Morgan is the one with a double connection to both fictional Cassidy and the very real Caroline. If I were going to commit a murder based on either one, Morgan would be the perfect victim.

Then there’s her grandfather’s theory.

A few seconds with Google on my phone, and I’ve got a page of search results for “Joe Bedecki.” His last appeal was twenty years ago. There are a few mentions of him in anniversary pieces, reviews of the Netflix documentary, and an article on an old crime blog with photos from back then. And I hate to admit it, but 1970 Joe was a snack.

Was Joe a patsy? If he didn’t kill Caroline Quinn, the real culprit could still be alive—and in Seaview. But can you copy your own crime?

I have so many new questions: If Natalie’s death is connected to the original Seaview killer, why did they wait so long to kill again? Why choose Natalie as their victim—and why before homecoming? If the symbolism involved the homecoming queen, they were a day too early. Queen presumptive isn’t exactly the same.

“I see your brain literally ticking,” Ben muses. He has returned with two white mugs in hand, both with faded gold Quinn’s logos etched on them. “I ordered us grilled cheese and soup, as well.”

“What if I don’t like grilled cheese?” I tease as he slides in next to me.

“I stalked your Instagram. Paired it with tomato basil and everything.”

“Thank you,” I say, flattered he’d look me up. I warm my hands around the hot mug and then walk Ben through my jumble of thoughts. All the potential threads. We land back on Joe Bedecki.

“You didn’t seem surprised when Morgan said he might not be guilty,” I say. “You really think there’s some grandpa out there who’s a secret murderer and may have done this, too?”

Ben snorts. “Alternate suspects for Caroline’s murder have always been out there in certain circles. But no one really believes them, and Sheriff Morrow isn’t going to go poking around an ancient closed case to solve Natalie’s murder. He’s a good ole boy. He toes the Seaview line. That means tiptoeing around the mayor about his daughter.” Ben’s mouth is a taut line, like he’s itching to drop another bomb on the table.

Amber’s mom drops a tray of food instead. I jump so hard my thighs bang on the underside of the table. Liquid red sloshes over the edge of my soup bowl.

“Sorry,” I say to her, noting for the first time that her name is Stephanie, per her teal name tag. I use the last of our napkin supply to clean it up.