At What Price

EPISODE ONE

The beginning and the end.

“Hey Zach, can you hear me, man?” Trevor Mondale’s voice came out thin, barely more than a whisper.

No response. Zach was already gone.

“I was just thinking…” Trevor tried again. “About that field where they were setting up the new market. Remember? We used to pull up those wooden stakes and sword fight with them.” A faint, broken sound escaped him—something like a laugh. “They hired a guard because of us.”

The room felt too still. Too quiet for everything that had just happened.

The plan had seemed simple. Two shakes. Crushed pills. Notes that said just enough, but not the truth. The real reason stayed buried. It always did.

Trevor lay back against the couch. Beside him, Zach didn’t move. This room—once their place, their cockpit—felt smaller now. Not safe. Not anything.

“This is too unreal,” Trevor murmured. His thoughts slipped over each other. “I’m scared, man.”

A breath.

“Is there really a God?” Another breath. “Did I mess this up?” His voice broke.

“Mom… I don’t want to do this. Help me change my mind. Please.”

The words came too late. Or maybe they’d always been too late. Trevor’s breathing slowed. Then softened.

Then—stopped.

The room didn’t change. But everything else did.

Billy Maxwell in court.

“You have no right to disregard any instruction I give you, nor to give greater weight to one instruction over another because of any personal belief or preference. You are not to substitute your own opinion of what the law is, or what it ought to be. Your duty is to apply the law exactly as I explain it to you, regardless of the result.

It is equally your duty to base your verdict solely upon the evidence presented in this courtroom, free from prejudice, passion, sympathy, or bias. That is the promise you made and the oath you took before you were accepted as jurors. The parties in this case are entitled to nothing less.”

Superior Court Judge Angela Silverman let her gaze move slowly across the jury box, making certain each juror met it at least once before she nodded to the bailiff and stepped down from the bench.

The case now belonged to twelve strangers.

At the counsel table, Michael Garcia sat rigid beside his attorney, William “Billy” Maxwell. Garcia owned the neighborhood laundrette, a narrow, aging business that had served the block for decades. He was a Los Angeles native of Mexican American descent, broad-shouldered now but carrying the stiffness of a man who had recently learned how painful a broken elbow could be.

Next to him, Maxwell looked almost too comfortable. His jacket was unbuttoned, his arms loosely folded, his expression hovering somewhere between confidence and amusement. Billy knew juries. He knew optics. And unless something had gone badly wrong behind his practiced smile, he believed he already had the verdict.

Across the aisle sat Joshua Silver, owner of a unit in Gentrified Lofts, the converted warehouse condominium development next door to Garcia’s laundrette. Where the laundrette was old brick, humming machines, and fluorescent light, Gentrified Lofts advertised industrial chic, rooftop access, and curated urban living.

The conflict between the two properties had simmered for months.

Garcia had developed a habit of allowing unhoused people to remain inside or near the laundrette after closing, particularly on colder nights. Residents of Gentrified Lofts complained of loitering, theft, public intoxication, and confrontations in the alley. Property managers testified that prospective buyers had withdrawn interest after seeing encampments near the entrance. Silver and others claimed the building’s value—and the neighborhood’s safety—were being damaged.

Garcia’s side painted a different picture: a businessman showing small acts of mercy in a city with too little of it.

Then came the night that brought everyone into Judge Silverman’s courtroom.

One of the men sleeping near the laundrette had staggered to the front entrance of Gentrified Lofts and urinated on the glass doors. Silver, seeing it happen, stormed next door and confronted Garcia. Words were exchanged. Tempers rose. Moments later, Silver shoved Garcia hard enough to send him backward onto the pavement.

Garcia struck the concrete face-first.

He suffered cuts to his cheekbone, a fractured elbow, and enough public humiliation to harden into anger.

Now Joshua Silver was charged with assault.

The jurors had heard the testimony, seen the photographs, and listened to each side explain not only what happened, but why it happened. Whether this was a violent overreaction, a neighborhood pushed too far, or something in between was now theirs to decide.

Billy Maxwell glanced once toward the jury, then back at the verdict forms waiting on the clerk’s desk.

He looked satisfied. Almost smug.

He believed he was about to collect another win.

Victor Manion

Victor Manion was very pleased with himself. He had been the presenter that Sunday night at the San Francisco chapter meeting, and it had gone exactly as he'd hoped. The group had been energized. The conversations afterward had run long. The wine had been good.

He considered his recent run of good fortune. The transfer to the high school had finally been approved. No more wasted afternoons in that underfunded middle school. A fresh start. He had earned it.

The road home was dark and mostly empty, the way he preferred it. Long stretches between lights. The occasional set of headlights coming the other way, then gone. He took this route deliberately. It gave him time to think.

He didn't notice the speedometer creeping past seventy-five until the dashboard caught his eye.

"Crap." He eased back on the pedal. No need for a ticket to ruin a perfect weekend. Too late. Red lights filled the mirror.

Victor exhaled once. Pulled over. "All right. Take a breath. Get this done."

The cruiser eased in behind him. A young officer — Thomas Wesley — climbed out without urgency and walked to the driver's side. He rolled his wrist at the window. Victor lowered it.

"License and registration please." Victor already had both in hand.

Thomas ran the plates, came back with the ticket, and asked the standard questions. Victor answered each one cleanly. Cooperative. Apologetic about the speed. Slightly tired from the drive. The open wine bottle in the back seat required a brief explanation — a gift from a friend at the meeting, a single shared glass, the cork replaced before he got in the car.

Thomas believed him. It made sense. Victor didn't seem impaired. "Mr. Manion, would you mind putting that case in your trunk? Save yourself the trouble if you get stopped again."

Victor felt it then. The specific cold weight of what was in the trunk. He kept his face neutral. "Of course, officer. There's a gas station up the road — better light up there."

"I've got a flashlight," Thomas said. "I'm happy to wait."

Victor opened the trunk.

Thomas's flashlight moved slowly across the interior. Professionally. Then it stopped. The magazines were in plain sight. "Mr. Manion. Step away from the vehicle and stand on the shoulder please."

Victor complied. His face showed nothing. His mind was already somewhere else entirely, moving through corridors of consequence, calculating what came next, the way it always did when something required adjustment.

"Sir, I'm going to have to place you under arrest."

The red lights turned quietly in the dark. On the long, straight road, nothing else moved.

The accident

The house was quiet, the way it only got after midnight. Billy lay still for a while, listening to nothing. Then sleep came, and with it, the thing that always followed. The dream always returned the same way. Nothing changed. Nothing could be changed. Some unseen cruelty arranged the same images in the same order every time—sirens, fluorescent light, blood on white sheets, the smell of antiseptic and fear. Billy woke from it sweating, already knowing how it would end.

“Honey, can you hear me?”

Even in memory, he said it softly into Sarah’s ear as she lay on the rolling bed outside the emergency surgery doors. Tubes trailed from beneath the blanket. Bruises had already begun to darken one side of her face. Machines clicked and hummed with the indifferent rhythm of a world that kept moving.

He wanted only one thing: for her to turn her head, open her eyes, and say something calm and sensible. Sarah had always been able to pull peace from thin air. She could steady a room, soften a fight, make disaster feel temporary.

“Please, Sarah. I can’t do this without you.” Billy whispered. “If you come back to us now, I swear I’ll be better. Better to you. Better to Skip. Better at everything I’ve failed at.”

Billy squeezed her hand and lowered his forehead to the cold chrome rail of the gurney. Deep down, he knew she would not answer. Deep down, he knew life had already split into before and after. And deep down, in the black sea called unfairness, something ugly had begun to stir—anger, resentment, the first movements of a darkness that would one day wear his face.

He had worked late. Skip had called Sarah from school. "Dad forgot me again. Can you come get me?”

Sarah had left a gym date with a friend, irritated but practical, the way she always was when cleaning up after other people’s failures. She had climbed into her Celica and headed across town. She never saw the old tan Ford Ranchero coming the other way. The driver was homeless, stoned, and doing sixty-five in a thirty-five. Sarah’s Celica folded like paper.

“Honey, can you hear me?”

The words barely left his lips when footsteps sounded in the corridor. Sylvia Peterson entered first, one hand guiding Zach beside her, the other resting on Skip Maxwell’s shoulder. There was no Mr. Peterson. There had never been a Mr. Peterson in moments that mattered. Sylvia arrived alone because Sylvia always arrived alone.

Skip Maxwell broke free the instant he saw the bed. He rushed forward, pacing, circling, unable to contain the panic tearing through him. “Dad, tell me she’s going to be okay.” Billy turned but could not speak.

“What are we going to do, Dad?” Skip’s voice cracked into something raw and childlike. “She has to be okay. Dad, she just has to be.”

Sarah made a faint sound in the bed—small, involuntary, but enough to snap the last thread holding Billy together. He looked at his son and saw need. He looked at his wife and saw loss.

He chose badly.

“Sylvia,” he said, too quickly, too sharply. “Can you take Skip out of the room for a minute? I need to figure out what’s next here. I’ll come get him when the surgeon comes.”

The words were meant as triage. They landed as rejection. Even Billy heard it too late. The room went still. Sylvia stared at him, stunned. Zach lowered his eyes. Skip froze where he stood as if struck across the face. Then something hardened behind the tears. Not grief. Something colder. Something that would last longer.

“You want me gone?” Skip asked quietly.

Billy opened his mouth, but no language fit the moment. “That’s not what I—”

“Come on, Skip,” Sylvia said gently. Skip did not move at first. He looked once at his mother, once at Billy, and whatever trust had lived in that second glance began to die. Then he turned and walked out beside Sylvia and Zach. The door swung shut behind them.

Billy stood alone with Sarah and the machines. He took her hand in both of his. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He never knew whether he meant it for his wife, his son, or both. Seconds later, the monitor changed tone.

Detective (Gator) Rosen at the scene.

Senior Detective Wiley Rosen eases his way out of his car and takes a moment to get organized before heading up the aged brick walkway at 2234 Cedar Grove Road, home of Sheri Mondale. Wiley (he goes by Gator) heaves a heavy sigh as he grabs his ever-present cup of coffee and gets started with what is always an emotional experience. Gator has seen many crime scenes involving all kinds of people, but he never gets used to kids being the victims. A confident and methodical investigator, Gator doesn't get sucked into knee-jerk assumptions and always keeps his thoughts to himself as he processes the scenes. That said, he has yet to see any situation more emotionally charged than suicide. There are always reasons, mostly explained in notes left to family, but in the case of a double suicide involving 14-year-old boys, keeping a tight lid on any kind of information leaks is essential.

Looking directly at Ted Waters, the first officer on the scene, Gator grunts, "Is Marshall here yet? I don't see the coroner's truck or the M.E.'s van".

Waters blurts out a perfunctory "Coroner isn't coming till the M.E. gets done, sir! He parked around the back of the garage, asked me to only let YOU in.

" Gator bristled at the officer, "Good call on Newmann's part. Don't want anyone interrupting his highness, now do we?"

Gator strolls into the house, carefully surveying the scene. Sheri Mondale, sitting with her head in her hands on the living room couch, sobbing quietly, with an occasional upward glance to see who just walked in.

"Are you Detective Rosen? I'm Sheri Mondale. Trevor's my boy, I mean was my boy…oh gawd, what the hell am I saying? Oh GAAWD!.”

Gator struggled to go by the book, reflexively offered his condolences, and asked… "Ms. Mondale, is anyone coming to be with you? Is there anyone you would like me to contact?"

"No detective, Trev's dad is on his way, (she pauses and starts sobbing again) Oh my, I don't even know how to talk tonight. This can't be happening!"

In walks Donald Mondale, being escorted in from the street by Officer Waters. "Sheri?" Donald looks past Gator and strains to contain himself, asking. "Sheri? What the hell happened here? What the HELL'S HAPPENED TO MY BOY?"

As if things couldn't get more frustrating and strained, a frantic Sylvia Peterson comes crashing into the living room, exploding and smashing into whatever is in her way.

"WHERE IS ZACH?" Hollering at the top of her lungs, face covered in snot-soaked tears, Sylvia demands to see her son. Looking directly at Gator, she blurts, "Who are YOU?"

Stunned by the perfect storm of parental emotions, Gator stops Sylvia from going to Sheri and Donald Mondale. He knows the need for calm will be the most important task he can accomplish, so Gator asks Waters to escort Sylvia to the kitchen. Time to separate the families into different rooms.

"Hey, Marshall!" Gator stops at the door of the man cave and waits for Marshall Newmann to permit him to enter the room.

"Hello Gator, you can come in, but keep to the wall with the giant TV; there's nothing you can contaminate over there. “Oh, and what am I always telling you about bringing coffee into a room before I'm done working?" It was not meant to be a real question for Gator, but it was Marshall's not-so-subtle need for scene control.

"Sorry, Marshall, whadda you got for me?" Marshall looks into his toolbox and grabs his notebook.

"You're gonna want to tread carefully on this one, Gator! Looks like there's a pot load of all sorts of pain pills, old Valium, and Dilaudid from years of kept old prescriptions involved here. The boys were not taking ANY chances of failing in this deal, Gator! I won't know for sure just how many pills they crushed and put in the shakes till I do the autopsies later, probably tomorrow."

Gator sighs and asks, "What the hell, Marshall, this is crazy! They're just what, barely 14? What makes this an option for kids? Find any notes?"

Marshal sighs, "Yeah, Gator, you gotta see this too. The notes are over there on the gaming table. Creepy man! The boys cleaned up the room, vacuumed, dusted, wiped the furniture with Pledge, and then put all the electronics in neat piles. They placed the two sealed notes on the wiped-down tabletop in a gentle, shrine-like way! The envelopes are already dusted. They are sealed. I need to open the envelopes to process the contents before I get outta here. I am dying to read them, but I wanted you to be here before I opened them. You cannot let the parents in here till that happens, Gator. They're gonna be a mess, man!"

Gator puts on his gloves and gingerly opens Trevor's letter. Looks like an antiseptic form letter written to get the job done. Trevor was simply communicating a final, clean, and formal assessment of the facts, not much more. Near the end, though, Trevor changes gears and tells them both how much he remembers life before the divorce. He carefully places the letter on the table, and Marshall photographs it. Gator starts reading Trevor's letter as the camera shutter clicks in the background.

Hey Mom and Dad,

I know you're not going to really get why I have done such a terrible thing to myself. I have my reasons, and that is that. I know you guys will have a really bad time with this and may never get past it, but please don't blame yourselves. Zach and I just couldn't face being alive anymore. Dad, I know these past two years have been hard for you. You have always tried to make it plain to me that it wasn't my fault that you and Mom divorced. I loved the before times and missed the fishing and playing catch in the front yard. I know you loved me, Dad, but don't be mad at Mom; it's not her fault this happened. Mom, I know you and Dad couldn't stay together. I am glad you guys aren't fighting much anymore. Momma, I want you to know that I am glad you never tried to get another husband, and I didn't have to call someone else dad. You are the best mom ever! I don't know what to say anymore, Mom! I love you! Please forgive me someday!

Trevor

Turning his back on Marshall and his methodical camera clicks, collecting information, Gator regrets having to read Trevor's letter, knowing that Sheri and Donald are in the next room, fighting enormous emotions and adrenaline-fueled imaginations. Gator considers the letter's message and whispers to himself, "Geeze, what the hell makes this necessary? Really? This letter doesn't sound like a messed-up kid over a divorce, even a nasty one. This kid is articulate and thoughtful. There's gotta be something more. Maybe Zach's note can help."

Momma, I love you! Don't hate me for this. I am so ashamed!

Zach

"So much for helping me understand." Though Zach's letter was so brief, a misty-eyed Gator found it hard not to feel more empathetic after reading it, and more anger at the WHY!

The Arraignment

Dash Willis sat in the half-full arraignment room, staring at the edge of her notepad.

Another Monday. Another round of nothing. She flipped her pen between her fingers and added a crooked box to a page already full of them.

“Freddie Turner, approach.” The bailiff didn’t bother raising his voice. Freddie shuffled forward.

“Mr. Turner,” Judge Fredricks said, “you’re charged with urinating in the Centennial Park fountain… and documenting the event on social media.” The judge paused. “I realize you weren’t aiming for honors classes, but this feels… ambitious.” The room snickered. “How do you plead?”

“Not guilty, Your Honor. Can I get a jury trial?” That did it. The whole room burst out in laughter. Fredricks smiled.

“No, Freddie. You’ll be picking up trash for the next fifty hours. Try to stay out of the water this time.”

Dash smiled to herself. Still nothing. Seven more cases followed. Same rhythm. Same noise. Same waste of time.

Then—

“Victor Manion.” Dash looked up. Something shifted. Not obvious, just… different. Victor stepped forward. Clean. Controlled. Good shoes. Posture straight. Eyes steady. He didn’t look like the rest of them.

“Mr. Manion,” the judge said, “you are charged with excessive speed, reckless driving, open container… and possession of child pornography.”

Silence. The room changed instantly. Dash sat up. Pen moving now. Victor didn’t flinch. “Not guilty, Your Honor.” No hesitation or reaction at all.

Fredricks studied him. Longer this time. “Do you have representation?”

“I do.”

“Preliminary hearing in ten days,” the judge said. “Released on your own recognizance.”

Dash frowned slightly. No bail?

Victor spoke again. Calm and measured. “As my attorney was unable to attend, may I request additional time after consultation?”

Fredricks nodded. “September 9th. Ten a.m.”

That was it. Dash stared at her notes. Then back at Victor. “Yeah,” she muttered. “Okay…” Now she had something.

Slamming the door to her Jeep, Dash crossed the yard fast, brushing past horses as she went, barely slowing.

“Dash!” Teresa called. “What’s got you moving like that?” No answer. Teresa smiled. That meant something. She followed her to the office behind the barn. Dash was already at the desk, typing. Hard. Focused. “So?” Teresa said from the doorway.“What are we chasing today?”

“Mom,” Dash said without looking up, “don’t call me with that voice.” A grin broke through anyway. “I think I found something,” she said. “Like… actually something.” Teresa leaned against the doorframe. Didn’t interrupt. “He’s a teacher,” Dash said. “Local. Arrested today.” A pause. “I can’t find anything on him before eleven years ago.”

Now Teresa felt it. Just a flicker. “What kind of charges?” she asked.

Dash stopped typing and looked up. “Child pornography.” That landed.

Teresa didn’t react immediately. Didn’t overreact either. “Let’s talk about it over dinner,” she said. Teresa moved through the kitchen slowly, giving herself something to do with her hands. Six years. It hadn’t felt that long. Dash had come in like a storm. Didn’t ask permission. Didn’t wait to be figured out. Most families passed. She's too strong. Too loud. Too much.

Teresa didn't pass on Dash, though. The ranch helped. The horses helped more. Dash didn’t hesitate around them. Never had. Teresa smiled slightly to herself. That was the moment she knew. Not when the paperwork came. Not when the board approved the placement. When Dash stopped asking where she belonged. And just… stayed.

Elsewhere,

Victor slid the panel open and paused, not to admire it, but to decide where to begin. Rows of compartments, clean, ordered, intentional. He reached for one near the center. Folded piece of paper, small, creased, handwritten. He opened it slowly. A child's handwriting.

"Mr. M, thank you for helping me. I don't feel so alone anymore."

Victor smiled, not wide, not warm, measured. He folded it again, carefully, exactly along the same lines, and placed it back. Next compartment. A tarnished class ring. He rolled it between his fingers, feeling the grooves.

"Promising," he whispered. He didn't linger. He never lingered. Attachment was sloppy. Memory, though, that was useful. Victor closed the panel and rested his hand flat against it, eyes half-lidded. "Still works," he said gently.

First day of school

“Okay, kid—first day of high school. What are you most looking forward to?” Billy kept his eyes on the road, casual, like it didn’t matter.

Skip didn’t hesitate. “The Hitmen are about to make a statement.” Billy smiled despite himself.

“That so?”

Skip leaned back in the seat, all confidence. “JV coach sent out the email last week. All four of us made it.” Skip crowed a bit. “Coach Kaul says I’m at the top of the QB list. Seven-on-seven rankings.”

Billy nodded. “Not bad.”

Skip grinned. Not nervous. Not today. The car slowed as they pulled up in front of the school. Skip spotted them immediately. Zach. Trevor. Dean. Sitting near the gym entrance, like they already owned the place. “That’s my stop,” Skip said, already reaching for the door.

Billy glanced over. “Hey.” Skip paused. “Make it a good one.” Skip nodded once. Then he was out.

The four of them gathered up near the gym doors, voices overlapping, energy high. First period was football. Which meant something. Even on day one. For the first time in a while, it felt like things might be… different. Better. Monday passed like that. Fast and easy. Full of noise and movement and possibility.

Tuesday didn’t. Skip spotted them right away. Same table. Same place. But something was off. Zach and Trevor sat there, shoulders tight, eyes down.

Skip slowed. “What’s up?” he said, sliding onto the bench. “What’s the matter?” No answer.

Trevor looked up first. Eyes red. Zach didn’t move. Skip felt it then. Before the words. Trevor leaned in slightly. Voice low.

“He’s here.”

That was enough. Skip went still. The color drained from his face. “Damn,” he said. Barely any air behind it.

A second later, Dean dropped into the seat beside them. “Let’s go!” he said, grinning. “You guys ready—” He stopped. Looked at them. The energy shifted. “What?” he said. No one answered right away. Skip didn’t look at him.

“He’s here,” Trevor said again. Silence settled over the table.

Nothing about Tuesday felt like Monday anymore.

Fishing with Grampa Ed

“Grampa, why’d you get a pontoon instead of the Montego Cruiser? The Cruiser’s way faster.”

Skip stood near the stern, setting rods into the gear case, trying not to sound as disappointed as he felt.

Ed glanced over, taking his time before answering. “Two things,” he said. “First—I’m not nearly as interested in fast as I am in steady. Especially with you on board.” Skip smirked slightly. Ed continued, “And second… I like quiet.” He adjusted a tackle tray, then added, “Best place I’ve found to think straight… and say thank you for what I’ve got.”

A few minutes passed before Ed spoke again. “So,” he said, casual but not really. “Your dad tells me we’ve got some schoolwork to catch up on this weekend.”

Skip didn’t answer right away. He rolled his eyes, just slightly. Looked out toward the water. “Not now, Grampa.”

Ed nodded once. “Fair enough,” he said. “We’ve got two days.” A small pause. “I’ll still out-fish you.”

Skip snorted. “In your dreams, old man.” As he reached under the seat to stow a tackle box, Skip noticed a package. His name is on it. He paused. Didn’t touch it. Not yet. He stood there a moment longer than he needed to. Then closed the compartment.

“What’s up?” Ed asked.

“Nothing,” Skip said quickly. Too quickly. “I’m gonna go up for a bit,” Skip added. “Just to… settle in.”

Ed studied him for a second, then nodded. “Sure, bud. I’ll be up in a few.”

Skip stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him. Quick. Unexpected. “Thanks, Grampa,” he said.

Ed returned the hug, just as quickly. “Yeah,” he said softly. Skip headed up the dock toward the house.

Dinner at Millie’s was easy. Burgers. Noise. Laughter that didn’t have to work too hard. Neither of them pushed anything. There was time.

Morning came early. “Ready?” Ed called from the helm.

“Always,” Skip said, hopping aboard. The boat eased out of the marina, the sky still dark enough to hide the shoreline. They moved quietly through the buoys. Then—a scrape. “Crap,” Ed muttered.

Skip grinned. “You okay, Grampa?”

“Shut up, bud.” They both laughed. By the time they reached Carver’s Cove, the horizon was starting to lighten. They dropped anchor. Set their lines. Let the morning settle around them. For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then— “Grampa.” Ed didn’t look up. “Yeah.” Skip shifted in his seat. “What really happened… with you and Dad?” A pause. “I know it’s something with church… and all that. But what actually happened?”

Ed sat still for a moment. Then turned slightly. “You’re old enough to hear it,” he said. “Just remember—you’re getting my side.” Skip nodded. Ed looked out over the water. “Your dad was… something else at your age.” A small smile, “Quarterback. Smart. Fast. Could see things before they happened.” Skip listened. “I missed a game,” Ed said.

Skip frowned. “That’s it?”

Ed shook his head. “No.” Took a breath. “I missed THE game.” That landed differently. “There were college scouts there,” Ed continued. “Big ones.” A pause. "Your dad was so good that three different colleges were looking to see what all the fuss was about him, even as a youngster." Ed sighed at the memory. “I was on television.” Skip didn’t move. “I thought I was doing something important,” Ed said. Another pause. “I was.” Then— “Just not to him.”

The water moved softly against the boat. “They didn’t call him back,” Ed said. “Not after that. It seemed like I was not interested enough, and that was a red flag for them.” Skip looked down. Ed nodded once. “That was the moment.” A long silence settled in. “People say time fixes things,” Ed said after a while. He shook his head slightly. “Sometimes it just… stretches them out.” Skip let that sit.

“He’s always right,” Skip said finally. Ed glanced at him. Skip kept his eyes on the water. “Or at least he thinks he is.” A pause. “He doesn’t miss stuff like that.” Another pause. “Just… different stuff.” Ed didn’t respond right away.

He reached under the seat and pulled out the package. Held it for a second. Then handed it over. Skip looked down.

His name. He opened it slowly this time. The rod. Exactly the one. Skip blinked. Just once.

“Your Dad got that for you,” Ed said. Skip didn’t speak right away. “He asked me to give it to you this weekend,” Ed added. “Figured you might like it better out here.” Skip ran his hand along the handle. Carefully.

“He remembered,” he said. Not quite a question.

Ed nodded. “He listens more than you think.” Skip let out a quiet breath. Still looking at the rod.

“Yeah,” he said. A pause. “Just… not when I need him to.”

Ed didn’t argue that. He just sat there. Skip folded the card open. Read it silently. He didn’t smile. But he didn’t close off either.

“There’s something else, Grampa,” Skip said. Ed didn’t move. Skip hesitated. Looked out over the water. “Later.”

Ed nodded. “Later’s fine.”

Breakfast news

The trip home from the lake was less than the normal stress-filled ride. “Dad, thanks for the rod and reel.” Skip stood near the counter, turning it in his hands. “I thought Grampa gave it to me.” A small grin. “But when I read the card… yeah. That was pretty cool.”

Billy leaned back slightly. Didn’t overreact.

“I figured I’d kill him with it,” Skip added. “But he was on fire all weekend.” “I think the boat helped.”

Billy nodded once.

“Grampa just… knows,” Skip said. “Like he thinks like a fish or something.” A small shake of his head. “I’ll get him next time.”

Billy watched him. Something in that landed. “Yeah,” he said.

Skip set the rod down carefully. Not rushed.

Billy turned slightly, just enough to hide the expression. “Small victories,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ll take it.”

“Good weekend?” Billy asked.

Skip nodded. “Yeah. It was.”

Billy almost asked more. Didn’t. Skip grabbed his bag. Headed toward the stairs.

“Night, Dad.”

“Night, bud.” Billy stood there a moment longer. “How’d I lose that part of him?” he murmured. Silence answered.

Later—

Billy sat at the kitchen counter. Phone in hand. Scrolling. Nothing important. Then— an email from Bob. Billy frowned. Opened it. Check your messages. A shift. Subtle, but real. Billy tapped voicemail. “Uh… Billy. It’s Bob.” Static. Breathing. “I don’t even know how to say this.” A slight choked pause. “I just heard from Sally. Zach and Trevor…” Another pause.

“They’re dead.”

Billy didn’t move. “Looks like suicide,” Bob continued. “Cops aren’t saying much yet.” Billy’s grip tightened on the phone. “They don’t want it out,” Bob said. “But it’s already leaking.” A breath. “Call me. I’m sorry, man.” The message ended.

Billy sat there. Still. “Damn,” he whispered. The room felt different now. He looked toward the stairs. Then— Skip’s backpack. Billy moved fast. Unzipped it. The phone. Still there. Off. Billy exhaled.

“Okay.” ….. “Okay.”

He set it down carefully. Breakfast. That’s when it happens.

Morning— Skip came down the stairs. Half-awake. “My phone—”

Billy held it up. “Sit down.”

Skip frowned. “Dad, just let me check my messages. I gotta call Dean.”

Billy didn’t move.

“Sit.”

Skip hesitated. Then dropped into the chair. “What is this?” he said. “Why were you in my bag?”

Billy sat across from him. Phone still in his hand. “There was news,” he said.

Skip didn’t like that. “What kind of news?”

Billy exhaled. “Zach and Trevor.” Billy paused, “They’re dead.”

Silence.

Skip didn’t react. Not right away. Billy watched him. “They—” Billy started. Stopped. “They took something,” he said. “Saturday night.”

Still nothing. Skip blinked... Once. “That’s not real.”

Billy didn’t answer.

“That’s not real.” Skip’s voice - louder now.

“Call someone,” Skip said. “Call one of your cop friends.” Billy didn’t move. “Dad.” 

“DAD.” Skip’s voice cracked. “You gotta check.” The chair scraped. Skip dropped to his knees. “No… no… no…”

Billy moved then. Down on his knees beside him. Skip folded in on himself. Billy didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t say anything. Just stayed. Time stretched. Skip’s breathing slowed. Not steady. Just… less broken. He wiped his face with his sleeve. Didn’t look up.

“Can I have my phone?”

Billy handed it over. No words. Just that.

EPISODE TWO

Sylvia Peterson

The Peterson house sat quietly under the afternoon sun. Gator paused at the walkway, taking it in before knocking. The lawn was trimmed. The porch swept. Everything in its place and nothing out of place. That bothered him. He knocked. A moment later, the door opened.

Sylvia Peterson stood there, one hand still on the knob, like she hadn’t decided yet whether to let him in. “Can I get you some coffee, Detective Rosen?” she asked. Her voice was steady.

“Yes, please,” Gator said. She stepped aside. He moved in slowly, eyes adjusting, taking in the room without appearing to. Photos lined the walls. Awards. School certificates. Everything squared, aligned. A life… preserved. “Ms. Peterson,” he said, “thank you for letting me come by.” She didn’t sit.

“What’s next, Detective?” she asked. Gator stopped. “I’ve got things to do,” she continued. “So if this is just going to be some ‘get over it’ suicide talk—” Her voice tightened. “Zach was a good boy.” A pause. “Not easy,” she added. “But good.” Her eyes sharpened. “He wouldn’t do something like that without a reason.” Gator didn’t interrupt. “No one talked Zach into anything,” she said. “So don’t tell me this just… happened.” Silence made an impact. She exhaled. Some of the edge left her. “Yes,” she said quietly. “He drank the shake.” She paused and looked directly at Gator. “But something made that necessary.” That landed.

Gator leaned forward slightly. “Do you think it has something to do with school?”

Sylvia hesitated. Then her phone buzzed. She glanced down, closed her eyes for a second. “My mom,” she said. “I have to take this.”

Gator nodded. “We can continue later.”

She stepped away, already answering. Gator stood there alone for a moment. No closer than when he arrived. He stepped back outside. “Too many phones,” he muttered.

Sheri Mondale

The Mondale house was perfect. The grass cut evenly. Edges clean. Windows spotless. Gator stood at the door, taking it in. Then he knocked. Donald Mondale answered.

“Mr. Mondale,” Gator said. “My condolences.” Donald didn’t respond. “Is Trevor’s mother available?” Donald paused before answering.

“You can ask me whatever you need,” Donald said.

Gator shook his head slightly. “I need to speak with her first.” Another pause. “Privately.”

Donald didn’t like that. “I’ll get her.”

Gator stepped inside and waited. Voices upstairs. Tight. Controlled. Then— Sheri Mondale appeared. Slippers. Tired eyes. Holding herself together. “Can’t say I’m glad to see you,” she said. “But I appreciate the effort.” They moved into the living room. Donald left. Hard. “Don’t mind him,” Sheri said. “It’s going to be like that now.”

Gator nodded. “May I proceed?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Do you and Trevor live here alone?”

“Yes.”

“Shared custody?”

“Fifty-fifty.” A breath. “Though lately… he was more here.” She stopped. “We’re good actors,” she added. “Most of the time.” That didn’t sound like a compliment.

Gator moved on. “Was Trevor alone often?” Her eyes flashed.

“He was fourteen.” Emphatically.

Gator nodded. “I understand. I have to ask.” She looked away. Then back.

Sylvia dropped her head a bit and sighed, “Go ahead.”

Gator leaned forward slightly. “This wasn’t impulsive,” he said. “This was intentional, maybe even planned.” He looked up and made eye contact. “Tell me about Trevor.”

That did it. Sheri broke. Quietly. “He was good,” she said. “Smart. Just… didn’t care enough about school.” A stuttered breath. “After the divorce…” She stopped. “We thought he’d work through it.” Silence. “He got quieter,” she said. "Trevor had known Zach since kindergarten, and they were tight. Don tried to blame Zach for Trevor’s problems because Zach had no parent at home all day, sort of a latchkey kid. Then last year, Zach and Trevor started hanging out with two other boys, Skip Maxwell and Dean Tucker. Good kids, the same ages, and they shared many of the same interests, like football and baseball. They called themselves the Hitmen! I approved! They loved that name.” Another pause. “The Tuesday after school started,” she said. Gator looked up. “Something changed.” That was new. “He came home early,” she said. “No practice. No food.” Her voice dropped. “Just went into his room and talked on the phone.”

“With Zach?”

“I think so.” Breathy silence.

Gator let it sit. That mattered. "Tell me about your husband?"

Sheri started reverting to the angry ex-wife look and continued. “Now, Don, he was over the moon with the Hitmen, even though he thought Zach was kinda poor white trash. All four boys were pretty good athletes. Don even bought a sporting goods store to make a more competitive jock-connection time with the boys and the community. Good business, ya know. As to changes in my son's behavior lately, yes indeed! On Tuesday, after school started, Trev came home straight from school, with no Zach, no workouts with the boys, and no food requests. He just closed the door to his man cave and talked on the phone for an hour, yes, with Zach, I think.”

Gator tried to push further, but Sheri started getting more weepy over this particular memory, and Gator thought he'd gotten as much out of her as he was going to get for the day, so he excused himself, citing another interview appointment.

“Thank you, Detective. Please feel free to call me if you need anything else. I’ll call you if I remember more details. Oh, and thank you for your thoughtfulness. I am sorry for the drama when you got here.”

Donald Mondale

"Mr. Mondale," Gator asked, stiffly. "First off, I heard you talking to your wife upstairs, and I'd like to know what you spoke about with regard to this interview. You don't really have to tell me, but I only want to get to the bottom of your son's tragedy. Hey, we're on the same side here."

Donald sat across from him later. Arms crossed. Then not.“I told her not to get creative,” he said.

Gator didn’t react.

“She can go off,” Donald added. “Especially about me.” An unsympathetic pause. “I just don’t want this turning into something else.”

Gator watched him. “Something else,” he repeated.

Donald hesitated. Then—“I don’t know what this is,” he said. Donald fidgeted with his keys a bit and looked visibly shaken. That was more honest.

Gator stood in the backyard before leaving. Looking. Everything was in place. Inside. Outside. Ordered. Controlled. Even the boy’s room. It all seemed a bit too clean. Too planned. Gator’s eyes narrowed slightly.  Looking directly at Donald, he was plain. “This wasn’t random,” he said. “This was built.”

Donald sighed, and with the look of a man who had lost everything and realized he was futureless, led Gator to the door.

Gator knew what was next. “Time to talk to the other two Hitmen.”

Billy gets a call from the ACLU

“God! What now?” The phone rang at 7:30 a.m., jolting Billy awake. He let out a bitter laugh at himself. After all these years of denying deity, the old reflex still surfaced whenever life blindsided him. Sleep had been scarce since the boys died. The suicides had cracked open everything in the house. Skip had retreated again—back into that quiet, unreachable place Billy feared most. And Billy had the nagging sense another shoe had yet to drop.

“How you doing, Marty? Still like being the boss?” Billy answered the phone the same way every time. Flat, dry, businesslike. Clients found it calming. Marty Ryder found it irritating.

“Yeah, it’s me, Billy. Your boss, remember?” Marty barked. “Recognize my voice?” Billy said nothing. Marty continued. “I know you’ve got family stuff going on, but I need help this morning. Eleven o’clock intake interview. I was going to hand it to Jason, but I’ve got a feeling about this one, and I don’t trust the kid yet.”

“You do it,” Billy muttered.

“Cute. If you don’t want it, I’ll give it to Jason.” He waited for a second. “Not really. But I wanted you to feel involved.”

More silence. “Billy? You there?”

“I’ll be in at ten-thirty.”

“Wait—don’t hang up yet,” Marty said. “I just texted you the number. Client’s name is Victor Manion.” Billy’s thumb froze above the screen, he got dressed, and went upstairs to wake Skip for breakfast. Too late. The bed had been slept in but was already made. The room was spotless. Clothes in the hamper. Desk dusted. Papers stacked in perfect alignment. Billy felt the drop in his stomach. Skip only got this organized when everything inside him was chaos. He had probably grabbed toast and slipped out to meet Dean behind the football manager’s shack. Billy would have paid a fortune to hear the conversations that happened on those benches.

“Geeze, I wish I knew what was in his head,” he muttered.

By 10:22, Billy was five minutes from the office. He glanced at the old Bulova watch on his wrist. He would never stop wearing it. Skip and Sara had given it to him six weeks before the accident. He parked, called Victor’s number, and left instructions to buzz 662 when he arrived. At three minutes to eleven, the conference phone buzzed.

“Mr. Manion is here.”

Billy had been quietly hoping the man would cancel. “Send him up.” A minute later, the door opened.

Billy Maxwell, right?” Victor entered smiling, hand already extended. “My name is Victor.”

Billy shook it. Firm grip. Dry hand. Steady eyes. “Have a seat, Mr. Manion.”

“Please. Victor.”

“Then call me Billy.” Billy opened the file.

“You were arrested for possession of child pornography. Is that accurate?”Victor nodded once, face lowering in practiced shame. “And the district is moving to terminate your employment at Clovis Hills High School?”

“Yes.”

Billy kept reading, then stopped. Skip’s school. He hid the reaction and continued. “You also claim the officer violated your rights during the stop.”

That was all Victor needed. His shoulders softened. His voice lowered. “Yes, Billy. I was speeding, and I own that. But I was sober. Cooperative. Respectful. He looked wounded now. Almost boyish. “He saw an open, but corked, wine bottle in the back seat and decided he wanted to humiliate me. Then he forced open everything else, hoping to find more.”

Billy felt the old reflex rise in him. Abuse of authority. Bullying. Coercion. He hated all of it. He reached across the table. “The ACLU will accept your case. I’ll represent you.”

Victor took his hand gently. “I knew you’d be fair,” he said.

Billy nodded. For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, he already regretted it.

Interview with Skip and Dean

Skip leaned toward Dean and whispered, “Relax, man. This isn’t about us. They’re just trying to figure out why Trev and Zach did what they did.”

Dean swallowed hard. “This is crazy, Skip. Did they tell you anything? About their plans?”

“No.”

“I knew something was off when Trev missed practice a couple of weeks ago. I thought his mom was riding him again because his dad bought that giant monitor for the cave.”

Skip shot him a warning look sharp enough to cut metal. Dean stopped talking. Skip lowered his voice even further. “Remember the plan. No direct comments about him until we know who we can trust.” Dean nodded quickly. Skip’s eyes welled up despite himself. Dean saw it and broke too, leaning his head briefly onto Skip’s shoulder.

“Hang in there, man,” Skip whispered. “They’re watching us.”

The boys sat in a small conference room at the high school, knees bouncing, hands restless. Their parents waited next door while Gator explained the process. A narrow glass window let the boys see into the adjoining room. Every so often, Gator glanced back at them through it. Dean kept twisting a spiral notebook in his lap. Skip stared at the floor. Neither of them knew what could be said. Neither of them knew what had to stay buried.

Gator wanted the boys together first. Give them time. Let nerves work. Let silence loosen things. If they had coordinated stories, cracks would form. If they were innocent but burdened, fear would still talk. He did not think either boy caused the deaths. He did think they were standing near the truth.

“I’m just glad they’re letting us be together,” Dean muttered. Then the door opened.

“Skip, come with your father, please.” The color drained from Dean’s face.

Gator entered with Dean’s parents and sat across from him. “Sorry for the wait, son. Needed to explain things to your folks.” His voice was calm, almost easy. “You’re not in trouble. This is procedural. We’re trying to understand what happened to your friends.”

Dean grabbed the water bottle and twisted the cap until it snapped. “I’m ready, sir,” he said, though he looked anything but.

Billy was talking, but for a while it was only noise. Skip sat rigid, eyes fixed through the glass at Dean in the other room. Billy touched his shoulder.

Skip jerked around. “What?”

Billy held steady. “I’m trying to help you, son.” Skip looked away. “That detective isn’t trying to jam you up,” Billy said. “He thinks something deeper happened. He wants to know if other kids might be at risk.” Skip’s jaw tightened.

“Then why separate us?” Billy said nothing. Skip leaned forward. “Dean’s in there alone with three adults staring at him. He already feels guilty for things he didn’t do.” His voice cracked. “And what about me? I lose my friends, then sit here answering everybody’s dead questions like I’m supposed to know how to breathe through all of this?”

Billy felt the awful helplessness only parenting could produce.

“Then tell the truth,” he said quietly. “Tell him exactly that.” Skip finally looked at him. Eyes red. Young and furious. “You have permission to lose it,” Billy said. “I mean that.” He nodded toward the other room. “But if Rosen’s good—and I think he is—he’s looking for something real. Help him find it.” Billy lowered his voice. “If you want, I’ll ask him to let you and Dean speak together afterward. No pressure. No trap. Just a chance to ask your own questions.” Skip thought a moment, then nodded.

“Yeah. Thanks, Dad.”

Minutes later, Billy intercepted Gator outside. Dean and his parents hovered nearby. Awkward faces all around. Skip watched through the glass as his father made the ask. Gator listened. Nodded once. Then Billy motioned toward him.

“Come on, son.” Skip entered the room alone. Gator shut the door softly and sat across from him. 

“Hello, Skip. I’m Detective Rosen.” He slid a notepad onto the table but didn’t open it. “My job is to figure out what happened to your friends—and why,” Skip said nothing. Gator leaned back. “I’m not here to embarrass anybody. I’m not here to break promises.” That got Skip’s eyes up. “But I do think this was more than depression.”Silence. “So let’s start with the boring questions,” Gator said. “Those are usually the ones that lead somewhere important.”

Skip took a deep breath. Gator opened the notebook. “Tell me about Trevor.” Gator clicked on the recorder. “Interview beginning, 12:45 p.m., August 15, 2020. Detective Wiley Rosen speaking with Skip Maxwell, age fourteen. Father present. Recording approved by both parties.” He looked up. “Need a yes for the record.”

“Yeah,” Skip said.

Billy added, “Yes.”

Gator nodded and glanced at his notes. They had already covered the basics—last time Skip saw Trevor and Zach, where they’d been, who had called whom. Nothing unusual there. Time to move inward. “Skip, I understand the four of you were close. Had a group name?”

Skip gave the smallest shrug. “Yeah. The Hitmen.”

Gator let that sit a second. “That’s a bold name. Where’d it come from?”

Skip glanced once at Billy, then back down. “It wasn’t like gang junk or anything.” “I didn’t assume that.”

“We just… stuck together. Some bigger kids used to mess with us in junior high. Sports stuff too. Trash talk. Pushing people around.” He rubbed his palms on his jeans. “My dad always says there’s safety in numbers. So we kinda made our own thing.” Billy said nothing. Skip added quietly, “We handled stuff together.”

Gator made a note. Not gang behavior. Identity behavior. Protection. Belonging.Four boys trying to become larger than what scared them. “Whose idea was the name?”

A faint smile touched Skip’s face for the first time. “Trev’s.”

“Tell me about that.”

“He’d act like he was the underdog in Game Seven of the World Series.” Gator waited. “Before games. Walking to bat. Talking to himself like some movie scene.” Skip almost laughed, then didn’t. “We all made fun of him for it.”

“But?”

“But it worked.” Silence filled in what that meant.

“Were Trevor and Zach acting differently lately?” Skip’s shoulders shifted. Tiny movement. Important movement.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe means yes.”

Skip looked up sharply. “They were off some.”

“How?”

“Just... distracted. Weird.”

“Both of them?”

“Yeah.”

“Dean too?”

“No.”

“You were fishing with your grandfather that weekend, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you mention any of this to him?”

“No.”

“Anything about school? Teachers? Problems?”

“No.” Too fast. Too flat. Gator looked at Billy briefly, then back to the boy.

“When you heard they were dead... after the shock wore off... did anything click?”

Skip froze.

“Something they said. Something they did. Anything that suddenly made more sense?”

Skip’s back straightened like steel, locking into place. His jaw tightened. Eyes went cold. Billy knew that posture immediately. The wall.

“Detective,” Billy said casually, standing halfway. “Mind if we take five? Need the restroom.” Gator didn’t miss the rescue, but respected it.

“Sure.” He clicked off the recorder. Then to Skip: “There are rolls and drinks in the corner. Help yourself.” He gave the boy an easy nod. “We’ll finish up in a few minutes. Then you and Dean can ask me whatever you want.”

Skip and Dean interview Gator

Billy sat with Gini Tucker and Oscar Tucker in the adjoining room, all three watching through the glass as Skip and Dean faced Gator alone. Billy shook his head quietly. “Never thought I’d live to deal with something like this.”

The arrangement was unusual. Gator could not question the boys in the absence of parents. But Skip and Dean had asked for time to question him directly, and everyone had agreed. The recorder was running. Everything official. Everything usable later if needed. It was a first for Gator. He liked it.

Dean cleared his throat. “Sir... do you know why Zach and Trev did it?” He looked down. “I’m confused. And kinda scared something like that can just... happen.”

“Dean, it had nothing to do with you, man.” Skip leaned forward hard. “You didn’t have to deal with what they dealt with last year.” The room shifted.

Gator noticed three things at once: Protectiveness, Control, Information. Gator turned to Skip. “You’ll get your turn.” Then to Dean: “That’s a fair question.” “Yes, notes were left.” Dean stiffened. “But I can’t discuss the contents yet. They’re part of an active inquiry.” He let that breathe for a second. “I can tell you this: neither of you boys was blamed or mentioned.” Dean’s shoulders dropped, though only a little. Relief mixed with confusion.

Skip sat back, jaw working. Angry at the loss. Angry for Dean. Angry that this detective was smarter than he first looked.

Gator watched him think. “You got a question, son?” Gator asked. Skip blinked, caught mid-thought.

“Yeah. I do.” He gathered himself. “You spent a lot of time with our parents first.” He pointed toward the glass. “Did you tell them what was in the notes?” Pause. “Or are Dean and I just supposed to sit here like a couple scared little kids while grown-ups decide what happened to our friends?” Billy closed his eyes briefly in the other room.

Skip’s voice roughened. “We only had each other. Now half of us are gone.” He swallowed hard. “I’m so mad I want to hit something.” Dean stared at the floor.

Gator answered without hurry. “Your anger doesn’t bother me.” He looked directly at Skip. “It helps me.” Skip frowned. “Anger points toward injury. Injury points toward cause.” Then Gator turned to Dean. “And loyalty tells me just as much.” Dean looked up for the first time. “You boys asked for this meeting without parents in the room for a reason,” Gator said. “That means there’s something easier to say here than out there.” He nodded toward the glass. “Take your time. Ask whatever you need. Then tell me whatever matters.” Silence. No one rushed to fill it. But Gator already had what he needed most. Skip’s outburst replayed in his head: You didn’t have to deal with what they dealt with last year. There it was. Not depression. Not randomness. Not two boys making one terrible decision. Something happened. And someone knew about it.

EPISODE THREE

Dash Research

Dash sat at her laptop, black coffee cooling beside the keyboard, reminding herself of the first rule every journalism professor worth remembering had drilled into her:

Is this a real story... or am I forcing one because it feels exciting?

Two days had passed since she’d come home from the arraignment and started digging into the life of Victor Manion.

QUESTIONS…..

Who is Victor Manion? What put him in front of a judge? Where had he worked before Clovis High School? Did he have family? Why was he on that road that night? What had he been doing before the stop? And who else might be affected by whatever Victor Manion really was?

Research had always come easily to Dash. Most people leave footprints everywhere without realizing it. Photos. Mentions. Old newsletters. Sports scores. Tagged birthdays. Angry comments. Forgotten interviews.

But Victor Manion’s life online felt wrong. Too clean. Too smooth. Too available in recent years, and strangely absent before that. It had the polished feel of something assembled instead of lived.

Her imagination took off before she could stop it. Somewhere, she pictured a pale hacker in a basement forging the backstory of a sleeper villain preparing to seize a town, then a state, then the world.

Dash laughed out loud. “Back to reality, girl.” She liked those ridiculous mental detours. The more absurd they were, the faster they snapped her back into focus.

Still, one fact refused to budge: She could find almost nothing on Victor Manion older than eleven years. No awkward college photos. No youthful mentions. No old teams. No half-broken social media accounts abandoned in embarrassment. Just a suspiciously competent decade of existence. Nobody crosses every t and dots every i. Somebody always misses something. And she needed something fast. If she didn’t walk into the newsroom soon with a real angle, her editor would start in again:

“This is stale, Dash.”
“Where’s the bigger path, Dash?”
“Why are you wasting my time, Dash?”

She cracked her knuckles, leaned in, and started typing the opening draft that might set a lot of things in motion. The headline came easily:

Clovis High School Teacher Arrested on Child Pornography Claim

Across town, someone else was losing sleep over things that didn’t fit. “Ugh.” At 3:30 a.m., Gator woke wide-eyed again.

His wife hated this part of detective work—the cases that followed him into bed and refused to leave. After twenty-five years, Gator knew the pattern well. Once the mind started sorting pieces, sleep was over. He slipped from bed carefully, found yesterday’s t-shirt by feel, and shuffled toward the kitchen. “Well,” he muttered, “guess today starts at three-thirty.”

Coffee brewed while he stared into the dark. The boys’ letters bothered everyone else. They barely bothered him. Parents were reading guilt, anger, and absolution into them—anything but evidence.

The notes were smoke. He wanted fire.

First sip. Better thinking. “Alright,” he told himself. “What do we know?” Best friends. Same schools since elementary. Athletes. Smart kids. Shared friend identity: The Hitmen. Similar depression patterns in recent years. Excited for high school one week... dead the next.

He frowned. “What happened?”

There it was again. The only useful next step. Talk to the other two Hitmen again, but not just yet.

He picked up his phone and opened the local news app. The lead story stared back at him:

Clovis High School Teacher Arrested on Child Pornography Claim

Gator stopped moving. Same school. Same week. Maybe nothing. Maybe not.

No such thing as coincidences

Dash never trusted coincidences. She hated them, actually. Coincidences were usually just patterns waiting for someone patient enough to notice them.

Freshman English. Then realizes: Those dead boys were freshmen.

She kept scrolling.

Clovis Junior High — two years. Then transfer to Clovis High School.

Dash saw the assignment: Freshman English. Her fingers moved faster now. Search: Zach Peterson. Search: Trevor Mondale. The article appeared instantly: Two Clovis High School students found dead in apparent suicide pact.

She opened the staff directory and found his course list. Freshman Literature.

Dash felt something cold move through her. If Victor Manion liked first-year boys... then this might have started long before anyone noticed. Dash didn’t speak. She didn’t move. She just stared at her monitor. Junior high, high school, same kids, same transition.

"Okay," she said quietly. "That’s NOT nothing."

"Careful," she whispered. "That’s exactly how you talk yourself into a story." Dash rubbed her temples, forcing herself to slow down. "Don’t jump. Verify."

She opened another window and pulled up the RimEyes facial recognition site. She hadn’t used that software much; there were too many ethical gray areas, but if there was ever a time to push a line a little, this was it. She queued the search and stood, heading to the kitchen.

A few seconds later, PING.

Dash froze, soda halfway out of the fridge. "Well," she murmured. She closed the door and walked back to the desk. Something had already come back. She didn’t look at it yet. Instead, she opened another tab.

"If this is real," she said under her breath, "someone else needs to be looking at it."

Her eyes returned to the article. Detective assigned. Name listed: Wiley Rosen. Dash smiled faintly. Looks like most people call him Gator.

"Let’s see what you’ve got, Detective Gator.” She reached for the phone.

Dash stared at the headline again. A Clovis High School teacher was arrested and suspended from his job on a child pornography claim. Same school, same timeline, same feeling in her gut that wouldn't shut up. She grabbed her phone before she could talk herself out of it, and the line rang twice.

Detective Rosen answered on the second ring.  His voice was rough, awake but not fully.

"Detective Rosen, this is Dash Willis with the Tribune. I'm calling about the Manion arrest.”

“Most people call me Gator.” There was a pause, not a long one, but enough to say he didn't like this already. “That's not a public case yet.”

Dash smiled lightly. Good, he's protective. That means he cares.

"I'm not asking for details," she said. "I'm asking if it connects."

"Connects to what?"

"The two dead high school freshmen had no reason to die."

Silence, a little longer this time. Dash leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing. There it is.

"You're reaching", Gator said finally. "Kids kill themselves. Happens more than people want to admit."

"Not like that, Detective." Another pause. "You got something you're not saying," Dash pushed.

"And you've got a story, pardon me, and you have a theory you're not... you're trying to force," Gator shot back.

Dash let that sit for a second. Then, softer, "I can't find anything on him before eleven years ago." That landed. She could hear it. Not in what he said, but what he didn't say.

"What do you want, Miss Willis?"

"I want to know if I'm wasting my time."

Gator exhaled slowly. "You are," he said. "You can just keep digging away, young lady. Just don't publish anything stupid."

Dash smiled. "That's not a no.”

"No”, Gator said. "But that's not a yes either.”

"Then I guess we'll both keep working on the same problem," she said.

"Guess so."

Neither of them hung up immediately. Then, click.

First planning session Billy and Victor 

Billy Maxwell didn't like him immediately, which bothered him because there was no reason not to. Victor sat across the table, hands folded, posture relaxed but not casual. He looked like the kind of man juries trusted without realizing they were doing it.

"Mr. Maxwell," Victor said, offering a small, respectful nod, "I appreciate you taking this on."

Billy set his file down, but he didn't open it. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he said. "I'm here to understand what happened."

"Of course." Victor didn't rush, didn't fill in the silence. Billy noticed that. Most people talked too much when they were nervous. Victor didn't seem nervous at all.

"That's a serious allegation," Billy said. "School termination tied to the criminal conduct isn't something we step into lightly."

"I hope... I would hope not," Victor replied, calm, even, almost reasonable.

Billy flipped open the file. "Walk me through your version."

Victor leaned back slightly, just enough to signal ease. "I teach kids who don't feel seen," he said. "That's always been my focus." Billy glanced up. There it was, that phrasing, carefully chosen.

"You're saying this is a misunderstanding?"

"I'm saying that when you spend time helping students who struggle, people who don't understand, that work can be misinterpreted." Billy held his gaze. Victor didn't look away, didn't challenge, didn't submit, just held.

"How long have you been teaching?" Billy asked.

"Long enough to know the difference between helping and harming." Billy nodded slowly. On paper, it worked. In person, something didn't. He couldn't quite place it yet.

Victor leaned forward slightly. "Mr. Maxwell," he said quietly, "I imagine you've built a career defending people who were quick to judge."

Billy met his eyes again.  "I have."

Victor gave a faint smile. "Then I suspect you understand how dangerous assumptions can be."

Billy closed the file. "Maybe," he said, "or maybe I understand how good some people are at hiding things." A flicker, so small it almost wasn't there, but it was something.

Victor smiled again, this time just a fraction wider. "I suppose," he said, "that's what the... That's what makes this interesting."

Can I come up early, Grampa?

Skip made the call on Thursday. “Can I come up early?”

Ed didn’t ask why. “Sure, bud. Tell your dad. If he can’t get you there, I’ll come get you.” They hung up. Ed sat still for a moment longer than usual. Something was off. He felt it the way he always did—quiet and low, like weather shifting somewhere far out over the lake.

The drive north was quieter than Billy expected. He even offered to turn off the old vinyl station. “Want something else?”

Skip shook his head. “I’m good.” A few miles passed. “Sorry for making you bring me up early,” Skip said finally, eyes still on the window. “Just… tired of people asking about Trev and Zach.”

Billy nodded. It sounded right, but it didn’t feel complete. He tightened his grip on the wheel and privately whispered to himself, “Sara Maxwell would have broken this moment in five seconds.” A joke. A jab. Something human. Billy had nothing. They pulled into the gravel drive. Ed was already outside. The three of them stood there for a second—no one moving, no one speaking. Skip broke first. He stepped forward and wrapped his grandfather in a tight hug. Ed smiled into it.

Billy watched. Grateful. But mostly a little jealous.

“Boat’s ready,” Ed said. “New cushions. No more complaining.”

“About time,” Skip muttered, grabbing his bags.

“Respect,” Billy said automatically.

Skip froze for half a beat, then kept walking.

Billy exhaled slowly. “Sorry,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Ed clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Let it breathe.” Skip moved toward the dock faster than usual, bags swinging wide. Not careless, just… somewhere else. Billy and Ed watched him go.

“That kid’s carrying something,” Ed said.

Billy nodded. “I know.”

The diner hadn’t changed in thirty years. Same red booths. Same oversized pizza clock. Skip smiled at it despite himself. That felt like something, then they ordered too much food. The three Maxwells laughed a bit more than expected. Nothing important was said. Everything important was felt.

In the far corner, a man sat alone with a notebook open beside his plate. He didn’t look at them often. He didn’t need to. He had already seen enough.

Second lake visit with Grampa

The sun was dropping behind the lake treeline, stretching everything long and quiet. The boat had settled into the slow rhythm of the windless evening. Skip sat on the new boat cushions, one shoe hooked under the bass seat rail. The other swung just enough to make a dull tap every few seconds. Ed sat at the front, a few feet away, working a final cast back to the boat, checking it more out of habit than expectation of a hit.

Neither of them spoke for a while. Skip finally broke it. "Did you know them?" Ed didn't look up right away.

"Not really. I saw them around."

Skip nodded as that answer did more than it did. Another stretch of quiet.

"They weren't like that," Skip said. "You know? Like the kinda guys who would..." He trailed off. 

Ed set the rod down on the boat ledge. "No," he said. "Probably not." 

Skip kicked the rail lightly. "Everyone keeps saying stuff like, 'You never know what someone's going through.'" He let out a small breath. "That's just something people say when they don't have any answers." 

Ed gave a slight nod. "Yes," he said. "It is."

Skip looked over at him, a little surprised. "You're supposed to say something better than that." 

Ed shrugged faintly. "I used to try." 

Skip watched him for a second. "What changed?" 

Ed rested his arms on his knees, looking out toward the water and the shoreline. "Turns out," he said, "people don't need better answers as much as they need someone who will stay when there aren't any answers."

Skip didn't respond. He didn't move. The wind shifted slightly, carrying the smell of pine and the sound of mild waves splashing against the hull. After a while, Skip said, "Do you think they were scared?" 

Ed thought about it. "Yeah," he said. "I think so." 

Skip nodded slowly, eyes still on the deck. "I don't think they told anyone." 

"No," Ed said. "Probably not." Another long pause.

Skip's voice dropped a little. "What if someone knew and didn't do anything?" 

Ed didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was quiet. "That's something they'll have to live with." 

Skip swallowed. "Forever?" 

Ed glanced at him just briefly. "Long enough," he said.

That sat between them. Skip's foot stopped swinging. "Do you think people can tell when something's wrong with you?" 

Ed considered it. "Sometimes," he said. 

"What if you don't want them to?" 

Ed gave the smallest hint of a smile. "Then you get real good at hiding." Skip looked up at him. Ed held his gaze for a second, then looked back out toward the field. "But that doesn't mean nobody sees it," he added.

Skip didn't say anything after that. He just sat there, quieter now. Not fixed, not better, but not alone either.

Lord of the Flies

Junior High was supposed to be easy. The classroom lights were dimmed.

Victor stood at the front of the room with a paperback copy of Lord of the Flies in one hand.

“Heads down,” he said gently. “Eyes closed. Just listen.” Desks creaked. Teenagers settled. Nervous laughter faded. Victor waited until silence belonged to him. He had selected the Simon death scene for a reason. Fear. Mob instinct. Isolation. Boys desperate to belong. People always reveal themselves fastest under emotional pressure. He began to read.

His voice was low, steady, hypnotic. He did not rush the violence. He let it build. The chant.The confusion.
The cruelty disguised as excitement.

Kill the beast. Cut his throat. Spill his blood.

But Victor was not reading to the room. He was reading the room. A girl in the second row flinched at the first scream. One boy smirked to impress no one. Another pretended sleep. Useless. Predictable. Forgettable.

Then he found two worth remembering. Trevor Mondale sat upright despite the instructions, eyes bright, feeding on every shift in tension. He wanted force. Conflict. Winning. Zach Peterson leaned forward with his eyes closed, jaw tight, feeling every word as if it mattered personally. Sensitive. Searching. Needing structure. Opposites… Perfect.

The bell rang, and Victor closed the book. No one moved right away. Good.

“We’ll be staging selected scenes this semester,” he said. Murmurs rose instantly. “If you’re interested in a role, write one page on the character you identify with most... and why.” Six girls raised their hands immediately. Several boys laughed too loudly. Trevor asked first about Jack. Zach asked quietly about Ralph. Victor smiled. Tryouts were unnecessary. He had already cast what mattered.

Dash sat frozen at her laptop. Freshman Literature. Zach. Trevor. Victor Manion. Maybe a coincidence. Maybe he chose them.


EPISODE FOUR

Gator and Dash meet at the coffee shop

The coffee shop sat halfway between the courthouse and the edge of town, the kind of place that didn’t belong to anyone in particular. “Test, test. mic check… “He must think I am on to something to even take this meeting.”

Dash got there first. Corner table. Back to the wall. Laptop open. She wasn’t planning to stay long. She wasn’t planning to trust him, but hoped for something good.

The door chimed once. Gator stepped in, scanned the room, and found her immediately. He didn’t wave but just walked over and sat down across from her as they’d already agreed on the arrangement.

“You picked neutral ground,” he said.

“You picked the time,” she replied.

He nodded once. Fair. “By the way, no recording, please.” Gator nodded to her phone. “You said you had something,” Gator deadpanned.

Dash looked at it for a second, then turned it off and slid it into her bag. She didn't apologize. She then turned the laptop toward him. “Tell me if this feels wrong to you.”

He didn’t touch it. Just leaned in.

“Victor Manion has about ten years of visible history,” she said. “Before that—nothing that holds.” Gator’s eyes stayed on the screen. “People leave traces,” she added. “Even when they don’t want to.” 

“Unless they’ve done this before,” Gator said quietly. Dash looked up. That wasn’t dismissal. That was alignment.

He tapped once on the table. “You’re looking at what’s missing,” he said. “I’m looking at what doesn’t fit.”

“Same thing,” Dash said.

“Not exactly.” He leaned back slightly. “Missing means absence. Doesn’t fit means something’s been forced into place.”

Dash studied him. That was good. That was useful. “Two boys die,” she said. “Same school. Same age. Same teacher.” She didn’t say the name. She didn’t have to.

“Correlation isn’t cause,” Gator said.

“No,” Dash agreed. “But it’s a starting point.”

Gator watched her for a long second. Not testing. Not sizing her up anymore. Measuring something else. Then he nodded. “You don’t chase noise,” he said. “You follow the pattern.” 

Dash didn’t smile. But she stopped guarding her tone. “You don’t ignore instinct,” she said. “You just make it prove itself.”

Gator stood. “If you find something solid,” he said, “you should call me before you publish it.”

Dash closed the laptop. “If you find something real,” she said, “Just make sure you don’t bury it.”

Gator paused. Then nodded. “Fair enough.” He left first. Dash watched him go. Not convinced, but no longer alone on her story.

Billy and Victor discuss updates

Victor sat across from Billy, listening without appearing to. 

Billy flipped through notes. “There’s been some outside interest,” he said. Interesting that Victor didn’t seem to react.

“A media angle,” Billy added. “Local. Nothing substantial.” 

Victor nodded once. Like it meant nothing, but something had already shifted. “Name?” Victor asked.

Billy hesitated just for a second. “A reporter, uh… Dash…Dash Willis,” he said. 

Victor turned slightly, almost imperceptibly, an eyebrow raising, and smiled. Not because of the name. Because of what it meant. Someone was looking. And that required adjustment.

Teresa pays the price

The afternoon light settled softly over the ranch, stretching long shadows from fence posts and swirling the dust into a soft, photographer's haze. Teresa loved "The golden hour". It was a quiet part of the day. Early, before the evening feed, the horses were calm. The world felt balanced for a moment.

Victor walked beside her, hands relaxed at his side, taking everything in without appearing to. "You keep this place well. It's awesome," he said. 

Teresa smiled. "It keeps me in shape too, kind of a fair trade, right?" 

Victor let out a childlike snicker. "I've been looking for something like this," he said. "A place that actually cares about animals, people who actually care about what goes on." 

Teresa nodded, leading him along the fence line. "We don't cut corners here, and if that's what you're after, you're in the right place." They stopped near the side gate that opened into one of the smaller enclosures. Inside, a chestnut gelding shifted lazily, flicking its tail at flies. "He's new," Teresa said. "Still getting used to things. He pushes too hard sometimes, but he'll get it. Go ahead." 

"Oh, mind if I..." he asked, nodding toward the horse. 

"Go ahead," Teresa said. "He's gentle." Victor didn't open the gate. He just stood there for a moment, watching the animal. Then he turned back toward Teresa. 

"Would you happen to have some cold water? It's warmer than I expected." 

"Of course," she said. "I'll be right back." She headed toward the house, boots crushing softly against the gravel.

Victor waited until she was halfway across the yard before his posture changed. Not dramatically, just enough. He turned back to the gate. His hand moved to the latch, fingers testing the tension. He lifted the latch slightly, then let it settle. It caught. Almost. He pressed the gate once. It held. A second push—firmer—and it slipped. The gate opened an inch, then rested back into place. Victor nodded. “Good enough.”

By the time Teresa returned, he was standing where she had left him, hands loose at his side, expression calm. "Here you go," she said, handing him the glass. 

"Thank you." He took a slow drink, eyes drifting across the property. "You've built something really special here," he said. 

Teresa followed his gaze, a quiet pride settling in her chest. "It's been my entire life," she said. 

Victor handed her the glass back. "I can see that." They spoke for a few more minutes. Details, arrangements, nothing memorable on the surface. When he finally left, it was with the simple, polite ease with which he had arrived.

Teresa watched him drive off, then turned back toward the enclosures. The afternoon had shifted slightly. The air felt heavier. She didn't think much of it. Work was waiting. It started with a sound, metal brushing wood. Teresa glanced up. The gate, it had moved just enough to catch her eye. The chestnut gelding stood near it now, head lowered, testing the edge with a slow, curious push. "That's not right," Teresa muttered. She walked slowly toward it, wiping her hands on her jeans. "Easy now." The horse pressed again. The latch slipped. The gate swung open. The gelding slipped a step forward, uncertain at first, then quicker. Freedom always moved faster than caution.

"Whoa, whoa, hey." Teresa moved instinctively, stepping in to guide him back, one hand reaching for the halter, the other pushing the gate inward. The horse startled, not violently, just enough. A shift of weight, a sudden sideways movement. The loose gate swung harder than she expected, and the edge caught her off balance. Her boots slipped against the packed dirt. 

There was a moment, brief, suspended, where everything could have gone either way. Then it didn't. She went down hard. The sound was dull, final in a way that didn't announce itself. The horse bolted past her, hooves tearing into the ground as it cleared the opening. Then it settled. The dust settled.

For a few seconds, Teresa didn't move. The sky above her was impossibly blue. She could hear the horse somewhere beyond the fence, running, then slowing. Her breath came shallow and uneven. She tried to shift. Pain answered, sharp, immediate, deep. "Uhhhh,” she whispered. Not fear but a sense of recognition. Her eyes drifted toward the gate. It hung open. Wrong. Something about it. Her brow tightened slightly, then relaxed. A thought tried to form. Something about the gate, something about earlier, something about Dash... It didn't come together. The light shifted again, softer now. The sounds of the ranch carried on without her. Wind without fencing, a distant bird, the quiet rhythm of a place that didn't yet understand what had changed.

By the time anyone found her, the dust had already settled. From a distance, it looked like what it was supposed to be.

An accident.

Dash gets the call

Gator stood near the edge of the ranch property, phone in his hand, not dialing yet. He had made these calls before. Too many times. It never got easier, and this one was different. It just got a bit messier.

He looked once more toward the open gate. The latch. The angle. The way it sat wrong without announcing itself. Then he exhaled and dialed.

The phone rang twice. Three times.

“Hello?” Her voice—steady, alert. A working voice. Not ready for this one.

“Dash… It’s Gator.”

A small shift on the other end. “Hey,” she said. “I was actually going to call you. I think I found—”

“Dash.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

Silence. Not confusion but an uneasy recognition. Something in his tone had already told her.

“I need you to listen to me for a second,” he said. Careful. Measured. “There’s been an incident out at the ranch.”

“What kind of incident?” Too fast. Too sharp. Already bracing for what felt really bad.

“A horse got loose,” he said. “There was an accident.” He stopped there. Nothing on the line.

Then— “Gator…” Her voice was smaller now. “Is my mom okay?”

He closed his eyes briefly. Not long. Just enough to make sure his voice didn’t break.

“No.” He didn’t dress it up. Didn’t soften it with extra words. “She didn’t make it.”

The line stayed open. No sound. No breath, only the absence of air. 

“Dash,” he said quietly. “I’m here.” Not I’m sorry or this is terrible. Just: I’m here.

A breath came through. Broken. “Okay,” she said. Not acceptance or understanding. It was just the only word she could find.

“Do you have someone with you?” Gator asked.

“No.”

“Then you stay where you are for a minute.” Calm. Directive. “I’ll stay on the line.” He leaned against the fence post, eyes still on the open gate. “We’ll figure out the next step together.”

On the other end, Dash didn’t speak again. But she didn’t hang up, and neither did he.

At the ranch with Gator

The truck came to a stop too fast. Gravel scattered under the tires. Dash didn’t remember the drive at all. She opened the door and stepped out into the morning. The ranch looked exactly the same. That was the first thing that felt wrong.

Gator stood near the fence line. He didn’t approach or call out; he was just there. She spotted him and walked straight toward him. Not running or hesitating, just moving

“Where?” she asked. No greeting. No softness. Just the question.

He nodded toward the side enclosure. “By the gate,” he said. Nothing else.

Dash walked past him. He fell in beside her— matching her pace. It was still open, just a few inches, like it hadn’t decided yet. The ground told the story. Disturbed dirt. Bent metal. Absence where something had been. She stopped. Dash didn’t kneel or touch anything. She just stood there.

“You don’t have to figure it out right now,” Gator said quietly. Not instruction or for comfort. Just permission.

“She would’ve checked the latch,” Dash said. More to herself than to him. “She always checks the latch.”

Gator didn’t respond. That wasn’t a question. That was the beginning of something else. He looked at the latch again and then back at Dash. Then away. Dash reached out and touched the gate. It shifted slightly under her hand. Not broken, just… off. She pulled it closed without thinking. It caught.... Almost.

Sylvia Peterson visits Gator unexpectedly

The station was quieter than usual for mid-afternoon. Perfect paperwork time. Gator was halfway through a report when he felt it— someone standing at the edge of his space, waiting.

“Detective Rosen?” He looked up. Sylvia Peterson stood just inside his office door, hands folded neatly in front of her. Calm and composed. Unlike previous encounters.

“Mrs. Peterson,” Gator said, standing. “You didn’t call ahead.”

“I didn’t want to be told to wait,” she replied. Not a snarky or rude comment. Just honest.

He gestured toward the chair across from his desk. She sat, back straight, eyes steady, without any wasted movement. No visible grief. That was new.

“Are you making progress?” she asked.

Gator leaned back slightly. “We’re still working angles.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Gator nodded once. “Yes,” he said. “We are.” 

“Then you know it wasn’t random.” That was not a question.

Gator didn’t answer immediately. He watched her instead, measuring this new Sylvia.

“My son didn’t decide to die,” she said, reiterating her first interview. Same expression as before. Only the tone had changed, different. Less searching. More… settled.

“What do you think happened?” he asked.

Sylvia held his gaze. “I think,” she said slowly, “someone helped him get there.” Gator felt it then. Not anger or hysteria. Direction.

“We need evidence for that,” he said.

“You’re going to get it,” she replied. Not hopeful. Certain.

A voice came from behind them. “Sylvia.” Billy stood near the doorway, briefcase still in hand. He hadn’t meant to overhear, but he had.

Sylvia turned to him. Something softened—but only slightly. “You have a son,” she said. “One of the Hitmen.” Billy nodded. “Then you must understand,” she continued. “You don’t get to not know why.”

Billy looked down for a second. Skip flashed in his mind. The hospital. His dreams of Sylvia walking Skip away, in the hospital. Life changes without advance notice. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”

She stood and smoothed her hands once over her coat. Composed again. “I won’t take up more of your time,” she said.

She looked at Gator. Then Billy. “I trust you’ll do what needs to be done.” She walked out without hesitation. No rushing. Just… finished.

The room stayed quiet for a second longer than it should have.

Billy exhaled. “She’s holding it together better than I expected,” he said.

Gator didn’t look at him. “That’s not what that is,” he said.

Billy frowned. “What is it?”

Gator watched the door Sylvia had just walked through. “She’s not waiting anymore.”

Hitmen table

Two chairs are empty now in a way that feels permanent. Skip sits with his tray untouched, jaw set, eyes somewhere else entirely. Holding himself together with both hands, the way you hold a cracked thing you're afraid to set down. Dean sits across from him. Not holding himself together at all. His face is red and wet, and he doesn't seem embarrassed about it. He keeps looking at the two empty chairs. Then away. Then back.

Dean looks at Skip and says, "I keep thinking they're going to just... walk in." Skip doesn't answer. "Like it's a mistake. Like somebody got it wrong." With more pain than fear now. “You think this ever… ends?” Dean asked. Not looking at him. Just pushing fries around with his finger. “That detective called my mom again.”

Skip cuts him off mildly. "Dean."

"I know. I know they're not coming back." He wipes his face with the back of his hand. A kid's gesture. Unguarded. "I just don't know what to do with myself, man. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel like."

Skip finally looks at him. Something moves behind his eyes — not impatience, not quite. More like envy. The freedom of being able to fall apart like that. "I don't know either, Dean." Skip paused a bit and continued. “Yeah,” he said finally. “He talked to my dad, too.” His voice sounded flat, even to him.

Dean nods. Keeps crying quietly. Makes no effort to stop. “I don’t think he’s trying to jam us up,” Dean said. He glanced over, just for a second. “I think he knows something’s off.”

Skip’s jaw tightened. “Everybody thinks something’s off.” He kept his eyes on the table. “Doesn’t mean they get to know.”

Dean leaned back slightly. Not as tense as before. Not calmer— just… decided. “I heard he’s gonna besuspended,” Dean said. He didn’t say the name. He didn’t have to.

Skip finally looked up. “For now.” That was all he said. But it carried more than the words. Silence settled again. Heavy.

Dean picked at his food.

Across the cafeteria, unnoticed, VICTOR MANION moves through the room on his way to the faculty exit. His eyes pass over the Hitmen table without slowing. He takes in Skip's rigid posture. The controlled grief. The architecture of a boy trying to be unreachable. His gaze moves briefly to Dean. Wet face. Shaking hands. Crying without shame in a public room. Victor looks away. Keeps walking. Nothing there was worth his time.

EPISODE FIVE

Parents meeting

The meeting room at the coffee shop near the police station was too small for everything everyone brought. Gator sat at the head of the table, not speaking yet. He didn’t need to. The room would do the work. Sylvia Peterson sat upright, hands folded neatly. Still and focused. Sheri Mondale sat across from her, shoulders slightly forward, like she hadn’t fully settled into the chair. Donald Mondale leaned back, arms crossed—not defensive, just contained. Billy sat near the end of the table. Quiet. Watching but not ready to contribute anything.

“I appreciate you all coming in,” Gator said. Controlled. “We’re still working through the timeline.”

“Then you’re looking in the wrong place,” Sylvia said. 

The room shifted slightly. Not loud, but everyone was now in attention mode. Gator didn’t interrupt. Just turned his head toward her. “What do you mean?” 

Sylvia didn’t hesitate. “My son didn’t decide anything.” She said bluntly. “Someone helped him get there.” No one answered her. Not because they agreed, but because no one could say she was wrong.

“That’s a big assumption,” Donald said. “Kids go through things. Especially with everything going on at home—”

“This didn’t start at home,” Sheri said. Matching Donald’s tone. “It started somewhere else.” Sheri shifted in her seat. Her eyes moved slightly—not at Sylvia, not at Gator. Somewhere inward.

“School,” Sylvia said. Not guessing. Placing it exactly where she intended it.

Sheri’s hand moved to the edge of the table. Fingers pressing lightly. “Tuesday…” she said, almost to herself. Everyone looked at her now. “He came home early,” she said. “Didn’t eat. Just… went straight to his room.” She swallowed. “I thought it was just… everything else.” 

The room changed. Not outwardly. But something aligned. Billy didn’t move. But his posture tightened—just slightly. Enough.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Donald said. Still controlled but not as solid, and then looks down at the table, careful to avoid eye contact

“It means something,” Sylvia said. With certainty.

Gator’s eyes shifted—not to Sylvia, not to Sheri. To Billy. Just for a second. Then back to the table. “We’ll follow that,” Gator said. Not promising or dismissing. Just moving the meeting forward. Chairs shifted. Quiet movement without any real resolution. Just weight and something more to consider. 

Billy stood in the hallway after they left. He didn’t move. The conversation still sitting in his ears. School, Tuesday, someone helped them get there. No one had said a name. They didn’t need to. Billy looked down the empty corridor. He was representing him.

Eavesdropping Dash

The coffee shop outside the meeting room had emptied out. The noise went with it. Dash stood near the far wall, arms loosely crossed, like she’d been there longer than she needed to be. She didn’t look surprised when Gator stepped out.

“That went about how you thought it would?” she asked.

Gator closed the door behind him. “Close enough,” he said.

“She’s not guessing,” Dash said. It wasn’t a question.

Gator shook his head slightly. “No.”

“She’s decided,” Dash added.

Gator looked at her for a second. That was the right word.

“The other one,” Dash said, “she hadn’t put it together yet.”

“Not until it was said out loud,” Gator replied. “Yeah.”

Dash nodded once. “That matters.”

Gator leaned back against the wall. “We’ve got a time marker now,” he said.

“School transition. Early in the year.” Dash’s focus sharpened. “Freshmen.”

Neither of them said the name.

“He teaches freshmen,” Dash said. Simple.

“

Yeah,” Gator said. 

“And he’s been doing it long enough to know exactly what that year does to kids.” Dash uncrossed her arms.

Gator nodded. “Perfect place to start working things.”

Dash glanced back toward the meeting room. “You see him?” she asked.

Gator didn’t follow her look. “Yeah.”

“That didn’t sit right with him.”

“No,” Gator said. “It didn’t.”

Dash didn’t respond immediately. “And he’s representing him,” she said.

Gator nodded once. “Yeah.”

“So either he’s missing it,” Dash said, “or he’s trying not to see it.”

Gator pushed off the wall. “Or he just got it,” he said.

Dash looked back at him. “Then we don’t have much time.”

Gator gave a small nod. “No,” he said. “We don’t.”

Third lake trip

The lake was very still. Ed cut the engine and let the boat drift. No rush. No pressure. Just space.

“You gonna fish,” Ed said, “or you gonna sit there and think about not fishing?” Skip almost smiled. Almost. 

“I don’t even know where to start,” Skip said.

“That’s usually a sign you’re in the right place,” Ed replied.

Skip stared out at the water. “It wasn’t just them,” he said. “Trev and Zach.”

His voice tightened. “It started before that.”

Ed set the rod down. “Alright,” he said. Just that.

“There was a teacher,” Skip said. “He didn’t… do anything obvious.” He rubbed his hands together unconsciously. “He just knew where to look.” Skip paused. Tried to keep going, but couldn’t find the next words.

“He’d say stuff that—” His voice caught. He stopped and looked down.

Ed didn’t jump in and didn’t fill the silence. Just stayed there. Letting it be hard.

“He got in our heads,” Skip said suddenly. Too fast and very sharp. “He made it feel like… like everything was already decided.” His breathing shifted. Not steady anymore. “Like there wasn’t a way out.” He shook his head. “And I just—”

He stopped again. Hard this time. Skip grabbed for the edge of the seat with both hands. Tight. Like he needed something solid to hold onto. “I knew it was wrong,” he said. “I knew it.” The words came out rough now. “And I didn’t say anything.”

Ed leaned forward. Not calm anymore. Not distant. Not wise. Tears began to form, and he moved to sit next to Skip.

“Hey,” he said, firmly. “You don’t get to carry all of that by yourself.” He took a breath and looked out at the water for a second. Then back at Skip. “I’ve done that,” he said quietly. Skip looked up. Ed didn’t look away. “Thought I could wait something out. Thought it would fix itself if I just… gave it space.” The pain showed. “It doesn’t work like that.” Skip’s grip loosened slightly. Not fixed, not better, but not alone either.

“Victor,” Skip said. “Victor Manion.” Saying it didn’t feel like relief. Just… real.

“He’s the reason they’re gone,” Skip said. “ Zach and Trev were afraid he’d tell their parents and that it would get out. They were so messed up at the thought of what it would mean.” Skip began to shake a bit.  “I never told anyone but Dean. They’d still be here if…” 

Finally, Skip’s shoulders heaved with release.  Ed reached over and put an arm around his shoulder. Strong, not gentle or soft. But steady as they both shared the tears, together. Ed broke the moment. “Alright,” he said. But this time it carried more. Not just acceptance. Commitment. The boat drifted slightly off line. Neither of them corrected it right away. For the first time, Skip let go of holding everything together. And the world didn’t fall apart.

Ed tells Billy

Ed drove Skip home from the lake that Sunday evening. Billy was at the kitchen counter when Ed walked in. Papers spread out. Legal pad. Notes stacked in careful order. He didn’t look up right away.

“You’re back early,” Billy said.

Ed didn’t answer immediately. He stood there for a second longer than usual. Taking the room in. Taking Billy in. Then he moved in and set his keys down quietly. “We need to talk,” Ed said.

Billy kept writing for a second. Finished the line. Set the pen down and looked up. “That serious?” Billy asked.

Ed nodded once. “Yeah.”

Billy leaned back slightly. “This about Skip?”

Ed didn’t soften it. “It is.” Billy’s posture changed without him realizing it. Subtle. But tighter.

“He okay?”

“He’s holding,” Ed said. “But he’s been carrying something he shouldn’t have been carrying alone.”

Billy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What does that mean?”

Ed stepped closer to the counter. Not pacing or circling. Just closing distance.

“It means,” Ed said, “this thing with those boys… didn’t start where people think it did.”

Billy didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt. That was new.

“There’s someone else in it,” Ed continued. “Someone who’s been working them before any of this surfaced.”

Billy’s voice came lower now. “Who?”

Ed didn’t look away. “Victor Manion.”

Billy didn’t react right away. No anger. No disbelief. Just… stillness. The kind that happens when something lands too clean.

“He’s a teacher,” Billy said. A statement trying to stabilize something.

Ed nodded. “Yeah.”

“Skip had contact with him,” Ed said.

Billy’s jaw tightened. “Define contact.”

Ed didn’t rush. “Enough that he knew something wasn’t right.” Ed paused, “Enough that he’s been blaming himself for what happened to those boys.” Billy turned slightly away from the counter. One hand came up to his mouth. Not visible panic. Just control slipping.

“He didn’t tell anyone,” Ed said. “Didn’t think he could. Didn’t know how.” He let that sit. Then: “Sound familiar?”

Billy looked back at him. That one landed hard.

“You’re saying this guy…” He stopped. “You’re saying Victor Manion had something to do with those boys dying.”

Ed didn’t answer directly. “I’m saying Skip believes he did.” Slight sigh,  “And I believe Skip.”

Billy let out a slow breath. His eyes drifted back to the papers on the counter. The case file. Victor’s name written cleanly at the top of a page. He stared at it. Billy's eyes stayed on the file. Skip had wanted to tell him something. Changed his mind. Asked to go to the lake early instead. His hand moved to his mouth without him deciding to move it.

“I’m representing him,” Billy said quietly. Not to Ed. To himself.

“I know,” Ed said. No push or judgment implied. Just truth sitting next to truth.

Billy’s hand rested on the file. Flat. Still. “If this is true…” he said. He didn’t finish it. Didn’t need to.

Ed didn’t fill the silence. He didn’t try to guide it. He just stood there. Letting Billy sit in the space where everything had just changed.

Billy alone with the news

The house felt different after Ed left. Not louder. Quieter, like something had been said that the walls weren’t done holding yet. Billy didn’t move right away. His hand stayed on the case file as if it were the only thing keeping him in place. He pulled the file toward him slowly and opened it. Same pages. Same notes. Nothing had changed. Except everything had.

Victor Manion’s name sat at the top of the page. Clean and clinical. Billy stared at it longer than necessary. Like it might move if he watched it long enough. He flipped through the statements. Witness accounts. Timeline notes. The pieces he had already arranged into something defendable. He read them again. Slower this time. What had felt like gaps before now felt like choices. What had looked like a coincidence now felt like a design. Billy stopped on a page he’d read a dozen times. Read it again. 

Skip’s voice echoed back into the room. Not loud. Just present. “He knew where to look.” Skip had said it on the lake— about Victor. Billy looked back down at the file. Now it felt less like a defense… and more like a pattern. 

“That’s not evidence,” he said quietly. The lawyer in him. Still working. Still trying to hold the line. “That’s not enough.” He repeated it. Like it might still be true. He pushed back from the counter. Stood. Walked a few steps. Stopped and turned back. The file was still there. Waiting. “He talked to my son,” Billy said. Louder this time. The words landed differently. Not theory and definitely not speculation. It was personal.

Billy picked up the file and flipped it shut harder than he meant to. The sound cracked through the room. He stood there, breathing unevenly now. “You don’t get to do that,” he said. Not to anyone in the room. But to Victor, wherever he was. Billy looked toward the hallway. Skip’s room. The door was closed. That steadied him. And made it worse. The idea came quietly. Not dramatic or loud. Just… there.

End it.

Billy shook his head once. “No.” He set the file back down. He didn’t open it again. Didn’t need to. The shift had already happened. He wasn’t reading a case anymore. He was looking at a man. Billy stood in the quiet kitchen, hands resting on the counter, trying to find his footing again. But something underneath him had already moved, and it wasn’t moving back.

EPISODE FIVE

The Park

The park was mostly empty. Late afternoon dusk settled. Just enough light left to stretch it out. Skip jogged a few steps, made a quick shoulder turn to the right, and pivoted to the left, one hand up.  Dean threw the ball on the first fake move. The ball arrived clean. He pulled it in without thinking.

“You’re late on the throw,” he said.

Dean shrugged. “You’re slow.” Skip smiled.

A car passed on the street behind them. Too fast for the area. Neither of them looked at it.

“Okay, Skip…Post pattern!” Dean called out.

Skip made a cut to the sidewalk, and Dean tossed the ball again. Skip stepped into it— the sound changed. Tires screamed. Not braking. The car jumped the curb sideways. The ball hit Skip in the hands as he crossed the sidewalk, headed towards the street. It was a near miss, but Skip tripped on the curb, and his head hit the street with an audible thud. The world went quiet for half a second. Then everything came back at once.

“SKIP!” Dean ran, dropping to his knees beside him. “Hey—hey—” Dean shouted 

Skip didn’t respond. His eyes were open. But not seeing anything. The engine revved once— and the car was gone. No confusion. Just gone. 

Dean fumbled his phone out, hands shaking. “I need an ambulance—he’s not—he’s not waking up—” He looked back down at Skip. “Stay with me, man. Help is coming.”

40 minutes later, people are already leaving the scene. The ambulance doors are closing, and the officer has finished up with Dean’s statement. Life was starting to look like nothing ever happened. Dean’s dad waves for his son to come to the car. 

Dean spotted the football lying on the grass, twenty feet away. He walks over to it and picks it up. 

No tears.

Another hospital trip for Billy

Billy sat forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, hands locked together. Too tight, like if he loosened them, something else might come apart. The double doors at the end of the corridor stayed closed. They always stayed closed. That part never changed.

A nurse passed by without slowing. Another voice called out from somewhere down the hall. Shoes squeaked against tile. Everything functioning exactly the way it was supposed to. That was the worst part. Billy had been here before. Not here. Here.

Sitting in a chair that wasn’t built for waiting this long. Watching doors that didn’t open when you needed them to. Knowing something was already wrong… before anyone said it out loud. He leaned forward more, elbows pressing into his knees. His hands shifted, unclasped for a second—then locked again. Billy couldn’t even imagine this, but it was… harder this time.

“Not again,” he said under his breath. 

He knew where to look. The words didn’t echo this time. They settled.

Billy’s eyes opened slowly. Fixed on the doors. That thought didn’t feel separate anymore. It felt connected. This wasn’t random. He didn’t say it. Didn’t need to. His body had already decided. Billy stood. Walked two steps. Stopped. Turned back and sat down again. There was nowhere to go.

“You don’t get to take another one,” he said quietly. Not loud enough for anyone else to hear. But not meant for them.

Then — footsteps. Familiar ones. Ed sat down in the chair beside him. Said nothing. Billy didn't look at him. Ed stayed anyway.

The doors opened. A doctor stepped into the room. Billy stood immediately. Too fast. “Mr. Maxwell—” Billy didn’t hear the rest. Not yet. He was already somewhere else.

Final attempt for Billy to do the right thing

The hallway outside the ICU had thinned out. Billy stepped away from Ed and the chairs, phone already in his hand. He didn’t look back at the doors. Not this time. He dialed.

“Billy?,” Marty said. No greeting. No lame joking lines. Just concern.

“I need off the Manion case,” Billy said. No buildup or explanation.

Then a small exhale on the other end. “C’mon, Billy.” Not dismissive. Not aggressive. “You’ve already done the heavy lifting.” Just a sigh. “This is a slam dunk now.”

“I’m not in a position to continue,” Billy said. Still a lawyer.

“This about your kid?” Marty asked. Not soft. Just needed answers.

“It’s about the case,” Billy said. Which wasn’t technically a lie.

“Then you know you can’t walk now,” Marty said. Slight edge now.

“Timing matters. Optics matter. We pull you, it looks like we’re hiding something.” Marty's boss-voice showed up... “You finish it.”

Billy didn’t respond right away. The hallway felt smaller again. “I’m asking you,” Billy said finally. Not emotional. Just… direct.

“I’m telling you,” Marty replied. No negotiation. Just the system speaking. “Finish the stinking case.”

The line went quiet. Billy didn’t say anything else. He ended the call and stood there for a second longer than necessary. Then turned back toward the ICU doors.

A concerned Victor listened without interrupting. The voice on the other end filled the space with unnecessary detail. It didn’t matter. Only one piece did. “…he tried to step off,” the voice said. “Timing’s bad. I shut it down.”

Victor didn’t respond immediately. “Understood,” he said.

He ended the call. He set the phone down slowly. Not frustrated. Not surprised. Just… adjusting.

Billy had moved. That meant pressure had landed, and pressure, left alone, spreads. That couldn’t happen.

Victor stood and walked to the window. He didn’t look out. He needed to think. The case needed to end cleanly. Before anything else moved with it. “No delays.” 

Courthouse steps

The noise blurred into something shapeless. Reporters shouting. Cameras clicking. Names being called.

Billy Maxwell heard none of it clearly. His focus was fixed ahead.

Victor Manion stood at the base of the courthouse steps, speaking calmly to a cluster of microphones, as if the last few weeks had been nothing more than an inconvenience. As if nothing had touched him. As if nothing ever could.

Billy’s hand rested lightly on the briefcase at his side. Casual. Ordinary. Inside, the weight seemed perfect for his plan. Not heavy. Just… final.

Victor smiled at a question. Nodded. Corrected someone gently.

The same man. The same control. Untouched.

Billy’s grip tightened. “Okay,” he whispered. No one heard it. He stepped forward. One step. Then another. The world narrowed to a single point.

Victor shifted slightly—not toward him, but just enough to expose his profile. Billy’s hand slid into the briefcase. Fingers found the gun. Cold. Certain. One motion. That’s all it would take.

His breathing slowed. Not faster but noticeably slower. Focused. This was control. This was what it felt like to end something.

“Dad.” The word cut through everything. Billy froze.

He didn’t turn right away. He couldn’t. His hand stayed wrapped around the gun.

“Don’t.” Not loud. Not pleading. Just certain.

Billy closed his eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough.

The crack split the air. It was not imagined. Not delayed, but very real.

Victor jerked mid-sentence. His body twisted backward, confusion crossing his face before pain had time to register. The microphones dropped, and someone screamed. Another shot echoed—maybe. Billy couldn’t tell.

The crowd broke apart instantly. Reporters dove, and most people ran. Security shouted commands that no one followed.

He saw them then. Skip. Ed beside him. Standing at the edge of the crowd, still, watching. Skip's face — pale, reading something in his father's posture that no one else in that crowd could read.

Billy’s hand came out of the briefcase empty. He didn’t remember letting go. He just stood there. Not frozen by the gunshot. Frozen by the truth. He had been one second away.

One second from becoming the man he hated.

Last visit to the storage facility

Victor Manion woke to fluorescent light and a dry tongue. Something was wrong immediately. His head felt packed with sand. His arms heavy. Time broken. He tried to sit up, and the metal snapped tight at his wrist.

Handcuffs.

He looked down. One cuff locked to an exposed pipe beside the narrow couch in his Stor n Lock unit. The room tilted slightly. Then he saw the boy.

Dean Tucker sat on the edge of the couch, gloved hands folded loosely in his lap. Calm. Watching. More composed than Victor had ever considered him in life.

“You’re...” Victor swallowed. “Dean.” Dean nodded once. “One of the boys,” Victor said.

“That’s how you still think of us?” Dean asked softly. “Boys.”

Victor’s eyes moved fast now. Drawers open. Boxes searched. Files disturbed. Compartments emptied.

Decades of trophies handled by someone else.

Violated.

His pulse quickened. 

“You were out almost four hours,” Dean said. “You talk in your sleep.”

Victor lunged. The padded cuff ripped him short. Dean did not flinch.

“You always thought nobody could see you,” Dean said. “That was your gift.” He tilted his head slightly. “You missed mine.”

“Dean,” Victor said, voice softening, “whatever happened to your friends—”

“Don’t.” One word. Flat, but final.

Victor stopped. Dean lifted a cup from the crate beside him. Chocolate. Thick. Sweating in the warm room. Victor stared at it. Recognition moved across his face for the first time.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to prove,” Dean said. “You always left yourself inside a pattern when you evaluated who was dangerous.” Dean hid a small and satisfied smile, never giving Victor even a slight feeling of comfort. “Kill the beast. Slit his throat. Spill his blood…. Remember?”

Victor’s confidence broke in small pieces.

“What did you do?”

Dean handed him the drink. “This is simply what you taught me.”

Victor drank because he still believed he could think his way out later.

Dean watched him the way Victor once watched others.

Patiently.

Without mercy.

EPILOGUE

Morning light rolled across the ranch in long gold bands. Dash guides the horse in a slow circle, one hand easy on the reins. A year ago, she could barely look at the animal. Now she rode it clean and steady.

Grief had strange methods.

Gator drives up, leans against the fence rail, and watches without announcing himself. Smiling before he knows it. Dash spots him, rides over, and dismounts in one fluid motion.

"You spying on me, Detective?"

"Poorly," Gator said.

She asks what brings him out. He says Victor Manion's news. She asks good or bad. He says, "Depends on how you feel about monsters staying dead."

"You're late," Dash said. "Worth the wait."

Meanwhile, 170 miles to the north

The lake was different in the afternoon. Not still. Moving, just enough to remind you it wasn’t holding anything in place.

Billy Maxwell adjusted the line, checking the tension before setting the rod into place. He didn’t rush it. Didn’t need to.

Skip Maxwell sat across from him, watching for a second before picking up his own rod. No instructions or corrections. Just… doing it. “You’re drifting a little,” Skip said.

Billy glanced up, then nudged the motor just enough to adjust their line. “That better?”

Skip nodded once. “Yeah.”

They sat like that for a while. No need to fill it. The quiet wasn’t heavy anymore.

On the dock, Ed Maxwell leaned back against one of the posts, arms resting loosely at his sides. He didn’t wave. Didn’t call out. Just watched.

The boat shifted slightly as Billy adjusted their position again. Skip didn’t say anything this time. Just let it ride.

Ed exhaled slowly. Not a prayer this time. Not a request. Just… gratitude. His eyes welled. Not grief this time. Just relief.

Out on the water, Billy glanced up for a second. Toward the dock. Toward Ed. Then back to the line.

Skip did the same a moment later. Not at the same time. Not planned. Just… the same.