Lisa's footsteps echo against the cracked sidewalks of downtown Riverside, each step a reminder of how far removed this world is from the mansions and manicured lawns of the Heights. Sleep had evaded her for hours, her mind racing with possibilities too dark to voice. Now, at 2 AM, she finds herself wandering past the familiar mix of modest homes and apartment complexes that make up her neighborhood.

  The autumn air carries a bitter chill that has nothing to do with the weather. Lisa pulls her thrift store cardigan tighter around her shoulders, but the cold seems to come from somewhere deeper - somewhere inside her chest where truth and denial wage a silent war.

  "Suicide." The word tastes like ashes on her tongue. She'd heard Charlotte's breathless announcement in the cafeteria, watched the news spread through Riverside High like wildfire. But something about it feels fundamentally wrong, like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong space.

  Hannah Marshall. The name conjures memories that make Lisa's throat tight - trading friendship bracelets in fourth grade, giggling over boy band posters, sharing secrets during middle school sleepovers. Back when social class didn't matter, before the careful hierarchies of Riverside High had torn them apart.

  "God, I'm so sorry," Lisa whispers to the empty street, remembering how easily she'd discarded Hannah's friendship when Amber offered a chance at redemption. How quickly she'd convinced herself it was necessary, just another sacrifice made by a scholarship kid trying to survive in a world built for trust funds and family legacies.

  Her feet carry her past the 24-hour laundromat where their mothers used to gossip while folding clothes, past the corner store where they'd spent their allowance on candy and cheap magazines. The conversation she'd overheard between Nate and Mr. Rosenberg plays on repeat in her mind, their words taking on new, terrible meaning:

  Lisa stops walking, her heart thundering against her ribs as the pieces start clicking into place. Hampton Beach. The way Jake and Nate had exchanged looks at lunch today, loaded with something that made her skin crawl. The darkness in Nate's voice that night at the lake house, confessing fears she hadn't fully understood.

  "What did you do?" she asks the night air, thinking of the boy who'd shared his fruit snacks with her in second grade. Sweet, protective Nate Brooks, who'd once punched Tommy Wilson for pulling her pigtails. Could he really be capable of...

  She can't finish the thought.

  Her wandering brings her to Hannah's street, where a police cruiser sits silent sentinel outside the modest two-story house the Marshalls have called home since before Lisa can remember. The sight makes her stomach turn. She remembers Rachel Martinez, Coach's daughter, after that New Year's party at Jake's. The official story - moved to California to live with her mom - had been accepted without question. Because that's how things worked in Riverside: rich boys made mistakes, and working-class girls paid the price.

  "But Hannah wasn't like Rachel," Lisa argues with herself, remembering Hannah's fierce determination, her refusal to back down even when the entire social structure of Riverside High aligned against her. "She wouldn't just..."

  The words die in her throat as another memory surfaces - Susan pulling her away from Jake at Hampton Beach, his hands rough on her waist, the world spinning from whatever had been in that drink. She'd passed out shortly after, waking up hours later with gaps in her memory that she'd never quite filled.

  What really happened that night? What had Hannah discovered that was worth killing for?

  A car backfires somewhere down the block, the sound echoing off brick buildings and making Lisa jump. She realizes she's been standing still too long, staring at Hannah's house like it might offer answers. The police cruiser's presence suddenly feels threatening rather than reassuring.

  Turning away, Lisa starts the walk back to her apartment, past houses where people work double shifts and clip coupons, worlds away from the mansions where her classmates sleep soundly behind security systems. Her mind spins with questions she's not sure she wants answered. Because if Nate Brooks - golden boy, football star, her childhood friend - could be involved in something like this...

  What other monsters might be hiding behind Riverside's perfect facades?

  Lisa pulls out her phone, fighting to keep her hands steady as her thumb hovers over Instagram. Her feed has become a digital shrine - everyone suddenly sharing Hannah's last post from three weeks ago. The selfie hits her like a punch to the gut: Hannah in the school hallway, dark hair falling across one eye, that characteristic half-smile that always seemed to hide something deeper.

  The captions make bile rise in her throat: from cheerleaders who'd never spoken to her, from guys who'd snickered at her thrift store clothes. Even Susan's repost drips with calculated sympathy: Amber's tribute is typically strategic - a simple black heart emoji, just enough to acknowledge without committing. But Nate's profile remains untouched - no reposts, no tributes, like Hannah Marshall never existed at all.

  "God, you're all such fake-" Lisa nearly collides with a street sign, catching herself at the last second. Her heart hammers against her ribs as she switches to Snapchat, fingers moving with desperate purpose.

  The map glows eerily in the darkness, a web of teenage life at 2:34 AM. Most icons show "sleeping" - there's Matthias across town, out since 10 PM like the responsible content creator he is. Downtown reveals the usual suspects: Morris's icon near the community center, Sarah's by the park, Jeff's above his dad's auto shop. But Lisa's attention gravitates toward Riverside Heights, where the real power players rest.

  Susan and Justin's bitmojis overlap at the Lawrence estate - no surprise there. Charlotte shows "sleeping" a few houses down, while Jake's icon hovers dormant over the Woodland mansion. Then, at the Rosenberg compound, she finds what she's looking for: Amber's sleeping icon, and right beside it, Nate Brooks - "seen 24 minutes ago."

  Lisa zooms in, her mind painting the scene: Amber's golden hair spread across Nate's chest, both of them wrapped in Egyptian cotton sheets and blissful ignorance. But as she watches, something changes. Nate's icon vanishes from Amber's side.

  "What the..." Lisa's fingers move frantically, checking Ridgeline Hills where the Brooks mansion looms among new money estates. Nothing. She pulls back to her own location and freezes: Nate Brooks, seen 1 minute ago, two blocks away.

  Her thumb trembles over her own icon, relief flooding her system when she confirms her location is hidden. But the question pounds in her head like a drumbeat - what is Nate Brooks doing downtown at this hour? On a Wednesday night?

  An engine's growl breaks the silence. Headlights paint elongated shadows as she quickens her pace, mentally calculating the distance home. Just three more blocks. Two and a half. Two-

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  The black Ford Raptor materializes beside her like a predator emerging from darkness. Its massive frame makes her feel impossibly small as the passenger window slides down with mechanical precision. Nate Brooks leans across the center console, his grey hoodie casting shadows that transform his familiar features into something almost sinister.

  "Lisa?" His voice carries that same warmth she remembers from elementary school, but something else lurks beneath it - something that makes her blood run cold. "What are you doing out here so late?"

  "I could ask you the same thing," Lisa manages, impressed by how steady her voice sounds despite her racing heart.

  A shadow of something - amusement? concern? - flickers across Nate's features. "Couldn't sleep," he admits, drumming his fingers against the leather steering wheel. "Keep thinking about Hannah. Known her since kindergarten, you know?" His eyes find hers in the darkness. "But then again, so did you."

  "Yeah." The word comes out barely above a whisper. Lisa's mind flashes to finger-painting and jump rope games, to a time before social hierarchies and secrets worth dying for.

  The silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken words. A siren wails in the distance - probably heading toward Mass General, where Hannah's mom works nights. Worked nights. Past tense now, Lisa realizes with a fresh wave of nausea.

  "You okay?" Nate's voice carries that particular gentle tone she remembers from childhood, the one that made her write his name in hearts on her notebook margins. "You're shaking."

  Lisa shakes her head, not trusting her voice.

  "I'm sorry about Hannah." The words sound sincere, but something in his delivery makes Lisa's skin prickle. "It's... it's messed up."

  "Yeah. Me too." She wraps her arms around herself, suddenly aware of how vulnerable she feels standing here in the dark.

  "Here." Nate reaches across to push open the passenger door. "Let me give you a ride. It's late, and downtown's not exactly safe at this hour."

  Lisa hesitates, her mind screaming warnings she can't quite articulate. But Nate just offers that familiar crooked smile - the same one that convinced her to share her lunch in second grade, to trust him with her first real crush confession in sixth.

  "I don't bite," he adds softly. "At least let me get you home safe."

  Against every instinct screaming at her to run, Lisa climbs into the truck. The interior envelops her in pure essence of Nate Brooks - rich leather mixed with fresh sweat and expensive cologne. His gym bag sprawls across the back seat, still damp from evening practice. A photo of him and Amber catches her eye - tucked into the air conditioning vent, both of them golden and perfect at some beach somewhere. Above the rearview mirror, a silver cross swings gently, catching the streetlight like a warning.

  The truck crawls through downtown's empty streets, unnaturally slow for someone whose idea of a casual drive usually involves testing his truck's zero-to-sixty capabilities. Nate's hands rest at perfect ten-and-two on the steering wheel, his knuckles white with tension.

  "Did you..." he clears his throat. "Did you go by Hannah's house?"

  Lisa studies his profile in the passing streetlights, weighing her options. There's no point in lying - he'd clearly seen her there. "Yeah."

  "How was it?" His voice carries a strange edge.

  "Why do you want to know?" The question slips out before she can stop it.

  "Just curious, I guess." Nate's fingers tap an irregular rhythm against the steering wheel. His eyes meet hers in the rearview mirror for a fraction too long. "With everything that's happened... I mean, it's crazy how fast things change, right? One day you're just a kid, and the next..." He trails off, that muscle in his jaw twitching the way it does when he's holding something back.

  "Why?" Lisa presses, something reckless taking hold of her despite the warning bells screaming in her head. The truck suddenly feels too small, too intimate. "What's really going on, Nate? Why are you really out here?"

  His knuckles whiten against the steering wheel. The cross hanging from his mirror catches the passing streetlight, casting strange shadows across his face. When he speaks again, his voice carries an edge she's never heard before. "What exactly are you asking me, Lisa?"

  Lisa's heart hammers against her ribs as she realizes how badly she's miscalculated. This isn't the Nate Brooks who shared his fruit snacks in second grade. This is someone else entirely - someone who speaks to Richard Rosenberg about making problems disappear, someone who doesn't flinch when classmates turn up dead. She watches his reflection in the passenger window, trying to reconcile the boy she grew up with and the stranger beside her.

  "You're not yourself anymore," she says softly.

  The truck jerks slightly as Nate's hands clench on the wheel. "Jesus Christ, Lisa!" The words explode from him with such force that she instinctively presses herself against the passenger door. "What do you want me to say? That I'm perfectly fine? That finding out my girlfriend's been lying about being bipolar for our entire relationship is just another fucking Tuesday? That having the whole school find out before I did because some random chick decided to play whistleblower is totally cool?" His voice cracks slightly. "That having an elementary school friend hang herself is just business as usual?"

  The words hit Lisa like a physical blow as the pieces click into place. Hannah hadn't been randomly snooping - she'd found Amber's diagnosis while babysitting Tommy. And that discovery had cost her her life.

  Lisa's throat feels too tight as she processes the implications. She wants to scream, to demand answers, to ask Nate exactly what "making problems disappear" really means. But survival instinct kicks in, reminding her that she's alone in a truck with someone who might be capable of murder.

  "I'm sorry," she manages, forcing her voice to stay steady. "About all of it. About Amber, about Hannah... everything."

  "No, I'm sorry." Nate deflates slightly, running a hand through his hair. "I haven't been sleeping. Everything's just... it's a lot, you know?" His voice softens to that familiar gentle tone, but now it sends chills down Lisa's spine. "I shouldn't have snapped at you."

  "It's okay," Lisa forces the words past her dry throat. "I understand. These past few days have been... intense."

  The truck turns onto her street, the neon sign of Chen's Garden casting red shadows across the dashboard. The familiar sight of her family's restaurant should be comforting, but something nags at her mind - a detail in Nate's earlier outburst.

  "You said..." Lisa hesitates, choosing her words carefully. "You said she hanged herself? Is that... is that how it happened?"

  "Yeah." Nate's response comes too quickly. "That's what the cops said, anyway."

  "You talked to the police?" The question slips out before she can stop herself.

  The truck pulls into the empty parking lot, engine idling. Nate turns to face her fully, and something in his eyes makes her breath catch. "What are you really asking me, Lis?"

  "Nothing." She fumbles for the door handle, suddenly desperate to escape. "Thanks for the ride."

  "Yeah, sure." His voice carries that dangerous gentleness again. "Sleep well."

  Lisa forces herself not to run as she crosses to the restaurant's back entrance. The key trembles in her hand as she unlocks the door, hyper-aware of Nate's truck still idling behind her. Only when she's inside, door firmly locked, does she allow herself to breathe.

  Through the window, she watches Nate's black Raptor disappear into the night. Her mind races, trying to piece together the puzzle that got Hannah killed. That darkness in Nate's eyes - she'd seen it before, at Hampton Beach. The morning after, when she'd woken up alone and disoriented, finding only Nate, Jake, Susan, and Amber remaining. The way Amber couldn't meet anyone's gaze, how Susan's hands wouldn't stop shaking, the heavy silence between the boys.

  "Not high school drama," she whispers to herself, climbing the stairs to their apartment above the restaurant. Her footsteps are silent, years of practice avoiding the creaky spots that might wake her parents. "Richard Rosenberg wouldn't kill over a leaked diagnosis. This is something else."

  Hampton Beach. The name echoes in her mind like a warning bell. Hannah had been digging, asking questions about that night. And now she's dead - hanged in her bedroom like a carefully staged finale.

  Lisa's hands shake as she opens Snapchat, finding Alex Winters' profile. The goth girl who'd been helping Hannah investigate, who might be next on whatever hit list Nate and Mr. Rosenberg were working through. Her finger hovers over the message button, weighing the consequences.

  If she's wrong, she's just another paranoid teenager spinning conspiracy theories. But if she's right - if Hannah really was murdered - then she might be next. The thought of Nate Brooks out there in the darkness, watching, waiting...

  Drawing a deep breath, Lisa types:

  Simple. Careful. Nothing that could raise alarms if the wrong people saw it. She hits send before she can change her mind, knowing she's just crossed a line she can never uncross. Whatever happened that night at Hampton Beach, whatever Hannah discovered that got her killed - Lisa's now part of it.

  The question is: will she live long enough to expose the truth?