The library lights flickered. Marcus Henderson stared at his beat-up copy of Attack on Titan. His glasses slipped down his nose. He pushed them back up. They slipped again. He'd been doing this for two years now. Eren Yeager glared up from the page, all anger and determination. Marcus wished he had half that courage.
"Still reading those weird Japanese comics, Henderson?"
The voice hit Marcus like cold water. Brad Kowalski stood behind him, all two hundred pounds of entitled quarterback muscle. Marcus's stomach knotted, but he kept staring at the manga panel. Eren was mid-transformation, steam rising from his wounds.
"They're called manga." The words slipped out before Marcus could stop them.
Brad's palm cracked against the table. Marcus's glasses slipped further down his nose. "What'd you say, four-eyes?"
Marcus closed the book, his fingers careful not to bend the pages. "Nothing. I said nothing."
Brad leaned in. Energy drink sweetness mixed with sweat and something sharper. "Yeah, that's right. Keep your mouth shut, weirdo."
Footsteps echoed across the floor. Brad walked away with his friends. They followed him like dogs. Marcus opened his manga again. The words blurred together.
The empty chair next to him seemed huge. Chloe's chair. She used to sit there every lunch. She'd steal his fruit snacks and argue about anime fight scenes.
Two weeks. She'd been gone for two weeks. No explanation. No goodbye. His mother just shrugged when he asked. "Kids leave sometimes, Marcus. Families move." But the Morrison family still lived on Pine Street. Chloe's bedroom light still came on at ten-thirty every night. Someone was in that room. It wasn't her.
The bell rang. Marcus packed his manga and joined the crowd heading outside. October air cut through his thin jacket. His breath made little clouds as he walked past the broken mailboxes and rusted cars. Millbrook, Pennsylvania. Population 8,847. He'd memorized that number from staring at the town sign so many times.
Oak Avenue stretched ahead. Houses lined both sides, all looking tired and worn down. His sat at the end. Two stories with blue shutters that hung crooked. His dad kept saying he'd fix them. That promise lived next to "I'll spend more time at home" and "things are going to get better."
"Yo, Marcus!"
Marlon burst through the front door like he'd been shot from a cannon. At fourteen, he'd already hit six feet and showed no signs of slowing down. His hair caught the afternoon light in a way that made Marcus's mother sigh wistfully and mutter about "movie star good looks."
"Mom wants to see you. She's having one of her good days."
Marcus's chest tightened. Good days were becoming extinct. The multiple sclerosis had been taking pieces of his mother for two years now, stealing her coordination, her energy, her smile. Some days she couldn't remember what she'd eaten for breakfast. Other days she couldn't get out of bed at all.
"In a few minutes." Marcus tried to push past his brother.
Marlon blocked his path. "Dude, she's been asking about you all day. Every ten minutes. 'Where's Marcus? Is Marcus home yet?' It's driving Dad nuts."
"I said in a few minutes."
"Come on, man. Just go say hi. She made cookies." Marlon's face softened. "Well, she tried to. They're kind of burnt. But she was really happy about them."
Marcus climbed the stairs. Each step creaked. His room waited at the top, stuffed under the roof. Manga books covered every surface. Their bright colors stood out against the boring beige walls. He fell onto his bed and stared at the water stain on the ceiling. Today it looked like a dragon. Yesterday it had been a ship.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown number: Meet me at the old railroad bridge. Come alone. You know why. - C
Marcus sat up fast. Nearly dropped the phone. His hands shook as he read it again. C. Chloe. Had to be.
Something felt wrong though. Chloe never texted like that. She'd send five messages in a row. Usually with bad spelling and way too many laughing emojis. This message was too neat. Too careful.
He grabbed his jacket anyway.
The railroad bridge sat half a mile outside town. Rusted iron beams crossed Miller's Creek like broken teeth. Marcus had been coming here since he was ten. First with Chloe to catch crawfish. Later to escape when home got too heavy. The sunset painted the water orange and red. Beautiful the way dying things sometimes were.
She waited in the middle of the bridge. Same long black hair. Same small body. But when she turned around, Marcus stopped breathing.
Chloe's face was covered in bruises. Yellow and purple spread across her left cheek like spilled paint. Her bottom lip was split and fat. Dark circles hung under her eyes. She looked like she hadn't slept in weeks.
"Jesus, Chloe. What happened to you?"
She held up her hand. Marcus could see finger marks on her wrist, dark as tattoos.
"Listen to me." Her voice sounded like gravel. "I don't have much time. They think I'm still in the basement."
"Who? Who did this to you?"
"The Torrinos. Julio's crew." She looked back at the dark trees. "They grabbed me two weeks ago. Said they needed insurance against my dad's testimony."
Marcus knew the name. Everyone in Millbrook knew Vincent Torrino. The old man had moved to town five years ago. Within two years he owned half of Main Street. His nephew Julio ran with local kids who drove fancy cars and never worried about money.
"Your dad's testifying against them?"
"He was going to." Chloe's laugh sounded broken. "Key words being 'was going to.' Now he's too scared. They showed him pictures of what they'd do to me if he talked."
Marcus stepped closer. In the dying light he could see more damage. A line of stitches along her hair. Bruises on her neck that looked like fingerprints.
"We have to call the police. We have to-"
"Marcus." Chloe grabbed his arm. Her fingers dug in like claws. "Half the cops in this town work for Julio. The other half are too scared to do anything. You call the police, and I disappear for real this time."
The words hit Marcus like a punch. His best friend. The girl who'd saved him from Tommy Morrison in third grade. Now she was this broken, scared thing.
"So what do we do?"
Chloe pulled something from her jacket. A small digital camera, the kind tourists used. "I managed to grab this before I escaped. There's pictures on here. Julio and his boys with bricks of cocaine. Money changing hands. Some faces you'd recognize."
She pressed the camera into Marcus's hands. The plastic felt warm against his palms.
"Hide this. Don't tell anyone you have it. When the time is right, when you find someone you can trust, use it."
A car engine growled in the distance, getting louder. Chloe went stiff.
"Shit. They found me." She was already moving, climbing over the bridge railing with quick, desperate movements. "Remember what I said, Marcus. Don't trust the cops. Don't trust anyone."
"Chloe, wait!"
But she was already gone. She dropped into the darkness below. Marcus heard the splash as she hit the water, then nothing. Headlights swept across the bridge as two black SUVs roared onto the access road. Marcus pocketed the camera and ran.
He made it to the tree line as the vehicles reached the bridge. Through the branches, he watched five men climb out. Even at a distance, he recognized Julio Torrino's thin body and perfectly styled hair. The young man moved like someone who'd never faced real consequences.
"Where is she?" Julio's voice carried across the water, smooth and cultured despite the violence it promised.
"Must have jumped," another voice replied. "Want us to search downstream?"
"No point. Creek's moving fast tonight. She'll either drown or freeze." Julio lit a cigarette, the flame briefly lighting up his sharp features. "Either way, problem solved."
Marcus pressed himself deeper into the shadows. His heart hammered against his ribs. The camera in his pocket felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
The men searched the bridge for another ten minutes before giving up. Marcus waited until their tail lights disappeared before coming out of the woods. He stood at the bridge's edge and listened hard, hoping to hear Chloe calling his name from the creek bed below.
Only silence answered him.
The walk home felt like a funeral march. Each step took him further from the bridge, from Chloe, from any hope of understanding what had just happened. By the time he reached Oak Avenue, full darkness had settled over Millbrook like a blanket.
His house glowed with warm yellow light. Through the living room window, he could see his family around the television. Normal. Safe. Innocent. Marcus stood on the front porch and felt like an alien looking at some strange species.
His mother's voice drifted through the door. "Is that Marcus? Marcus, honey, come in here. I made cookies."
He touched the camera through his jacket pocket and stepped inside. He was carrying his terrible knowledge like a bomb waiting to explode.