Cora sat rigid on her plastic chair in the assembly room, watching as half the student body scrolled through their phones while Principal Matthews delivered a stumbling speech about Jaden Harper's "tragic accident."
The word "accident" made her fingers curl into fists.
The folded list in her pocket felt heavy, like a stone weighing her down. She'd memorized every name on it now, though their connection remained a mystery. Some she recognized as former students—faces from yearbooks, names whispered in hallways after similar "accidents."
Jaden's name at the top, freshly crossed out.
Her own name near the bottom, waiting.
"Jaden Harper was a valued member of our community," Principal Matthews droned, his voice flat. "His passing reminds us of the importance of safety near the cliffs—"
A group of seniors in the back row laughed at something on their phones. No one shushed them. No one seemed to care that less than forty-eight hours ago, one of their classmates had died screaming.
As students filed out after the assembly, Cora lingered, watching two teachers speak in hushed tones near the stage.
"Third one in five years," one whispered, shaking her head. "These things happen too often here."
The other teacher nodded grimly. "At least it wasn't during school hours this time. The paperwork—"
Cora's stomach churned. She pushed through the crowd, heading straight for the library. The archive room was tucked away in the basement, a forgotten space filled with yellowing newspapers and dusty microfilm reels.
The librarian barely glanced up as Cora signed in. "Research project?"
"Something like that," Cora muttered, already heading for the filing cabinets.
Hours passed as she dug through Haven Bay's history. Her hands trembled as patterns emerged from the faded headlines. Six deaths over twenty years, all during Founder's Day festivals. A drowning in 2003—Jessica Mayers, found floating near the marina. A fire in 2008 that claimed Marcus Rodriguez. Three falls from the cliffs, including Emily Grayson in 2018. And now Jaden. Each death was ruled accidental. Each victim is between sixteen and eighteen years old. Each name appearing on Jaden's list, crossed out like items on a grotesque shopping list.
She photographed every article with shaking hands, her mind racing. When she finally emerged from the archive room, the sun was setting.
"Callie,""I need to show you something. It's important."
They met at their usual spot behind the bleachers the next day. Callie lounged against a metal support beam, barely glancing up from her phone as Cora spread out her findings.
"Look at this," Cora insisted, pointing to the articles. "Six deaths, Callie. All during the festival. All of them are on Jaden's list."
Callie's thumb paused mid-scroll. For a moment, something flickered across her face—fear? Recognition? But then she shrugged, the gesture almost too casual.
"It's just a weird coincidence," she said, her voice flat. "People fall. It's tragic, but it happens. You're overthinking this."
"Coincidence?" Cora stared at her friend in disbelief. "Six people in twenty years? All during the same festival? All on this list?"
"You're trying to make his death into something it isn't, Cora." Callie's voice turned sharp, defensive. "Maybe Jaden was just... troubled. Maybe he made up the list to feel important."
"So that's it? You don't think it's weird at all?"
Callie's only response was another shrug, her eyes fixed on her phone screen like it held the secrets of the universe.
The bell rang, breaking the tense silence between them. Callie gathered her things quickly, almost frantically.
"Just let it go," she said, not meeting Cora's eyes. "Some things are better left alone."
Watching Callie hurry away, Cora felt something shift between them—a crack in their friendship's foundation.
She wondered if Callie knew more than she was saying. Or maybe worse, if she just didn't care enough to see what was right in front of her.
The rest of the day passed in a blur until Cora reached her locker after the final period. A piece of paper fluttered out as she opened the door. Her blood ran cold as she read the message:
"Stop looking, or you'll be next."
The handwriting was unfamiliar, the threat unmistakable.
That Friday, Mrs. Peterson asked for volunteers to clean out Jaden's locker. The classroom fell silent, students suddenly fascinated by their desks.
"I'll do it," Cora said, ignoring the stares that followed her.
Jaden's locker smelled like old clothes and dust. Textbooks, crumpled assignments, a half-eaten pack of gum—the ordinary debris of a life cut short.
But beneath the mundane items, tucked into an old notebook, she found them: five photographs, edges worn, colors slightly faded.
Her hands trembled as she examined each one. Different years, different faces, but all at the Founder's Day festival. Jessica Mayers laughing on the Ferris wheel. Marcus Rodriguez by the ring toss booth. Emily Grayson near the lighthouse.
Each photo showed the victims hours before their deaths, surrounded by other teens whose faces seemed to blur together.
She turned over the last photo. There, scrawled in black ink across the back, were the words that made her heart stop:
"The Circle."