Author's note:
This amazing fanart is by @popsicledots_ ! They drew an adorable rendition of (y/n)'s outfit. I love the details, down to the glimmer of light on the shoes and the song in her airpods. Her eyes look so pretty and ocean-y. I love it so much!!
If you want your fanart featured in future chapters, send it to charitybrynerthompson@gmail.com . I'd love to see what you make! <3
BACK TO THE STORY
Then he pointed the gun straight at Tyler's heart.
Ceiling lights played on the silver gun, glossy like a desert mirage. A grave-like silence descended over the Weathervane. The hum of the air conditioning and the buzz of the overhead lights spilled into the quiet, draping the closed shop in a false calm.
Tyler didn't dissolve into hysterics. He barely moved, other than his eyebrows raising in cold shock.
"Tyler," Miles calmly said. "The money. Where is it?"
You frowned. What money?
Tyler's lean shoulders stiffened. With an apprehensive, careful glance at you, he replied quietly, "I'm not sure what you mean." Like a rabid hunting dog, Miles' crazed eyes seized on the glance.
"Maybe I'll shoot her first," Miles sneered, training his glassy stare on you. "Will that jog your memory?" His sudden threat seemed unreal, as if directed at a faraway stranger.
"No," Tyler asserted, quickly sidestepping to protect you from Miles' view. By his sides, his fingers quickly, erratically twitched, curling in and out of a fist. He was nervous "I remember now."
Miles lunged forward with sloppy, aggressive steps that smacked into the linoleum wood floor. He forcefully poked the barrel of the gun against Tyler's chest, indenting the earthy fabric.
Tyler blinked, eyes wide and confused. He carefully faltered back under the pressure. Miles guided him by gunpoint next to you on the sticky plastic of the booth.
You peeled your sweaty palm up from the booth, realizing you had scarcely shuddered since Miles drew his cruel weapon. Your hands trembled with anticipation, longing to unleash threads of telekinetic power onto Miles.
But you tugged your phone out instead, discreetly tapping out 9-1-1 under the table.
Around people, you couldn't yet control the raging, crackling magic of your power. The accident last Christmas had proved that. You couldn't trust yourself. And if Weems and your parents ever discovered what truly happened that icy night... they wouldn't trust you, either.
You felt the bench seat depress slightly underneath Tyler's weight. He turned his neck, his gentle, green eyes holding yours for a desperate moment.
"Tyler, are we going to die?" You whispered, seizing the opportunity to speak without raising Miles' suspicions. Hopefully, whoever had answered your 9-1-1 call would hear Tyler Galpin's name and immediately think of the Weathervane. From the down-the-street office, the sheriff could arrive in seconds.
"No, no," Tyler promised, unaware that your pathetic, scared sentence had been only for the cops' benefit. In his distorted fantasy, you were a terrified girl in need of reassurance. Against the plastic of the booth, you felt the warmth of his hand securely resting on yours. "I take care of everyone in the Weathervane. I'll take care of you."
Inexplicably, your heart stuttered.
"Stop talking. I'll shoot him," Miles dangerously warned. "I'll blow his blood all over that pretty white shirt of yours." The sickening thought of Tyler's warm blood splattering across your shoulders and rolling in rich beads down your chest sent pulses of disgust through your bones.
"Hopefully it lands on your cheeks." Your own mocking voice surprised you, but you couldn't stop from nervously jabbering ahead. When you felt uncomfortable, words tumbled out of your mouth like a fountain. "Your complexion could use the color."
Miles' pasty face pinched up in distorted rage, but Sheriff Galpin burst through the door, jamming a taser into Miles' neck. He howled in pain, crumpling to the floor. Throbbing with high voltage, he writhed with erratic muscle spasms as the sheriff jerked his wrists into glinting silver handcuffs.
"Tracy, Jace, take him to the office," Sheriff Galpin barked, rallying two officers who wrangled Miles up by his shoulders and roughly forced him outside.
"I never thought I'd be happy to see you, sheriff." You grinned, giddy with relief. The afterburn of danger felt high and exhilarating, as if you'd won a lottery game.
"And I don't think I'll ever be happy to see you, Austin," Sheriff Galpin countered, wryly addressing you by your last name. His slightly grimy fingers curled around a white notepad, preparing to take your statements.
Tyler's knees splayed outwards as he slouched blankly next to you. His brown hair was softly disheveled, as if his unraveled appearance echoed the disorientation of his mind. Again, you felt your fingers twitch, wishing they could push his messy hair off of his forehead.
"Tyler, buddy, what happened?" The sheriff's voice rose an octave, uncharacteristically gentle as he frowned at his son. You got the sense that he wasn't one for overt affection, but right now, Tyler needed it.
"I don't know," Tyler shakily exhaled, frown lines hardening between his eyebrows. "Miles is-was-my friend." From the distracted flicker of his gaze, you could tell being held at gunpoint had rattled him.
"Did he want anything?" Sheriff Galpin directed the innocent question at both of you.
"No," Tyler immediately said, his voice as quiet as a river. Your eyebrows shot up at the flat lie. That's not true. Miles wanted money. Why would Tyler lie to his father about that?
"(Y/n), are you sure?" The sheriff's carefully trained eyes lingered on you. Tyler widened his eyes at you, almost imperceptibly. Pleading. He tensely dropped his gaze to his hands, tangled together on the table, anticipating your move.
Something tugged in your chest. You hesitated, and then brashly decided.
"Yeah, he didn't want anything," you sighed. Tyler's hands fidgeted in surprise, the tense curve of his shoulders relaxing. "He just barged in waving around that gun and said he'd shoot us." You weren't sure why you had covered for Tyler. But it made you feel good, like the two of you played for a secret team.
"Alright," the sheriff agreeably grunted, slapping his palms on his legs before rising to his feet. "C'mon, Austin. I'll drive you back." As you slipped outside into the summer air, you shot Tyler a meaningful look. During your next shift on Wednesday, you'd expect an explanation.
The air in Sheriff Galpin's car was cold. He kept the air conditioning dialed high, puffing out a steady breeze of white noise.
"Last time you drove me, I was back there in handcuffs," You mused, tapping your shoe rapidly against the inside of the padded door. You burned the nervous energy the way you always did: with fidgeting and wry humor. "You make a pretty good chauffeur, Sheriff."
Sheriff Galpin stonewalled. His keen, tiny eyes glared ahead at the midnight road, unamused. You rolled your eyes. Tough crowd.
"Does he know?" He simply asked, after several heartbeats of disinterested silence.
"Be more specific," you prompted, impishly popping open the glove department. Several papers swirled lightly into your lap. Bored, you batted them away. "Do you have any gum?"
"Does my son know you're an outcast?" Sheriff Galpin elaborated, his words sarcastically slow as if addressing a dim-wit. "And put those papers back. They're not yours."
"I could buy them if I really wanted them," you absentmindedly countered. But you tilted your head, considering. Did Tyler know? He'd never pried into your personal life or school details. He'd vanished from the police station long before Weems collected you the night of the crash.
"I suppose he doesn't," you finally decided, pulling your ebony handbag toward your chest. "Why does it matter?" The metallic gate of Nevermore Academy spiraled into the blackened sky, its overhead ravens swimming among the stars. Exhaustion finally engulfed you in its heavy cloud.
"He doesn't know," Sheriff Galpin informed you, pressing his lips into a tight line. "Because if he knew you were an outcast, he wouldn't have said any of that bull about taking care of you." He dryly chuckled, scratching his stubbled chin. "Heck, he'd be the one pointing the gun."
"What he doesn't know won't kill him," you shrugged, a tad defensively. "I just want to get my stupid community service over with."
"He'll find out," Sheriff Galpin warned, tiredly leaning back into his leather seat. "And when he does, he'll make your life hell."
What would Tyler do to you if he found out? Today he'd been nothing but amiable and friendly to you. You'd almost started to believe in his charismatic, good-boy persona. But you had glimpsed a thread of darkness, steeling his stormy-ocean eyes the night he'd shouted at his father. Tyler Galpin hid a mean streak, and you shuddered to imagine his shadowy resentment aimed at you.
"Whatever," you huffed, slamming your elbow against the handle and shoving it open with a rough click. Thinking about Tyler's future, intangible loathing for you left you restless and confused.
You hurled the dulled white door of the cop car shut, stalking through the poetically eerie front terrace of Nevermore. As you glided over the cobblestones and past the neatly trimmed bushes, you plotted your silent ascent up the spiral staircase. Nobody would ever know. With a heavy creak, the massive, gold embedded front door pushed open. Your heart dropped. It had been left unlocked.
"(Y/n) Austin," a lofty, accented voice interrupted you five footsteps into the lobby, dripping with disapproval. "Late for curfew."
Weems' shapely silhouette haunted the top of the staircase, an unwelcome ghost in a pale-jade dress. Behind her, Rowan and Xavier lingered, like Ursula's thug eels from The Little Mermaid. Traitors.
"I've spoken with your roommates. We have much to discuss."