact, he’d begun harassing her. Threatening her. For months she’d been afraid for her life, and too ashamed to speak out about it.

Wyatt had secretly moved into the Sandy Winds Resort, where he spent his nights sneaking out—using any way out except for the lobby in order to avoid potentially being seen—and wreaking havoc on the set in the Haunted Village. He dressed as Silas Mohl—it was cold, he’d explained to the police, and the red cape was the only warm thing he could find from the set. He’d managed to hack the security codes for all the doors in the Haunted Village, rendering the new ID badges utterly useless—which was how he’d set the fire that almost trapped Fred and Addie. He was also the reason the police blotter had blown up so much. Wyatt had been sneaking in and out of the hotel using windows and back service entrances, climbing over rooftops and through backyards. He confessed to everything, including following Daphne and me back to my house from the Haunted Village after Jack had accidentally sprung the trap we’d set for the killer.

Oddly enough, the one thing he didn’t confess to was chasing me in the woods the night of the fire. That one, he insisted, hadn’t been him.

And then there were the letters, which he insisted weren’t part of his plan.

DAPHNE

A FEW DAYS AFTER Wyatt’s arrest, and one day after Addie had given me an exclusive interview, earning me my first-ever story for Teen Celebrity magazine, the cast and crew of Cursed gathered at the beach for a brief memorial for Bennett. My mom delivered some beautiful words as the sun sparkled on the water. I shaded my eyes as she talked about his impeccable work ethic, his larger-than-life personality, and his ability to always find the heart of the story.

Underneath our feet the sand was white and cool. And underneath that sand, well, who knew what was there. The sea caves beckoned to me from the north end of the beach as my mom tossed some rose petals into the waves. I studied them while the rest of the studio followed suit, wondering if Bennett had been right, and if someone was going to pick up where his research left off.

After the service, my mom started packing. Cursed had been given the green light to finish filming once Wyatt was arrested, but everyone had been spooked enough that they’d rushed through a couple of location-specific scenes and then flown everyone back to Hollywood, where they finished the rest on the studio’s lot. My mom went with them for a few days, and my stepdad decided to go, too, so they took the twins with them. I stayed home; I’d decided I’d had my fill of Hollywood.

The Haunted Village was quiet for a few days. And then, one cold morning, someone removed all the yellow police tape. The day after that, Velma spied some contractors looking at the charred remains of the burned section of the park. I had a feeling the Haunted Village wouldn’t be abandoned for long.

It never was.

VELMA

DOWNTOWN CRYSTAL COVE WAS covered in twinkling lights. I sipped my hot chocolate as I strolled through the streets, savoring the cold air and the festive scene. After the stress and terror of the past week, it was nice to just relax; to feel normal. (Or as normal as Velma Dinkley could ever feel.)

Daphne was supposed to meet me at Burnett’s to help pick out some earrings for my mom’s present, but she was running late. I tightened my jacket around me, gripped the warm cup with both hands, and perched on the edge of a bench outside The Mocha to people watch.

Behind me I heard the door of the coffee shop open and close; then again, and again. Feeling someone’s eyes on me, I waited until the telltale click of it opening and quickly swiveled my head around to catch whoever was staring at me.

“Can I help you?” I called.

It was Louisa Wharton. She gaped at me, and then blushed and stepped fully outside. She gestured to the bench. “Can I … ?”

I shrugged. “I don’t own it.”

Louisa spent a few seconds clearing her throat over and over while she jiggled her leg up and down. I sighed and, taking pity on her, asked, “What?”

“Omigod-I’m-so-sorry!” she burst out.

“For … what?” I wondered. I was alarmed at the frenetic, eager energy radiating off her. I hoped she’d ordered decaf.

“For accosting you the other day at school!” She seemed near tears, and pushed her frizzy hair behind her ears. “You’re Velma Dinkley, right?”

“Right …”

“Your mom is, like, a legend.” She beamed. “And I really took your words to heart. I have a message, and in order to be effective, I have to be clear and concise when I’m petitioning. Like your mom!”

I wasn’t sure where this was going, but I had a feeling.

Louisa confirmed it. She practically bounced in the bench when she said, “After your mom helped me with my protest on the set the other day, she offered me some pointers. I totally know how to do better now. And I promise I won’t throw clipboards at anyone else.”

“Ah,” I sighed. My mom—always out saving the world. “Cool. Thanks.”

“Here, let me show you!”

I started to hold up my hand, but Louisa was too fast for me. Out came the infamous clipboard. I peered at it. Help protect marine wildlife! read the header, followed by: The southern end of Crystal Cove’s beach is home to dozens of important wildlife and sea creatures that are crucial to maintaining biodiversity on our shores. Please sign below to help ensure they stay safe.

“My petition will be presented to the mayor, asking the township to reject all future degradation of that particular area—that spot just off the Haunted Village, next to the beach.” She grinned proudly at me. “See, I’m really into science and climate protection. When I heard Cursed was going to be filming there, I knew there would be so many people around—and when people are around, unrecyclable plastics usually come with them. I was trying to prevent an environmental disaster … but I definitely went about it the wrong way.” She bit her lip and looked down at the ground. “The really wrong way.”

I gasped and nearly dropped my hot chocolate. Alarmed, Louisa shot me a fearful look.

“The letters!” I said.

Her face dropped. “Oh no.”

“You sent them!”

She nodded miserably. Tears pooled in her eyes. “Please don’t tell anyone. I regret it so, so much. I was trying to stop the show, and no one would listen to me. No one ever listens to me!”

“You really scared us, Louisa!” A thought struck me. “You have to confess.”

She sniffled.

I shifted uncomfortably on the bench. In a weird way, I felt like Louisa was me a few years back. Awkward, lost, tragic. I softened. “Listen. I can help you. Okay? You probably won’t get in much trouble. But it’s the right thing to do.”

She was quiet, staring at her feet, until eventually she nodded. “You’re right,” she whispered.

“Here.” I jotted my name and phone number down on her petition. “Call me tomorrow. I’ll take you to Elizabeth Blake’s house and help you explain things. Okay?”

Louisa nodded. “Okay. Thanks. You’re really cool.”

“Heck yeah, she is!”

Shocked, I looked up at the interruption. It was Fred, appearing like a mirage, grinning widely and downright sparkling. (Though that could have just been the fairy lights above us.)

“Fred?” I said incredulously. I hadn’t seen him in person since before Wyatt attacked me, though I’d kept a close watch on all the gossip sites. Even though most public interest in him had died down, one celebrity site had run a profile on him that very morning. In it, he’d revealed that he and Addie occasionally texted, but that they’d only ever been “good friends.”

And when the reporter had asked him if he was seeing anyone, Fred had responded, “Let’s just say I’m a lucky guy. I have a lot of amazing girls in my life. Hopefully one in particular thinks I’m cool enough for her. We’ll see!”

“Hey, Velma,” he said warmly, dropping next to me on the bench. He blew on his hands. “Cold, huh.”

“Yeah,” I squeaked. “Freezing.”

But that was a lie. Because inside, I was all warm and tingly.

DAPHNE

ON NEW YEAR’S DAY, I had to stop by the Howler to file my latest story—a follow-up piece on Bennett’s research that incorporated details about the memorial service and an update on the show. Cursed was finishing up some random scenes on a lot in Hollywood, and our little town was (mostly) back to normal.

As I pressed the button for the elevator in the first-floor lobby of the Howler offices, I took a second to reapply my lipstick and fluff my hair. I was glad I did once my suspicions were confirmed and I saw Ram was sitting at his desk, the one he’d moved to after I’d stopped talking to him.

Asking Ram to help us out with our trap had been tough for me to do; I’d had to swallow some pride. But it turned out … I felt really good afterward. Like maybe it was better to let go of some of my anger at him. We’d been texting, a little, since then. I didn’t know what was going to happen—if I listened to the voice inside, I knew I wasn’t ready for anything serious with him, that I still didn’t quite trust him—but I also couldn’t deny that being around Ram made me spark up inside. He was different. And I was beginning to like not being the same.

“Coffee?” he said by way of greeting. We went to the cafeteria and found an empty table. I took a deep breath before charging ahead.

“So I have to know,” I said, stirring some oat milk into my drip. “That day you published the story about Bennett’s research … how did you get it? Who leaked it to you?”

Ram smiled into his latte. He waited a moment, enjoying the suspense, before responding. “No one. He printed out a bunch of his files one day, and I used the printer in the writers’ room once, and they were all just sitting there.”

I gaped at him. “I thought maybe Wyatt had somehow …”

“Nope. Just a stupid printing mistake. And since all’s fair in love and journalism …” He winked.

“Brutal,” I breathed, shaking my head. Ram had a drive for getting to the story in a way I wasn’t sure I did. And I couldn’t decide if I admired it or feared it. Maybe both.

“Now it’s my turn,” he said, leaning back in his chair. His orange sneakers rested on the seat in between us. “What ever happened with Jack Rogers? And why was he so mysterious all the time?”

I ducked my head and pretended my coffee needed more stirring. Eventually, I met Ram’s eyes. Those gorgeous, deep brown eyes; the ones that always managed to suck me in.

Not this time.

Smiling, I shrugged. “That’s for the Rogers family to figure out. Not me. And definitely not you.”

Velma and I had had a long discussion over winter break about Jack’s revelations. Shaggy had the inventory list—he knew exactly what Crystal Cove artifacts Jack had stored, and where. And we’d both agreed that Shaggy deserved to make any decisions about his family’s history, that Velma and I wouldn’t pressure him. Not even about the map, about something that could change everything.

Jack, meanwhile, had left Crystal Cove—It’s time to get back to my real life, he’d said when Velma and I had reluctantly stopped by the Rogers estate to say our goodbyes—and Shaggy had been incommunicado since then. Which wasn’t unusual for Shaggy, but considering all that had gone down, it meant I vowed to keep a closer eye on him. I owed it to him, after all.

In fact, I had recently begun to realize I’d do pretty much anything to protect him.

I was done with my coffee, and frankly, done with the conversation. So I stood up, waved goodbye to a surprised Ram, and took the elevator back down to the lobby, a big grin curling up my face.

Velma and I had a date to go find a map.

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