Hannah's fingertips trace idle patterns on her bedspread as she lies in the gathering darkness, earbuds nestled in place. The surveillance app's interface glows softly on her phone screen, its channel indicators pulsing with artificial life. For days now, she and Alex have been monitoring both houses - Jake's sprawling mansion and Amber's meticulously maintained estate - but they've found nothing concrete. Nothing they can use.

The tedium of surveillance work weighs heavily on her. Most nights yield nothing but empty rooms and meaningless background noise. She's learned more than she ever wanted to know about the mundane routines of Riverside's elite - Jake's 3 AM gaming sessions, Amber's morning meditation routine, the constant parade of housekeepers.

Hannah switches channels methodically, muscle memory taking over. Living room: empty. Kitchen: silence. Jake's bedroom: nothing but the soft whir of his gaming PC's cooling fans. She's about to give up when she catches something from the pool house feed - the distinctive sound of digital crowd noise and commentators.

"Oh come on, that was clearly offside!" Jake's voice cuts through clear as crystal. "This game's mechanics are trash."

The familiar sound effects of EA25 float through Hannah's earbuds - the thud of virtual cleats against ball, the roar of the crowd, the whistle blows.

"You're just mad because you can't figure out the new skill moves," Justin Moore's lazy drawl carries a hint of amusement. "Face it, bro - you straight up suck at this."

"Fuck you, Moore." Jake's response lacks real heat. "Yo, pass that over here."

The subtle crackle of burning paper, followed by a deep inhale and explosive coughing fit. Hannah can picture them sprawled on the pool house's imported leather furniture, lost in their privileged bubble of games and weed.

"So..." Jake's voice carries that particular tone that always makes Hannah's skin crawl. "You and Susan Lawrence? That actually happening?"

"Kind of." Justin's response is noncommittal. "We're hanging out."

"Nice." The smirk is audible in Jake's voice. "Girl's got that whole ice queen thing going on, but damn..."

"Early bird gets the hot blonde, my man." Justin's laugh sounds slightly forced.

"Just remember who had first dibs sophomore year." Jake's words drip with smug satisfaction. "That party? Classic."

Hannah's stomach turns as she listens to them discuss Susan like she's some trophy to be claimed. She's about to switch channels when her bedroom door swings open without warning.

Leandra Marshall fills the doorway, her nurse's scrubs wrinkled from a long shift at Mass General. Dark circles shadow her eyes, but her posture remains stubbornly upright. Her dark hair is escaping its practical braid, and there's an odd expression on her face that makes Hannah's heart rate spike.

"Mom!" Hannah yanks out her earbuds, scrambling to sit upright. "Ever heard of knocking?"

"You have a visitor downstairs." Her mother's voice carries an edge that Hannah can't quite read.

"Who is it?" Hannah asks, unable to mask her annoyance at the interruption.

"In the kitchen," her mom answers cryptically before disappearing down the hallway.

Hannah grabs a pair of mismatched socks from her dresser, mind racing through possibilities. Lisa finally growing a conscience? Alex with another lead? Megan Carter finally ready to talk?

Her father's warm laugh drifts up the stairs, followed by another voice that stops her cold. A voice she knows better than she wants to admit, one that's been living rent-free in her head since elementary school.

The kitchen doorway frames a scene that feels ripped from some parallel universe. Jerry Marshall, still in his work clothes from another long day at the insurance office, chatting animatedly with none other than Nate Brooks. Perfect, golden Nate Brooks, looking like he just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad in his cream cable-knit sweater and blue jeans.

"Nate?" His name escapes her lips before she can stop it.

"Hannah!" Her father beams, gesturing with his coffee mug. "Look who stopped by to return your history textbook."

Hannah's mind races. She hasn't loaned Nate anything - hasn't spoken to him outside of their charged encounters in school hallways. A chill runs down her spine as she meets his eyes. Those warm brown eyes that used to make her heart flutter now carry something else. Something calculating. Dangerous.

"Thought I'd drop by," Nate says with practiced casualness, leaning against her mother's pristine countertop like he belongs there. "Crazy how nothing's changed. Remember that tire swing your dad built us in third grade?"

Does he know? The question pounds through Hannah's head like a drum. Has he discovered the surveillance? Is this some kind of warning?

"Your athletic career's really taking off," her dad jumps in, oblivious to the tension crackling between them. "My buddy Mike was just telling me about your stats this season."

"Have to keep them up." Nate's smile is picture-perfect. "Stanford scouts don't mess around. One bad game and they start looking elsewhere."

"Stanford!" Her father whistles low. "That's the big leagues, son. Your parents must be proud."

Hannah can't take another second of this surreal scene. "Dad," she interrupts, perhaps too sharply. "Could you give us a minute? Alone?"

Jerry's eyebrows lift in surprise, but his smile remains warm. "Of course, sweetheart. Your mother's probably wondering where I disappeared to anyway." He raises his coffee mug in a mock salute. "Good seeing you, Nate. Tell your folks I said hello."

Hannah waits until her father's footsteps fade before closing the kitchen door with deliberate slowness. When she turns back to Nate, the casual mask he wore for her father has vanished completely.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

The kitchen feels smaller somehow as they stare each other down. Hannah searches Nate's brown eyes - eyes she used to dream about, eyes that always held such warmth when he'd pass her in the hallway. Now they remind her of frozen earth, of secrets buried deep.

"Cut the bullshit about textbooks, Nate," Hannah finally breaks the silence, her voice steadier than she feels. "What's your real game here?"

"Sit down." The command slices through the air between them.

"You don't get to just waltz in here and-"

"I said. Sit. Down." There's something in his voice that makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

Hannah finds herself sinking into her mother's favorite kitchen chair before she can think better of it. Her eyes go wide as Nate takes the seat across from her, his movements deliberate as a predator.

He pulls out his phone, powering it down with methodical precision. "Do the same."

"What? Why would I-"

"That wasn't a question, Hannah." His voice is soft but carries an edge she's never heard before.

She fumbles for her phone, glancing over her shoulder toward the living room. But her father's laugh seems to come from miles away now. Before she can react, Nate's hand shoots out, plucking the device from her trembling fingers. He powers it down.

"Relax," he says, but the word feels more like a command than comfort.

The silence stretches between them like a rubber band about to snap. Hannah's heart pounds against her ribs as she watches Nate study her with terrifying intensity.

"I know you've been digging into Hampton Beach." His voice is barely above a whisper. "I know about your little field trip to Brookswood with Lisa. About you and Alex Winters."

Hannah's thoughts whirl like leaves in a storm. Lisa selling her out? Megan Carter breaking her silence? The possibilities multiply like fractures in glass.

"If this is about Jake-" Hannah starts, but Nate cuts her off with a sharp shake of his head.

"If this was just about Jake," Nate's voice cuts through her spiraling thoughts, "I wouldn't be sitting in your kitchen right now."

"Then enlighten me, Nate." Hannah leans forward, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "What's important enough to make Stanford's golden boy play delivery boy with imaginary textbooks?"

Something flickers across his face – pain, maybe? Or guilt? He releases a long breath. "It's not that simple. Nothing about this is simple."

"Try me."

"Halloween." The word hangs between them like smoke. "What Jake did to you in that pool house... I heard about it. And I'm sorry. Nobody deserves that kind of violation. Especially not someone like you."

"Yet here you are, running interference for him." Hannah's voice cracks with bitter laughter. "Your best friend, the star quarterback, good old Jake Woodland."

Nate's slight nod carries the weight of years, but there's something in his eyes that doesn't match his actions – a shadow of doubt, a hint of rebellion against his own choices.

"So what's the real reason for this little house call?" Hannah presses. "Come to threaten me? Buy my silence? Add me to Jake's collection of ruined girls?"

"I'm here to ask you – beg you if I have to – to let this go." His voice softens, almost pleading. "Walk away, Hannah. Let us all graduate, scatter to different colleges, build new lives. In ten years, this will all be just another high school horror story we pretend to laugh about at reunions."

"Why?" The question comes out barely above a whisper.

"Because it's better for everyone." He spreads his hands on the kitchen table, studying them like they might hold answers. "Better for you, better for-"

"Emily Thorne."

The name drops between them like a bomb. Hannah watches Nate's carefully constructed facade crack, just for a moment, before he rebuilds it.

Hannah leans forward, months of research and rage fueling her next words. "Oh wait - she doesn't get a vote anymore, does she? Kind of hard to vote when you're dead."

The color drains from Nate's face.

"That's right," Hannah presses, seizing her advantage. "I know she's not living her best life in Seattle. I know about the Hampton. The drugs in her system. The whole cover-up orchestrated by Riverside's finest families."

"Hannah-" There's warning in his voice now.

"And let's talk about that witness list, shall we? Half the people at that party conveniently missing from the police report. The same cops who let Jake walk after Rachel Martinez? After what he did to Lisa?" Her voice rises with each accusation. "How many girls, Nate? How many before Emily finally fought back? Before something went wrong and your perfect little circle had to make her disappear?"

The dangerous glint in Nate's eyes dissolves into something else entirely - raw fear. Hannah feels the power shift between them like a current.

"He's a rapist and a murderer," Hannah presses her advantage, voice trembling with barely contained fury. "And you're helping him walk away from everything he's done. Every girl he's hurt. Emily's death-"

"Stop." Nate's voice cracks.

"No. Someone has to say it. Jake Woodland doesn't get to keep playing golden boy while everyone thinks she's living it up in Seattle-"

"Hannah." Her name comes out like a prayer. "For the love of that little girl who used to trade fruit roll-ups for my apple slices. The one who played soccer in this backyard until the streetlights came on. Please. Let this go."

"That girl grew up," Hannah's voice hardens. "And she learned that monsters don't just hide under beds - sometimes they wear letterman jackets and drive daddy's Porsche."

"I'm begging you-"

"It's time someone stood up to Jake Woodland."

"IT'S NOT ABOUT FUCKING JAKE!"

The explosion of rage echoes through the kitchen. They both freeze, glancing toward the living room. The distant sound of her parents' TV continues uninterrupted.

"You?" The whisper falls from Hannah's lips as puzzle pieces click into horrible place.

Nate rises from the chair like it burns him. His perfect facade cracks, revealing something raw and desperate underneath. "I came here to ask you - to beg you - one last time. Walk away from this."

Tears glisten in his eyes, catching the harsh kitchen fluorescents. "Please. I don't want to."

Hannah crosses her arms, chin lifting in defiance. "Jake's going to pay for what he did. All of it."

Something shifts in Nate's expression - a door closing, a wall coming down. When he speaks again, his voice carries an edge that makes her skin crawl. "Then what happens next is on you. I tried to protect you, but you're not giving me a choice."

"Make me understand then," Hannah challenges, even as her heart pounds against her ribs. "What's worth protecting a murderer?"

Nate shakes his head, already retreating behind his carefully constructed mask.

"I wish things could be different." The words fall from Nate's lips like stones. His eyes lock with hers one final time, carrying a weight that makes her breath catch. Then he tosses her phone onto the table with practiced casualness, the device spinning slightly before coming to rest.

"Keep the history book," he adds, his voice hollow. "Consider it a parting gift."

The kitchen door swings shut behind him with terrible finality. Hannah sits frozen, listening to his footsteps fade, the front door open and close, the distant purr of an engine disappearing into the night.

Her mind reels, trying to process what just happened. Not about Jake, he'd said. The words echo in her head like a broken record. Every assumption she'd made, every theory she'd constructed - they all orbit around Jake Woodland as the center of gravity. The entitled predator, the pampered prince of Riverside High, protected by money and privilege and perfect alibi-providing friends.

But Nate's eyes when she mentioned Emily... that wasn't the look of someone covering for a friend. That was raw terror. That was guilt. That was something so much darker than she'd imagined.

The history book sits on her kitchen table like a prop in a play, a convenient excuse that let the golden boy of Riverside High walk right through her front door to deliver his warning. Or was it a plea? The tears in his eyes had seemed real enough. The desperation in his voice when he begged her to let it go.

Her phone screen glows to life as she powers it back on. All these pieces of a puzzle she thought she understood, suddenly revealing new edges, new possibilities.

Hannah's fingers trace the fake history book's spine, mind racing. Nate Brooks - perfect boyfriend, star athlete, Stanford-bound golden boy - had just shown her his cracks. And through those cracks, she'd glimpsed something that scared him enough to drive to her house, to beg her to walk away.

Well, Hannah thinks, squaring her shoulders as she picks up her phone. Whatever truth lies buried at Hampton Beach, whatever sent Nate Brooks to her kitchen with tears in his eyes - she's going to dig until she finds it.

Even if it kills her.