Riverdale -

Betty’s eyes widened. “What did you do, Veronica?”

“The very same,” Betty said. “And here’s the detail the police report missed. The barn was sold six months ago to a shell company. A shell company that traces back to a certain Mr. Percival Pickens.”

“And?”

The rain intensified, hammering the windows like it was trying to get in. Pop Tate appeared, silent as a ghost, and refilled Jughead’s coffee. He knew better than to ask questions. He’d seen too many Riverdale seasons turn from milkshakes to murder.

Jughead stiffened. Percival Pickens. The name alone tasted like ash. The newcomer who’d bought up half the town’s debts, who’d turned the Babylonium into a private club, who’d smiled at town council meetings while sliding a knife between Riverdale’s ribs. Riverdale

Jughead’s pen stopped scratching. “Alice Cooper is in a facility two counties over. Medicated. Watched.”

A bell jingled. The rain swept in, and with it, a figure in a black trench coat, dripping onto the checkerboard floor. Betty Cooper shook out her blonde ponytail, her face pale, her smile tight. She slid into the booth next to Archie without asking. Betty’s eyes widened

“You’re doing it again,” Jughead said, not looking up. “The jaw clench. The thousand-yard stare. You’re composing a sad song about it, aren’t you?”