Betty’s eyes widened. “What did you do, Veronica?”
Betty nodded. “And tonight, during the gala, he’s going to announce a ‘historical restoration project.’ My sources say the old barn is the centerpiece. If he digs there, he’ll find what’s still buried. What we buried.”
“Found it taped to my laptop this morning,” Betty said, her voice steady, though her hands trembled. “The same stationery my mom used for her ‘neighborhood watch’ letters back in the day. The same handwriting as the letters the Black Hood sent.” Riverdale
“Always,” Archie replied.
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
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.
And outside, unseen through the rain-streaked window, a figure in a barn coat and muddy boots watched them. The figure smiled, turned, and disappeared into the dark woods where the secrets of Riverdale went to die—and sometimes, to be reborn. If he digs there, he’ll find what’s still buried
“Pickens is collecting relics,” Jughead said, his mind racing. “Properties tied to old traumas. He’s not after land. He’s after leverage. Emotional real estate.”