One
Sutter
Everyone had their reasons for attending Meddlehart Academy.
There were many things that drew people to this place. For some, it was the snowcapped mountain peaks cocooning the campus. For most, it was the prestige bestowed upon Meddlehart graduates. For a few, perhaps it came down to the age-old mystery that haunted the grounds the promise of buried treasure yet to be found.
Sutter's reason was ever evolving. He only hoped it wouldn't change again this year.
It had been simple in the beginning: Sutter's father had attended Meddlehart for his high school years, as had every one of his uncles and grandfathers for generations. There wasn't a question as to whether Sutter and his older brother, Lawson, would attend Meddlehart as well. It was simply a fact.
Now, it was much more than that for Sutter. His parents couldn't have kept him from this campus if they tried.
But he wondered if his parents would change their minds, if they could turn back the clock. If they had only known what the future held, maybe they wouldn't have sent their two sons to this boarding school.
Sutter was fairly certain what his mother's choice would have been. As he and his parents approached the campus gates, he spared his mother a glance. Her lips were pursed the same way they'd been all day yesterday during the long drive up to the Colorado campus, her displeasure completely stifling.
His dad hardly seemed to notice, though. As usual, he was focused on his own feelings, his own priorities, rather than anyone else's. His mouth was turned down in a frown, but he still walked onto the campus with his chest puffed out with pride, like he owned the place. Even today, of all days. The day they placed a permanent memorial for his firstborn son in the campus courtyard.
Sutter shook his head. This wasn't how his first day back at Meddlehart was supposed to feel. He should have been waking up in his dorm room, getting breakfast with his friends, catching up on what had happened during their summer apart, preparing for his first classes of the semester. He should have felt the relief of finally being back here after surviving a slow, lonely, brutally hot summer with his parents at their house in Texas.
Instead, he felt a simmering anger in his gut, dread weighing down his shoulders. This shouldn't be happening. They shouldn't be doing this. Didn't anyone else see that? Why was everyone on board with memorializing someone who was still alive, for all they knew? They'd never found Lawson's body; they hadn't even found a trace of where he'd gone, and yet-
"Something wrong, champ?" Sutter's dad asked with a sidelong glance.
Sutter halted his thoughts, flexing one hand into a fist and then releasing it as he pondered what to say. Because everything was wrong, but if there was one thing Sutter had learned since Lawson's disappearance, it was he couldn't be honest with his father about that. Not without setting him off.
With his father's next step, Sutter spotted a glint of silver in his jacket pocket-a flask, something he probably thought no one would notice.
But Sutter certainly did.
"No," he said in response. "I'm fine. This just . . . doesn't feel right." And it truly didn't. The day was too bright, too cheerful for the occasion, the campus as beautiful as ever-a beacon of light in a sea of misery. Elegant redbrick buildings with immaculate white pillars flanking each wall surrounded the massive pond, commonly referred to as "the lake." White flowers lined the edges of the pathway that wound toward the south side of campus, to the courtyard. An academic fortress on the hillside, the hidden gem of West Fork, and the only place that felt like home to Sutter anymore.
His father gave a slight nod. "You're right, it doesn't. We wish Lawson was here, too. But try not to look so hostile, champ-there'll be press at the ceremony, cameras. We need to look like a united front. Can't have anyone seeing that surly look on your face and thinking you're not on board with this memorial. Understood?"
White-hot anger flashed through Sutter's chest-he wasn't on board with this memorial, but that clearly didn't matter to anyone else. His father was only concerned with the way they were perceived by the outside world. It was probably because of the rumors that had swirled at the time of Lawson's disappearance-rumors that Lawson had a bad relationship with his parents, which prompted him to run away.
Which . . . was entirely true. Lawson didn't get along with their dad. But Sutter doubted that Lawson would have left Meddlehart in the middle of a torrential downpour because of it.
Sutter reached for the chain around his neck, for the weight of the viper pendant. The same one Lawson had left behind in his room that night. Sutter had stolen it from one of the many boxes of Lawson's things the school shipped back after his disappearance. Their father insisted that Sutter leave Lawson's things alone, but he just wanted to have something-anything-that would make him feel closer to his brother. Something to give back to him when he finally came home.
I haven't stopped looking for you, Lawson, he thought. Even if the rest of the world has, I haven't.
Nothing infuriated Sutter more than this-that their own parents had given up on finding Lawson so soon. It was as if they'd accepted-no, decided-their older son was dead.
And no matter how it looked to the crowd and the cameras, there was no "united front" as far as Sutter was concerned. Their family wasn't a family anymore and hadn't been for the past year and a half.
"Heyward!"
Sutter turned at the sound of his last name, and there was Carter Sterling barreling down the pebble walkway from where the student houses sat atop the hill. Despite everything, Sutter grinned as his lifelong best friend bounded toward him and pulled him into a one-armed hug.
"I'm sorry, Sutter," Carter said quietly.
To his surprise, Sutter found he had a knot in his throat. Lawson had been missing for a long time, and his friends had expressed their condolences many times before . . . but somehow, having a friend who knew how painful this was-who knew what this memorial would do to him hit him hard, right in the chest.
His life felt unlucky in a lot of ways, but not in this one.
"It's good to see you, buddy," Sutter managed.
Carter let go and wiped off the sheen of sweat that had surfaced on his dark-brown skin. Even at this altitude, the late-summer air was too warm for the suits they were wearing. Then, as if just realizing Sutter's parents were there, Carter moved to hug them, too. Carter's father had met Sutter's when they were in high school at Meddlehart, and they'd remained friends all these years. Sutter had known Carter and his older brother, Scott, since they were in diapers.
Something about seeing Carter had broken the dam of tears his mother was holding back, because now she was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. His dad's expression had taken a turn toward discomfort-he'd never been great at responding to tears.
"Hey, champ," Sutter's dad said. "Let's keep moving, or we'll be late."
Sutter turned wordlessly and led the way down the path, toward the courtyard. Carter fell into step beside him.
"Where are the others?" Sutter asked quietly.
"They'll meet us there. Grayson's late again. His dad screwed up the flights like last year. Fallon and Margot had to do their makeup and stuff-you know the drill," Carter said. He squeezed Sutter's shoulder. "But they're excited to see you."
Sutter sighed-yet another thing this memorial had robbed him of. Thanks to his parents, who had insisted he arrive on campus with them on the day of the ceremony-more of this "united front" nonsense-he was arriving two days after the rest of the student body. Classes didn't start until tomorrow, but his friends had already moved their belongings into their dorms and had some time to catch up with each other. He wished his reunion with them could happen anywhere else, on any other day.
But despite the weight in his chest, Sutter couldn't wait to see his friends. Margot and Grayson and . . .
Fallon. Hearing her name, knowing he'd get to see her again today, was almost enough to make him forget about everything else.
At the end of the path, Sutter could see the crowd already gathered in the courtyard-students and teachers dressed in funeral black, donors and camera crews, all starting the school year off by saying goodbye to his brother.
Sutter wondered numbly if he was the only person left on earth who believed Lawson was still alive.
Lawson's voice rang clear as a bell in his mind-the last words he'd said before he vanished into the night.
I'll be back.
Sutter swallowed the bile rising in his throat. I know you will, he thought. He willed the words to reach Lawson, wherever he was.
And he promised he wouldn't let the rest of the world forget his brother was still out there, no matter what.
Two
Fallon
Fallon carefully studied herself in the wall mirror as Margot wound the final curls into her hair. Normally, she would do her own hair-something less time-consuming than meticulously curling it one lock at a time-but her hands were a bit too shaky today, and when Margot offered to help, it only made sense to take her up on it.
There were pieces of her reflection that looked authentic, but so many others that were not-her dress, all-black with an embroidered floral pattern that blended in with the smooth fabric and sleeves that cut off at the elbows, was something she would never have chosen on her own. The students had been instructed to wear black to the ceremony in lieu of their Meddlehart uniforms, a grim reminder of what today stood for.
And on top of that, she'd allowed Margot to do her makeup. Fallon didn't like wearing much makeup. She could never get it to settle right on her skin, and she didn't like the way it covered the light smattering of freckles on her cheeks. The ones that made her look most like her mom.
No-don't think about Mom and Dad. Not today. Instead, Fallon focused her eyes on the reflection of the wall behind her-the side of the room that was entirely hers, covered in fan art she'd drawn over the past couple of years. It was a direct contrast to the explosion of pink on Margot's side of the room, but Margot didn't seem to mind. Each rendering Fallon did of her favorite characters made this dorm feel like home in a way that nowhere else could.
Aunt Jennie had kindly asked Fallon not to pin fan art all over the walls of her room at their house (pushpins were choking risks for toddlers), and she had agreed, because . . . well, it wasn't her house, and she didn't want to cause Jennie any more stress than she was already dealing with.
In the four years she'd lived with Aunt Jennie and Uncle Fred in New Mexico, she had never felt at home there, no matter what they did to make it comfortable for her. As long as there were screaming babies and saggy-diapered toddlers running around, wreaking havoc on every clean surface in the house, it would feel like she was in the way of her aunt and uncle trying to raise their family. It wouldn't really feel like she belonged.
But belonging was what Meddlehart Academy had given her.
"And . . . there we go," Margot said, delicately releasing the still-hot curl so it dangled just above Fallon's collarbone. "All done."
Fallon smiled, relieved, and ran her fingers through the curls. "Thanks, Margot. What would I do without you?" This wasn't the first time Fallon had Margot to thank for helping her with the perfect outfit for an event at Meddlehart, and it likely wouldn't be the last.
"You would look beautiful with or without my help," Margot promised. "And besides, I can't take credit for that dress. It looks really nice on you."
Fallon smiled, but couldn't bring herself to agree. She hated dresses like this-the kind you wore to funerals. She hated remembering the last time she had to wear one, on the day her parents were buried.
"Should we go?" she asked instead.
Margot nodded and led the way into the hall, her long blond hair swishing over her shoulders. Fallon and Margot had been roommates since freshman year, but this year was their first having a dorm on the third floor of Shepherd House. Somehow, the long trip down the stairs and across campus to the courtyard felt daunting.
Or perhaps it was just what waited for them that made Fallon feel ill at ease.
"This is such a strange way to start junior year," Margot said quietly as they cleared the first flight of stairs. "It doesn't feel right."
"I know," Fallon agreed. Her reunion with Margot on move-in day had been so exciting. They'd had hours to catch up on their summer spent apart-Margot told Fallon all about her family's trip to Paris (even though it had been thoroughly documented in vlogs on her YouTube channel), and Fallon vented about how much she'd missed her friends while she was stuck babysitting her little cousins.
But that excitement had waned leading up to the day of Lawson Heyward's memorial ceremony. Margot's usual giddy chatter had been dialed down, and all Fallon's energy had morphed into nervous anticipation that rattled through her bones.
She was finally going to see Sutter again, but she knew he wouldn't be himself today. She knew he would be against this memorial and all it stood for, and the thought made her stomach churn with anxiety.
Things will feel normal again once the ceremony is over, Fallon reassured herself as she and Margot entered the Shepherd House common room. We just need to get through today.
A handful of sophomore boys, also dressed in black, were milling around near the entrance before heading to the memorial ceremony. A welcome home, dragons banner hung above the mantel of the massive stone fireplace. Deep-blue leather chairs and couches surrounded wooden tables and ornate rugs lined the floors.
The plasma screen on the far wall displayed a slideshow of photos taken the year before, with smiling students participating in various school activities: studying at Simon Thatcher Memorial Library, playing kickball at the Ace Averell Sports Complex on field day, painting a new mural on the walls of Parrish Hall, skiing at Swallowtail Resort on the annual school trip.
Copyright © 2026 by Emma Jackson. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
