Light slipped through the blinds, striping across her face.
She stared at herself for a second before sitting up and brushing her hair from her eyes.
She reached for her phone on the nightstand, thumbed the screen, then let it drop back with a dull tap.
Leaning toward the window, she pulled the curtain aside, sunlight spilling in, sharp and clean.
The sky outside was clear, too bright for how tired she felt.
She squinted at the screen, the numbers blinking back at her.
“Eleven thiiiirty. Great,” she muttered under her breath, voice flat with sarcasm.
The phone dropped onto the blanket with a soft thud as she rubbed her face and sighed.
She picked her phone back up, thumb flicking through playlists until a bright, punchy beat filled the room.
Music played as she rolled off the bed, landing softly on her feet, pajama shirt half twisted. She stretched, pushed her hair back, and moved through her small morning routine, toothbrush in hand, the mirror catching flashes of her getting ready in rhythm with the music.
The upbeat song faded to its chorus as she stood before the mirror, now dressed neatly, her look sharp but simple.
She zipped her laptop into her bag, slung the strap over her shoulder, and walked toward the door.
By the entryway, her cat brushed against her leg, tail curling once around her ankle.
Jamie paused, leaning down to gently pet its head before straightening again, keys in hand.
The upbeat pop song reached its final chorus as Jamie crouched by the door, her bag slung over one shoulder.
Her cat wound between her ankles again, purring. She bent down, giving his head another quick rub.
“Goodbye, Bachelor! I love you, buddy.”
She smiled faintly, gave him one last scratch behind the ear, then stood upright.
The door clicked shut in rhythm with the song’s final beat.
Jamie sat parked along the curb, sunlight spilling through the windshield in soft, angled streaks.
Her rearview mirror caught her reflection as she leaned closer, steady hand applying the last sweep of mascara.
When she finished, she blinked twice, checking her work. The corner of her mouth lifted in a small, satisfied smile as she studied herself in the mirror. “Good enough.” She whispers.
Jamie shut the visor mirror with a soft snap and grabbed her bag from the passenger seat.
The door creaked open, a rush of warm air spilling in as she stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk.
Ahead of her stood Davies Corner, its faded red awning fluttering faintly in the breeze. The neon “OPEN” sign in the window buzzed with a lazy hum, half the letters flickering out.
Jamie crossed the short stretch of pavement, her sneakers coming down softly. The door handle was cool against her hand as she reached for it — the faint jingle of the store’s bell already audible from inside.
Jamie stepped inside, the bell above the door jingling tiredly.
The faint smell of burnt coffee and floor cleaner lingered in the air.
She glanced toward the counter and spotted the familiar face behind the register.
“Morning, Marcus,” she said, waving as she made her way to the self-serve coffee machine near the corner.
Marcus lifted a hand in return.
Marcus stood behind the counter, both hands resting flat on the worn surface. The morning light from the window caught the silver in his beard.
“Hardly,” he said, his voice rough but kind. “You’re usually in here earlier.”
Jamie smiled faintly over her shoulder as she grabbed a cup from the rack beside the machine, the steady trickle of coffee filling the quiet between them.
As the stream of coffee hissed into her cup, Jamie glanced over her shoulder with a smirk.
“Were you worried I wasn’t coming in?” she said, her tone light and teasing.
Marcus chuckled, the sound low and gravelly.
“Well,” he said, leaning a little on the counter, “I know you’ll always come in for your Powerball. Thought maybe you’d cheat on me and start goin’ down the street or something.”
Jamie laughed quietly
Jamie finished pouring her coffee, grabbed a napkin from the dispenser, and walked toward the front counter. She snagged a bar of chocolate from the display and flashed Marcus a grin.
“Cheat on you, Marcus? Never,” she said, holding up her coffee like a toast. “You’re my cashier for life.”
Marcus grinned, deep lines folding around his mouth.
“Good,” he said, reaching under the counter and pulling out the familiar lottery pad. “’Cause you said if you ever won, you’d split it with me.”
He tore a ticket free with practiced ease, sliding it across the counter toward her.
Jamie took the ticket with a grin and started scratching at the silver film, coins clinking softly against the counter.
Marcus shook his head with mock disapproval. “Now just ’cause you come in here every day,” he said, snapping his fingers, “don’t mean I’m payin’ for your coffee.”
Jamie stopped mid-scratch, smirking as she shook her head. She pulled a few crumpled bills from her pocket and slid them across the counter toward him.
Jamie made a little hiss through her teeth, grinning. “Okay, dang — feeling catty today?” she said, playful sarcasm in her tone. “I love the energy, boo.”
She winked at him and went back to scratching the ticket, silver dust collecting on the counter.
The ticket revealed its bad news, and Jamie sighed dramatically. “Aww, looks like we live another day, poor, Marcus.”
Marcus grinned, shaking his head. “Story of my life.”
Jamie crumpled the ticket and tossed it into the small bin by the door, the paper landing with a soft rustle. “See you tomorrow!” she called, waving over her shoulder.
Marcus lifted a hand in return, smiling as the door chimed shut behind her.
The smell of coffee lingered in her car as Jamie pulled out onto the street. The city slid past in a blur of storefronts and stoplights, sunlight flashing across the windshield in pale streaks.
By the time she reached the mall, the caffeine had started to settle her nerves. She moved through the usual crowd of parents with strollers, kids dragging shopping bags, the faint hum of music from a distant speaker.
Her sneakers clicked softly against the tile as she crossed into the food court. Her usual corner table waited close enough to the bustle to feel alive, but still hers. She set down her coffee, slid her laptop from her bag, and opened it to a blank screen that blinked back expectantly.
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She rested back in her chair, taking a slow sip of her coffee. The warmth lingered against her lips as she looked around at the food court, the chatter, the shuffle of trays, the hum of ordinary life moving past her.
She turned the laptop toward her, the reflection of the food court lights stretching across the screen. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, tabs, search bar, keywords.
Articles filled the page in a scatter of headlines until one caught her eye:
“Revenge? Duty? Or Hate? A Killer on the Loose.”
Jamie clicked it open, her expression tightening just slightly. She exhaled through her nose, leaning back as the canned mall soundtrack drifted overhead.
She reached for her phone and opened her notes app, the blue light reflecting faintly in her eyes.
A short list stared back at her — reminders from the last few days:
- Strangulation
- Bible
- Possible bribery or Miss Calder
Her thumb hovered at the bottom of the list, the cursor blinking beside an empty line.
As Jamie stared down at her notes, a small voice cut through the hum of the food court.
“Stop kicking me!”
She looked up. At a nearby table, a little girl glared at her brother, maybe six, maybe seven, as he nudged her foot again under the table.
The girl let out a sharp, frustrated scream.
“I’m going to tell Dad!”
Her brother just giggled, eyes wide with mischief as she pouted and slid out of her chair, stomping off in exaggerated defeat.
Jamie’s gaze lingered on them for a moment.
Jamie exhaled, slowly and quietly, her shoulders sinking a little as the kids' sound faded into the noise of the food court.
Her gaze lingered on the table for a moment longer before she blinked, straightened, and turned back to the glow of her screen.
The reflection lit her eyes again, calm on the surface, but distant.
Jamie refocused, thumb sliding across her screen as she switched from one note page to another.
At the top of the new one: Arthur Archer.
Only a few notes sat beneath it — short, uncertain fragments.
Pre 2010?
Saint Paul.
And one line that read simply: possible school transfer.
She stared at it for a moment, then took a slow sip of her coffee, the steam fogging the corner of her laptop screen.
She set her coffee down, the cup leaving a faint ring on the table.
Locking her phone, she slid it aside and opened her laptop.
After a few keystrokes, one of the public record databases she used for background checks appeared on the screen.
For a moment, she just stared at the blank search bar, fingers hovering above the keys.
Then she began to type Arthur Archer.
A few seconds passed before the page loaded, pulling up rows of text and docket numbers.
She clicked one, eyes narrowing as the header appeared: State of Kansas vs. Archer, Arthur.
Jamie leaned closer, eyes narrowing as the document filled the screen.
Lines of text scrolled by black and white, clinical, but heavy.
“Defendant: Arthur Archer.”
“Charge: Domestic assault.”
Her cursor hovered as she scrolled.
Incident details: Defendant struck his father during an altercation. Defense claimed the act was in defense of the defendant’s sister, Aubrey Archer. The prosecution alleged the opposite, that the father was attempting to intervene. The court found the defendant at fault. Placement was ordered into the state's foster care system.
Jamie’s eyes traced the final line twice, the glow of the laptop screen reflecting faintly across her face.
Jamie’s eyes froze on the last line.
Her hand rose slowly to her mouth, breath catching.
A quiet gasp escaped before she whispered under her breath,
“That bitch never told me her last name.”
The words lingered in the air before she leaned back in her chair, eyes still locked on the glowing screen.
Jamie’s shock tightened into something sharper, a flicker of anger crossing her face.
Her jaw set as she leaned forward again, fingers already moving across the keys.
The screen's reflection lit her eyes, fast lines of text flashing as she dug deeper into the search results.
Jamie narrowed her search, fingers flying across the keyboard.
She opened a second tab—an old journalist database from a past internship.
The login blinked, then loaded a bare-bones archive: Regional Publications (Midwest, 2000–2022).
She typed: Arthur Archer — Kansas.
Enter.
Headlines scrolled past—church fairs, zoning notices, forgotten fundraisers.
Then one snagged her eye:
“Arthur Archer Awarded Hopewell Community Honor for Charitable Outreach.”
June 12, 2019 — Hopewell Gazette.
She clicked.
A grainy photo snapped into place: a young man in his early twenties at a podium, posture careful, smile small.
Caption: Founder of The Archer Foundation, recognized for providing school supplies and meals to underprivileged families across Hopewell County.
Jamie stared, the screen’s pale light washing her face. Her breath came shallow; she didn’t blink.
She clicked the article.
A photo opened — Arthur standing in front of a school backdrop, button-down shirt and dress pants, sleeves rolled up.
He was smiling, surrounded by a handful of kids holding backpacks and boxed lunches, the kind of grin that reached his eyes.
Jamie swallowed and clicked again.
Another image loaded: Arthur outside a shelter, handing out trays beside volunteers in matching shirts — The Archer Foundation printed in faded blue across the front.
An address tied to the organization illuminated on the screen. “13 Wallace Way”
Steam rose from the pans in their hands. Everyone was smiling.
Her fingers hovered on the trackpad, still.
The light from the screen flickered softly against her face.
Jamie blinked hard, but the sting didn’t fade.
She wiped at her cheeks quickly, almost frustrated with herself, then steadied her breath and scrolled again.
The screen shifted under her fingertips, more photos sliding past — soup kitchens, coat drives, smiling faces that somehow made her chest ache worse.
She swallowed, trying to blink the tears away, but her reflection wavered faintly in the glass — eyes rimmed red, mouth pressed thin.
Still, she kept scrolling.
The view shifted to her profile, light from the laptop screen cutting a pale line across her face.
Jamie scrolled once more, eyes scanning without really seeing.
Then she clicked.
Her expression changed instantly, color draining from her cheeks, her pupils tightening.
Both hands flew to her mouth as a sharp gasp escaped her.
She froze there, eyes wide, the glow of the screen trembling faintly in her reflection.
She dropped her hands to the desk, frozen.
Her face didn’t move, eyes locked on the screen.
She clicked once.
Then, without shifting her gaze, she reached for her phone, found a contact by touch, and pressed.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
“Hey! What’s up, Jamie?”
Aubrey’s voice came through the other end, warm and casual.
“He—hey, Brooke,” Jamie said, her voice breaking slightly before she cleared her throat.
“So… what’s up, Jamie? You sound weird,” Aubrey said, a hint of confusion in her tone.
Jamie swallowed, staring at the screen as if the words might disappear.
“Two… two thousand nineteen,” she began softly, her voice trembling. “The Arthur Foundation was awarded the Hopewell Humanitarian Award for outstanding service in youth outreach and community development.”
Her tone wavered as she continued, eyes glistening.
“Arthur Archer and his foundation were recognized for their commitment to providing food, school supplies, and rehabilitation support for underprivileged families.”
Jamie gritted her teeth, her breath shaky through the phone.
Aubrey’s voice came through the phone, sharp and breathless.
“What? You—you found him? How—where is he?!”
Jamie stared straight ahead, her voice flat, almost mechanical.
“Hopewell, Kansas.”
Aubrey’s voice lifted, shaky with disbelief.
“All this time? He runs a charity? Wow… you have no idea how much this means to me, Jamie. You’re seriously the greatest friend ever.”
Jamie kept staring at the screen, her expression unreadable.
“Of course…” she murmured.
Aubrey’s voice cut in, bubbling with disbelief.
“This is crazy. I can’t believe it, I’m going to hang up—thanks so much, an—”
“I’m going to go with you,” Jamie said, cutting her off.
Her tone was flat, almost hollow.
Aubrey hesitated, her tone shifting from excitement to confusion.
“Uh… okay. Why do you want to come?”
Jamie’s voice stayed level, quiet but firm.
“It’s personal, Brooke. Okay?”
Aubrey blinked, the confusion still clear in her voice.
“Alright…” she said slowly, drawn out. Then, with a small exhale, her tone brightened again.
“We’re leaving tomorrow!”
“Yeah,” Jamie said softly, still staring at the screen.
“Thanks again, Jamie. Really,” Aubrey added before hanging up.
The line clicked. Jamie didn’t move, just sat there, the faint reflection still glowing in her eyes.