The news broke during second period on Thursday, three weeks after my arrival at Westbrook. Mr. Brennan was midway through a lecture on Lady Macbeth's manipulation tactics when Principal Thornton's voice crackled over the intercom.
"Attention students and faculty. I need all teachers to check their email immediately for an important announcement. Please remain in your classrooms until further instructions are given."
The seriousness in his tone silenced the usual murmurs that followed administrative interruptions. Mr. Brennan frowned, moving to his computer. As he read the email, his expression darkened visibly.
"What's happening?" someone whispered from the back of the room.
Mr. Brennan looked up, his face grave. "I've been instructed to inform you that Cameron Walsh, a junior, did not return home yesterday after basketball practice. His parents reported him missing last night. The police are investigating and asking anyone with information to come forward."
A collective gasp rippled through the classroom. Cameron Walsh—a name I'd heard but a face I couldn't immediately place.
"Is this like, for real?" Jason asked, looking stunned. "Cam wouldn't just take off."
"The police are treating this as a missing person case," Mr. Brennan replied carefully. "That's all the information I have right now."
The classroom erupted into whispered conversations. I remained silent, observing the various reactions—shock, concern, and the undercurrent of excitement that often accompanies proximity to dramatic events.
"Did you know him?" I asked Jason quietly.
He nodded, eyes troubled. "Not well, but yeah. He's on JV basketball. Quiet guy, good student. Not the type to run away or anything."
Mr. Brennan called for attention. "I know this is disturbing news, but Principal Thornton has asked that we continue with our regular schedule while the authorities do their work. There will be an assembly during last period to provide any updates and address concerns."
He attempted to resume the lesson, but concentration was impossible. The news of a missing student had shattered the normal rhythms of the school day, replacing them with a buzz of theories and speculation.
By lunchtime, Cameron Walsh was the only topic of conversation. Our usual table was subdued, the excited lock-in planning of recent days forgotten.
"My dad's a cop," Marcus said in low tones. "He got called in last night for a missing person case. Must have been this. Said they were treating it as high priority."
"What does that mean exactly?" Amber asked, her usual confidence dimmed by genuine concern.
Marcus shrugged. "Could mean anything. But they don't usually jump on missing teen reports that fast unless there's something that makes them think it's not just a runaway situation."
"Like what?" I asked, careful to match my tone to the general concern around the table.
"Signs of struggle, blood, evidence of foul play. Or if the kid has, like, a perfect record—never been in trouble, no reason to run away."
"That's Cameron," Zoe said quietly. "Perfect GPA, never misses school. His parents are strict but supportive. No reason for him to disappear."
I nodded thoughtfully, filing away this information. "Has anything like this happened at Westbrook before?"
The question caused a brief silence.
"Not that I can remember," Jason finally answered. "I mean, kids have run away for a day or two, but nothing that got the whole police department involved."
"There was that girl from Eastbrook High last year," Amber added. "She went missing after a party. They found her two days later though."
"Where?" I asked.
"Turned out she'd gotten drunk and wandered into the woods. Fell down a ravine and couldn't climb out. Lucky she didn't die of exposure."
The conversation continued, theories multiplying. Cameron had secret problems at home. Cameron had a gambling debt. Cameron had been kidnapped by a college sports rival to sabotage Westbrook's basketball season.
This last suggestion, from a freshman who had joined our table seeking information, earned eye rolls from everyone.
"This isn't a TV show, kid," Marcus said dismissively. "This is real."
I observed silently as the social dynamics shifted under the pressure of real crisis. The usual hierarchies remained, but with subtle changes—those who knew Cameron, however slightly, gained temporary status as information sources. The typically self-absorbed became briefly empathetic. The dramatic found a legitimate outlet for their tendencies. It was fascinating to watch.
Across the cafeteria, I noticed The Outsiders huddled in intense conversation, more engaged than I'd ever seen them. Lily glanced up and caught my eye briefly before returning to her discussion.
The assembly during last period confirmed what we already knew while adding few details. Principal Thornton stood on the auditorium stage, flanked by two police officers—a tall man with a weathered face and a younger woman whose alert eyes scanned the student body continuously.
"As you've all heard by now, Cameron Walsh did not return home yesterday," Thornton began, his normally authoritative voice subdued. "The police are conducting a thorough investigation and have asked for our cooperation. If anyone saw Cameron after basketball practice yesterday, or has any information about his whereabouts, please speak with Detective Reeves or Officer Chen."
He gestured to the officers beside him.
"In the meantime, we ask that you remain calm and avoid spreading rumors. Cameron's family is going through an extremely difficult time, and speculation only adds to their distress."
Detective Reeves stepped forward, his deep voice carrying easily through the auditorium.
"We're pursuing all leads, but we need your help. Sometimes friends know things parents and teachers don't. If Cameron mentioned any plans, any problems, or if his behavior changed recently, that information could be crucial."
He provided contact numbers and emphasized that information could be shared anonymously. Officer Chen added a few words about safety precautions—walking in groups, being aware of surroundings, reporting suspicious activity.
As the assembly dispersed, the mood was somber. Groups of students clustered in hallways, some crying, others speaking in hushed tones. I caught fragments of conversations as I made my way to my locker.
"...said he seemed normal at practice..."
"...phone goes straight to voicemail..."
"...parents are absolutely devastated..."
Jason caught up with me at my locker, his usual energy dimmed.
"This is crazy," he said, shaking his head. "Stuff like this doesn't happen at Westbrook."
"It's unsettling," I agreed, selecting the appropriate level of concern. "Do you think they'll find him soon?"
"I hope so. My mom's already talking about driving me to school until they do." He looked embarrassed at this admission. "Like I'm a little kid or something."
"She's just worried. It's natural."
"Yeah, I guess." He hesitated before adding, "The lock-in might get canceled if they don't find him. Thornton won't want students at school overnight with this hanging over everyone."
"That would make sense," I acknowledged, though the possibility was disappointing. The lock-in promised such interesting observational opportunities.
As we walked toward the parking lot, Zoe joined us, her expression troubled.
"They're interviewing the basketball team right now," she said. "My brother's on JV with Cameron. Said the detective is asking about everything—who Cameron talked to, if he had enemies, if he seemed worried about anything."
"Do they think something bad happened to him?" Jason asked, voicing the question hanging over the entire school.
Zoe adjusted her glasses, a habit I'd noticed she fell back on when uncomfortable. "They wouldn't have this kind of police presence for a simple runaway case."
The implication lingered as we reached the parking lot. Parents were arriving early to pick up their children, the normal dismissal routine disrupted by collective anxiety.
"My mom's waiting," Jason said, gesturing to an SUV idling nearby. "Need a ride, Zoe?"
She shook her head. "My brother has the car. I'll wait for him."
"I can drive you," I offered, surprising myself with the spontaneity. "It's no trouble."
She hesitated, then nodded. "Thanks. That would be great."
After Jason left, Zoe and I walked to my car in silence. The weight of the day's events seemed to press down on the entire school, subduing even the typically raucous after-school energy.
"It's this way," I said, leading her to my blue sedan.
"Thanks for the ride," she said as we got in. "Normal days, I don't mind waiting for my brother, but today..." She trailed off, gazing at groups of students hurrying to waiting parents.
"It's unsettling," I finished for her, starting the engine. "Where am I heading?"
"Maple Street. The Victorian with the blue trim. About ten minutes from here."
As we drove away from campus, I kept the conversation casual, asking about her brother and how long they'd lived in Westbrook. She answered distractedly, her mind clearly elsewhere. After a few minutes, she voiced what was obviously weighing on her.
"Do you think he's still alive?"
The directness of the question caught me by surprise. Most people would have circled around it, cushioning it with qualifiers and hope.
"I don't know," I answered honestly. "It depends on what happened. If he ran away, probably yes. If someone took him..." I let the sentence hang, watching her reaction in my peripheral vision.
She nodded, accepting the ambiguity. "The not knowing is the worst part for everyone, I think. Especially his parents."
"Have you ever known anyone who went missing before?" I asked, keeping my tone conversational.
"No. You?"
"Once," I said, deciding a half-truth served the moment. "A girl at my school in Tacoma. She disappeared after a school dance."
"What happened to her?" Zoe turned to look at me directly.
"They never found her," I said quietly. "The case is still open."
This was true. The case of Melissa Chen from Tacoma remained unsolved, a persistent mystery that had haunted the school long after I'd moved away.
"That's terrible," Zoe said, genuine empathy in her voice. "How did people at your school deal with it?"
"At first, everyone was obsessed with finding her. Searching, making posters, holding vigils." I paused, recalling the genuine community response. "Then, gradually, life went back to normal for most people. Not for her family or close friends, of course, but for everyone else... time just moves on."
"That's depressing," Zoe said as we turned onto Maple Street. "But probably true."
"It's human nature," I replied. "We can only maintain crisis mode for so long before adaptation sets in."
"You sound like a psychology textbook," she observed, but there was no criticism in her tone. "That's the blue house up ahead on the right."
I pulled up to the curb beside a well-maintained Victorian with character and charm. Unlike the cookie-cutter developments that dominated much of Westbrook, this house had history.
"Nice place," I commented. "Been here long?"
"My whole life. It was my grandmother's before she passed." Zoe unbuckled her seatbelt but made no move to exit the car. "Thanks again for the ride. And the conversation, disturbing as it was."
"Anytime."
She hesitated, then added, "Would you want to come in for a bit? My mom always has snacks ready after school, and I... I don't really want to be alone with my thoughts right now."
The invitation was unexpected. I quickly calculated the implications—extending social connections, seeing Zoe's home environment, additional intelligence gathering—against the risks—further exposure, unexpected variables.
"Sure," I decided. "For a little while."
Zoe's home was exactly what I would have expected—warm, intellectual, slightly cluttered with books and academic projects. Her mother, a biology professor at the local community college, welcomed me with genuine warmth and immediately offered homemade cookies and tea.
"I've heard about you, Alex," she said as we sat in their cozy kitchen. "Zoe says you're giving her some competition in AP classes."
"Mom," Zoe protested, looking embarrassed.
"Friendly competition," I clarified with a smile. "Zoe's still the undisputed academic champion of Westbrook."
Mrs. Chen smiled, pleased at the recognition of her daughter's abilities. "Well, it's nice to finally meet you. Zoe doesn't bring friends home often."
"Mom," Zoe said again, her cheeks coloring slightly.
"What? It's true," her mother replied unapologetically before turning back to me. "Are you settling in well at Westbrook? It must be difficult changing schools for senior year."
"It's been easier than expected," I said truthfully. "Everyone's been very welcoming."
"That's good to hear." Her expression sobered. "Though I imagine today has been difficult for everyone, with that poor Walsh boy missing."
"It's definitely shaken things up," I acknowledged.
"Steven said the police were questioning everyone on the basketball team," Zoe told her mother, referring to her brother.
Mrs. Chen shook her head sadly. "Such a terrible thing. I hope they find him safe, but..." She didn't finish the thought, but her implication was clear.
Our conversation shifted to lighter topics—college plans, the upcoming Academic Decathlon, the challenges of AP Chemistry. Mrs. Chen was intelligent and engaging, her academic background evident in her thoughtful questions. I could see where Zoe got her analytical mind.
After about half an hour, I checked my watch and made appropriate noises about needing to get home. Mrs. Chen insisted on sending me with additional cookies, which I accepted graciously.
"Thanks for coming in," Zoe said as she walked me to the door. "It helped—having something normal in the middle of all this weirdness."
"I understand," I replied, and oddly enough, I did. The human need for normalcy amid chaos was something I'd observed repeatedly.
"See you tomorrow?" she asked, an unusual hint of uncertainty in her voice.
"Of course." I smiled reassuringly. "Maybe we can review for that Chemistry test together during study hall."
Her expression brightened slightly. "That would be good."
The drive home gave me time to process the day's developments. A missing student certainly complicated matters—increased police presence, heightened parental oversight, disrupted school routines. But it also presented opportunities for observation: how did people respond to crisis? Who stepped up? Who withdrew? How quickly did adaptation occur?
At home, I found my parents in the living room, the news playing on the television. Cameron Walsh's school photo filled the screen, his unremarkable face now the center of a community's attention.
"We heard about the missing student," my mother said, her face etched with concern. "Are you okay, honey? It must be frightening."
"I'm fine," I assured her. "I didn't really know him. He's a junior."
"Still," my father said gravely, "something like this affects everyone. They're saying he disappeared after basketball practice?"
I nodded, setting my backpack down. "That's what they told us. No one's seen him since yesterday afternoon."
"The police chief just said they're treating it as a possible abduction," my mother added, glancing at the TV where a press conference was playing. "They found his backpack in the parking lot but no sign of him."
This was new information. The backpack suggested he hadn't simply run away—a significant development.
"Are you sure you're okay?" My mother studied me with maternal concern. "You seem very calm about all this."
"Just processing, I guess," I said carefully. "It doesn't seem real yet."
This seemed to satisfy her. "Well, I'm making your favorite for dinner—lasagna. And I think we should all stay home tonight, have a family evening."
I agreed readily, playing the role of the slightly rattled but resilient son. In truth, the missing student situation was intellectually fascinating—a disruption in the controlled environment I'd been observing, introducing new variables and behaviors.
During dinner, my parents discussed the case, sharing their concerns and theories. My father, with his medical background, speculated about possible scenarios based on what little information had been released.
"If there was a struggle, there might be evidence the police aren't disclosing yet," he said thoughtfully. "Blood, signs of resistance."
"Robert, please," my mother interrupted, glancing at me. "Let's not dwell on the worst possibilities."
"You're right, of course," he conceded. "I'm sure they'll find him soon. Probably just a misunderstanding."
But his eyes told a different story—the doctor in him calculating probabilities, most of them unfavorable as time passed.
After dinner, I retreated to my room, ostensibly to complete homework but actually to monitor developing news and social media reactions. The local Facebook groups were buzzing with speculation, some of it wildly inaccurate. Twitter hashtags had already formed—#FindCameronWalsh and #WestbrookMissing were trending locally. Instagram was filled with somber posts and performative concern from people who likely barely knew Cameron.
The digital response to tragedy fascinated me—the public displays of emotion, the competitive empathy, the rapid formation of in-groups and out-groups based on proximity to the victim. Westbrook students were posting memories of Cameron, each seeming to stake a claim in the unfolding drama.
My phone buzzed with messages from the group chat:
Jason: Anyone hear anything new? My dad says they've got search teams in the woods behind school
Marcus: My dad's on duty tonight. Says they're treating it as abduction now, not runaway
Amber: So scary. My mom won't let me go anywhere alone
Eli: Heard they found his phone smashed near the basketball courts
This last piece of information was new. I monitored the conversation without contributing, gathering intelligence on both the situation and how my peers were processing it.
Around nine, a separate text arrived from an now-familiar number:
Lily: Interesting day. People's true natures emerge during crisis.
I considered how to respond. Engaging with Lily was always a calculated risk, but her perspective on this situation could be valuable.
What have you observed? I finally replied.
The performance of grief from people who never spoke to him. The rapid establishment of grief hierarchies. The excitement barely disguised as concern.
Her assessment matched my own observations so closely it was unsettling.
And what about you? I asked. What's your response to all this?
There was a long pause before her reply came:
Genuine concern for a fellow human, coupled with intellectual fascination at the social dynamics. And you?
Similar, I admitted. Though I didn't know him at all.
Few did, really. That's the tragedy beneath the tragedy. He'll be defined now by his absence rather than his presence.
The insight was unexpectedly profound. I was formulating a response when another text arrived:
The police will start interviewing everyone who was at school yesterday afternoon. Prepare your alibi, Alex from Portland.
The message sent a jolt of surprise through me. Was it a warning? A test? Simple conversation?
I was in the library until 4, then went straight home, I replied truthfully. Nothing to prepare.
Good. Sleep well. Tomorrow will be interesting.
Our exchange left me feeling strangely unsettled. Lily continued to be the one variable at Westbrook I couldn't fully predict or control—observant enough to be dangerous, perceptive enough to see patterns others missed.
Later, as I prepared for bed, I thought about Cameron Walsh—a boy I'd never met who was now the center of Westbrook's collective attention. His disappearance had shifted the social ecosystem in subtle but significant ways that would be fascinating to track in the days ahead.
If they found him alive, the disruption would be temporary—a dramatic episode that would fade into school history. If they found him dead, the impact would be deeper and more enduring. And if they never found him at all, he would become a permanent shadow over Westbrook High, a cautionary tale and local legend.
All three outcomes offered valuable observational opportunities.
I set my alarm and turned out the light, my mind still processing the day's developments. As I drifted toward sleep, I realized I was genuinely curious about what had happened to Cameron Walsh. Not out of empathy or concern, but from the same intellectual curiosity that drove all my observations.
What forces had removed this unremarkable junior from the carefully structured world of Westbrook High? And how would those same forces continue to reshape the school in his absence?
Tomorrow would bring new developments, new behaviors to analyze, new patterns to identify. Cameron Walsh's disappearance, while unfortunate for him and his family, had introduced a fascinating new variable into my Westbrook experiment.
I fell asleep planning my approach for the days ahead.
Morning arrived with rain—a steady, solemn downpour that matched the mood as I drove to school. The parking lot was noticeably emptier than usual, many parents apparently opting to keep their children home.
Security had visibly increased overnight. A police car sat at the entrance, and two uniformed officers stood by the main doors, observing arriving students. Inside, the hallways were subdued, the usual morning energy replaced by hushed conversations and concerned faces.
"They were searching all night," Jason told me as I reached my locker. His normally perfect hair was disheveled, dark circles under his eyes suggesting he hadn't slept well. "My dad joined the volunteer search party. They covered the whole wooded area behind the athletic fields. Nothing."
"Any new leads?" I asked, organizing my books with deliberate calm.
"They found his phone smashed near the basketball courts, like Eli said. And apparently there were tire marks behind the gym that shouldn't have been there—not from a school vehicle."
This was significant new information. "Sounds like they're building a case for abduction."
Jason nodded grimly. "That's what everyone's saying. My mom almost didn't let me come today, but I told her there's probably more security here than anywhere else right now."
He wasn't wrong. Throughout the morning, police officers moved through the hallways, pulled students from classes for brief interviews, and maintained a visible presence that was both reassuring and unsettling.
During second period, a police officer appeared at the door of AP Chemistry. Dr. Harmon paused mid-equation as Officer Chen—the same one from yesterday's assembly—consulted a list.
"Alexander Moore?" she called. "Could you come with me, please?"
A ripple of whispers followed me as I gathered my things and followed her into the hallway. She led me to a small conference room where Detective Reeves waited, a folder open on the table before him.
"Have a seat, Mr. Moore," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. "This won't take long."
I sat, projecting the appropriate mix of confusion and cooperation. "Is this about Cameron Walsh?"
"Yes. We're speaking with everyone who was at school Tuesday afternoon." He consulted his notes. "You're relatively new to Westbrook, correct?"
"Three weeks," I confirmed. "I moved from Portland."
"Did you know Cameron Walsh?"
"No, sir. I'd heard the name, but I don't think we ever spoke. He's a junior, and we don't share any classes."
Detective Reeves nodded, making a note. "Where were you between 3:30 and 5:00 PM on Tuesday?"
"In the library until about 4:15, working on a Government paper. Then I drove straight home."
"Can anyone confirm your presence in the library?"
I considered carefully. "Ms. Winters, the librarian, would have seen me. And I think Zoe Chen was there too, working on the same assignment."
"Zoe Chen," he repeated, checking his list. "Yes, she mentioned seeing you there in her statement."
This was interesting—Zoe had already provided confirmation of my alibi without my knowledge.
"Did you notice anything unusual that afternoon? Anyone hanging around who shouldn't have been? Any vehicles that seemed out of place?"
I shook my head. "Nothing I can recall. But I wasn't really paying attention. I was focused on my paper."
The detective studied me for a moment, his experienced eyes searching for any hint of deception. I met his gaze with appropriate solemnity.
"Well, if you remember anything, no matter how small it might seem, please contact us immediately." He handed me a card with his direct number. "Even minor details can be important in cases like this."
"Of course," I promised, pocketing the card. "I hope you find him."
"So do we, son. So do we."
As Officer Chen escorted me back to class, I noticed other students being led to and from the conference room. The police were being thorough, interviewing anyone who might have been on campus during the critical time window.
"Did you know him?" Officer Chen asked conversationally as we walked.
"No," I replied. "I've only been here a few weeks."
She nodded. "It's always hardest on the close friends. The basketball team is devastated."
Her comment seemed designed to elicit a response—perhaps testing my reaction or fishing for additional information. I offered an appropriately somber nod and nothing more.
Back in Chemistry, curious glances met my return, but Dr. Harmon's strict classroom management prevented any questions. I caught Zoe's eye and mouthed "Thank you," assuming she'd understand I was referring to her confirmation of my library alibi. She gave a small nod in response.
By lunchtime, a new development had electrified the school: Cameron's car had been found abandoned at Riverpoint Park, three miles from campus.
"They just announced it on the news," Eli reported, showing us the breaking news alert on his phone. "No sign of Cameron, but his car was there, unlocked with the keys still in the ignition."
"That doesn't make sense," Marcus frowned. "Why would he drive to the park after practice?"
"Maybe he was meeting someone," Amber suggested.
"Or someone forced him to drive there," Jason added grimly.
The theories multiplied as lunch progressed, each more elaborate than the last. I contributed occasionally but mostly observed, noting how the crisis was reshaping social dynamics. Students who normally sat at separate tables had merged, sharing information and speculation. The usual social barriers had temporarily dissolved in the face of collective concern.
The Outsiders, I noticed, remained apart—but even they seemed affected by the situation. Elliot appeared genuinely distressed, while Darius and Vera huddled in intense conversation. Lily, as usual, was watching rather than participating, her gaze occasionally sweeping the cafeteria with analytical focus.
When our eyes met briefly across the room, she gave me that now-familiar slight nod—an acknowledgment between observers.
After school, I found myself unexpectedly drawn into the community response. Jason's father was organizing additional volunteer search parties, and Jason insisted I join their group.
"Everyone's helping," he said with an intensity I hadn't seen in him before. "We can cover more ground with more people."
Declining would have seemed suspicious or, at minimum, unsupportive, so I agreed. Within an hour, I found myself walking through the underbrush at Riverpoint Park alongside Jason, Marcus, and several parents, methodically searching for any sign of Cameron.
The experience was fascinating—dozens of people from different backgrounds united by a common purpose, temporarily suspending their usual social identities to become part of a collective effort. I participated fully, maintaining the appropriate level of grim determination and concern.
"Do you really think we'll find anything the police missed?" I asked Jason as we pushed through a particularly dense thicket.
"Probably not," he admitted. "But at least we're doing something. Cameron's parents are out here too, in another sector. I can't imagine what they're going through."
The search continued until dusk without results. As we returned to the command post—a picnic shelter where volunteers had set up tables with maps, coffee, and sandwiches—the collective mood was somber. Cameron's parents stood slightly apart, the mother's face hollow with exhaustion, the father mechanically thanking volunteers with empty eyes.
"Mrs. Walsh is my mom's cousin," Jason explained quietly as we gathered our things. "That's partly why this is hitting everyone so hard. The Walshes have lived in Westbrook forever. Everyone knows them."
This personal connection explained Jason's unusual intensity and the extraordinary community response. Small-town dynamics were amplifying the crisis beyond what I might have expected in a larger city.
As I drove home, physically tired but mentally stimulated, I reflected on the day's observations. The Cameron Walsh situation was proving to be an invaluable window into Westbrook's social structure, revealing connections and behaviors that might have remained hidden under normal circumstances.
At home, my parents were full of questions about the search and the police investigation. I provided carefully edited information, emphasizing the community response rather than the increasingly ominous signs about Cameron's fate.
"It's amazing how everyone's coming together," my mother said, serving dinner. "That's one thing about smaller communities—people really do look out for each other."
"The police interviewed me today," I mentioned casually. "They're talking to everyone who was at school Tuesday afternoon."
My father looked up sharply. "They did? What did they ask?"
"Just where I was, if I saw anything unusual." I shrugged. "Standard questions, I guess."
"And you told them you were in the library, then came straight home?"
"Of course," I replied, noting his unusually specific question. "That's where I was."
He nodded, seemingly satisfied, and the conversation shifted to other aspects of the search. My parents' concern appeared genuine—not just for Cameron, but for the community and for me. My mother mentioned twice how relieved she was that I'd made good friends so quickly, as if friendship were some kind of protective shield.
After dinner, I retreated to my room, ostensibly to catch up on homework missed during the search. In reality, I spent the time monitoring social media for developments and processing the day's observations.
Around nine, my phone buzzed with a text from Zoe:
Thanks for joining the search today. It meant a lot to Jason.
Of course, I replied. Any updates?
Nothing official. But rumors are flying. Some saying they found blood in his car.
This was new information, potentially significant. Source? I asked.
Marcus's dad supposedly told him, but third-hand info at best. Could be completely false.
Keep me posted if you hear anything concrete?
Will do. Chemistry test still on for tomorrow, btw. Harmon says "life continues even during difficult times"
I smiled slightly at this perfectly in-character response from Dr. Harmon. Thanks for the warning. Still up for reviewing during study hall?
Definitely. Need the distraction.
Our exchange ended there, but a few minutes later, another text arrived from Lily:
You looked surprisingly natural searching the woods today. Unexpected.
Her observation was typically perceptive. I had indeed fallen into the search patterns with practiced efficiency—perhaps too practiced for someone who claimed no experience with such activities.
Watched a lot of crime shows, I replied lightly. You weren't out there?
I was. Different sector. Northeastern quadrant with Elliot and Ms. Bennett. Found nothing but discarded beer cans and a very confused possum.
Despite the gravity of the situation, I found myself smiling at her description. The possum probably knows more than we do at this point.
Undoubtedly. Animals are better witnesses than humans—no agenda, no selective memory.
True. Though less cooperative with police interviews.
There was a pause before her next message:
Two days missing now. Statistical probability of positive outcome dropping rapidly.
The blunt assessment aligned with my own analysis, though most people would have cushioned it with hope or platitudes.
Statistics don't determine individual cases, I replied, offering the expected counterpoint.
But they do inform reasonable expectations. Sleep well, Alex. Tomorrow brings new developments.
Her certainty about "new developments" was intriguing, but I didn't press for clarification. Lily's cryptic communications were becoming a familiar part of my Westbrook experience—unsettling but intellectually stimulating.
I completed my actual homework, reviewed Chemistry notes for tomorrow's test, and prepared for bed with my usual efficiency. As I moved through these routines, I found my thoughts repeatedly returning to Cameron Walsh—not out of empathy for his situation, but curiosity about his fate.
What had happened in those crucial minutes after basketball practice? Who had he encountered in the school parking lot? Why Riverpoint Park? Each question presented fascinating possibilities, each answer potentially revealing some previously hidden aspect of Westbrook's social landscape.
As predicted by Lily, the next day did indeed bring new developments—but not the kind anyone had anticipated.