Welcome to Penny’s Diary, a contemporary urban-fantasy serial. Read new diary entries every Thursday. Supporting readers can also access a weekly Writer’s Commentary, along with immersive audio and eBook editions, after each entry.
New to Penny’s story? Begin at the very first entry by clicking the button below and step into the moments where everything started to change.
It was warm outside. Posters for the Easter Sunday service at the chapel. Something about an egg hunt for kids. It pulled up old memories of Easter mornings on Veiled Isle with Sean, Dad, and Gramps.
For a minute, everything felt uncomplicated.
Which should’ve been my first warning.
Cupcakes and Confessions
I’d asked Ellie to come early. Thirty minutes before Teddy.
She was sitting cross-legged on the floor of my room when I got back, staring at the rug like it might testify against her.
Too calm.
I pointed at Bobby—the new list of Candy’s inner circle.
“So. Are we telling him?”
She didn’t make me spell it out.
Fay. The video. The leverage. Candy weaponizing humiliation like it’s a hobby.
“Yeah,” she said. “He should know.”
No hesitation. Which somehow made it heavier.
Teddy showed up right on time—Nintendo hoodie, concerned-eyebrow energy activated. He took one look at us and went straight into Serious Mode.
We didn’t ease into it.
Ellie explained. Not every detail, but enough. The blackmail. The pressure. The control.
Teddy went very quiet.
Not confused quiet.
Calculating quiet.
He apologized immediately. Like he could’ve prevented it somehow.
Ellie told him it wasn’t his fault.
“There’s something else,” I said.
Teddy’s eyes flicked to me.
I could feel my heartbeat trying to fight its way out of my chest, which was annoying, because this was Teddy. If anyone had earned the truth by now, it was him.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t interrupt.
Just waited.
Which somehow made it worse.
“We’re together,” I said. “Or… whatever this is. It’s us. Just not publicly.”
Ellie gave the smallest nod beside me.
“Not until we get that video back,” she said. “While Candy still has it, she still controls the story.”
Teddy looked between us and gave the smallest nod. “Yeah,” he said. “I kind of knew.”
That landed.
And something settled.
No dramatic lightning strike. Just… alignment.
No more “protecting” each other by leaving things out.
Just the three of us. All of it included.
Teddy grabbed a cupcake and muttered that Candy had officially reached villain expansion-pack status.
I told him congratulations—he’d unlocked advanced gameplay.
Ellie laughed. Small. Real.
We’re not a trio because it’s convenient anymore.
We’re a trio because we know the worst parts—and we’re still here.
Inside the Loop
We opened Younger Penny’s second diary like it might bite.
Teddy at the desk, index open. Ellie beside me, close enough that our shoulders touched.
The early entries were exactly what you’d expect from a seven-year-old.
Short sentences. Snacks. Notes about how cold the transfusion rooms felt. Drawings in the margins.
Clearwater didn’t sound sinister in the writing.
It was just…there.
And then the pattern started.
Headache.
Clearwater visit.
Forget.
Headache.
Visit.
Forget.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing labeled. Just gaps.
Seven-year-old me didn’t call them resets.
She called them weird days.
After each appointment, anything strange about Clearwater disappeared from the entries.
The other kids. The routines. The hints.
What stayed?
Surface facts.
Transfusions.
Nurses’ names.
Weather.
Outside the building, the memory collapsed.
Inside?
It came back.
Continuity inside. Collapse outside.
Which means our assumption wasn’t paranoia.
It was right.
Teddy muttered that it wasn’t random.
Structured.
Deliberate.
We found the first letter at the end of February 2017.
Typed.
Not seven-year-old handwriting.
Calm. Instructional.
And suddenly the realization hit.
Seven-year-old me wasn’t running experiments.
She was being guided.
Which means someone else understood the loop before I ever could.
And that realization is worse.
The Helper Problem
We didn’t say it out loud at first.
We just kept flipping pages. Cross-checking dates. Watching the pattern stack up whether we liked it or not.
Headache.
Clearwater.
Forget.
Headache.
Visit.
Forget.
Letter.
Every reset left something behind.
Not dramatic pleas. Not chaos. Just instructions. Calm. Measured.
Seven-year-old me didn’t suddenly become a memory researcher.
I was worried about stickers and snack choices. Not running experiments on my own brain.
Which means this wasn’t instinct.
It was guidance.
Someone nudged me toward the diary.
Someone helped leave the breadcrumbs.
And that means they weren’t guessing.
They were watching.
Possibly inside Clearwater.
That thought didn’t feel dramatic.
It felt cold.
Grateful-cold.
Like yes, I’m glad someone intervened.
And no, I don’t like that they had to.
“If they hadn’t…” I started.
Ellie squeezed my hand.
“We’d both still be in it.”
And she wasn’t wrong.
Walking into Clearwater like it’s routine.
Forgetting.
Resetting.
Smiling at people who might know more about our brains than we do.
Controlled panic is a real thing.
It’s when your body stays still but your brain starts mapping exits.
I closed the diary.
Not because we were done.
But because something just got bigger.
Party Exit Sting
We didn’t realize how long we’d been at it until Ellie checked her phone and froze for half a second.
Jemma’s party.
Right.
Before she grabbed her jacket, I handed over the chocolate egg. Pastel bag. Completely neutral. Zero emotional symbolism whatsoever.
She blinked at it. “You didn’t have to.”
I shrugged like I absolutely hadn’t overthought it in Cascades earlier.
Teddy got his too. And Squirt’s. Shoved into his hands with strict delivery instructions.
They both looked mildly guilty for not having anything for me.
Which was ridiculous. It was chocolate, not classified intel.
Still.
It was nice seeing them hold something I’d picked out.
Ellie hesitated by the door. Just for a second.
Like stepping back into that polished universe required armor.
Then she smiled at me.
And left.
The room felt different after that.
Not bigger. Just quieter.
Teddy retreated into updating the index and complaining about formatting. I rubbed my temple out of habit.
The headache wasn’t gone.
Just quieter.
Sharing it helps.
Apparently emotional load-bearing is a team sport.
There was a small ache under my ribs that had nothing to do with medical sabotage.
Not because I wasn’t invited to Jemma’s party.
I would genuinely rather alphabetize Teddy’s Doctor Who collection than attend that circus.
It was that Ellie was going.
Not because she wants to.
Because she has to.
Candy’s gravity doesn’t switch off just because we had a breakthrough.
That polished, filtered universe with curated playlists and good lighting looks optional from the outside.
It isn’t.
And I hate that she has to keep stepping into rooms that don’t feel safe just to keep the illusion going.
And every time I picture Candy smiling in one of those rooms, I remember exactly what she’s holding over Ellie.
Which might be the hardest part.
Still.
There are parts of her night I won’t see.
Versions of her I won’t stand beside.
For a second, I didn’t like that.
Which is selfish.
And human.
I didn’t say any of that out loud.
Instead, I let Teddy take the last Easter cupcake for Squirt.
Small things feel important right now.
The loop is real.
The helper is real.
And tonight Ellie’s under fairy lights because she has to be, while we’re here wrapping up the diary dive.
Timing is rude like that.
Teddy headed home after that, clutching his cupcake delivery like it was classified cargo.
I drifted into the living room a little later.
Gramps had blankets waiting on the couch and had already queued up an old movie.
Which is basically his way of saying sit down before you spiral again.
So that’s how the night ended.
Popcorn.
Old movie commentary.
And the Meridian settling into its usual quiet.
The headache’s lighter.
I’m counting that as a win.
Sunday, April 5, 2026
After-Church Bombshell
I didn’t sleep well.
Sometime in the middle of the night I woke up for no clear reason and just lay there staring at the ceiling for a while.
Eventually I fell back asleep.
Which meant I woke up later than planned.
When I finally surfaced, there was an Easter basket waiting for me at the kitchen table.
Gramps had gone full nostalgic mode—foil-wrapped eggs, jellybeans, even one of those hollow chocolate bunnies that collapse instantly under pressure.
I handed him the giant chocolate egg I grabbed at Cascades yesterday. He pretended to be surprised. I pretended his wasn’t a last-minute decision.
Normal Easter energy achieved.
Which lasted about twenty minutes.
I was halfway through a very late breakfast of chocolate—Easter tradition—when my phone lit up with Ellie’s name.
I answered immediately.
Her voice wasn’t shaky.
Just tight.
“Jemma’s gone.”
At first my brain tried to file that under petty social drama.
Like she’d stormed out of her own party or was ignoring everyone for attention.
Then Ellie clarified.
The party ended. Everyone left.
Jemma went upstairs.
This morning she wasn’t there.
No one’s seen her since last night.
That’s when the back of my brain went very still.
Saturday’s fairy lights turned into something else entirely.
I could hear adult voices behind her. Calm in the way adults get when they’re trying not to escalate things in public.
Ellie was still at church.
They were calling the police.
Which means whatever happened didn’t happen during the party.
It happened sometime after.
Missing.
That word feels different when you say it out loud.
We hung up after a minute.
I stared at the wall for exactly three seconds before calling Teddy.
I didn’t even fully know why.
Jemma isn’t our friend. Apart from Ellie, the Candy Gang orbit doesn’t overlap with ours.
But something about this didn’t feel normal.
He picked up out of breath.
Apparently Squirt’s backyard Easter egg hunt had escalated into competitive chaos.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, already serious.
“Jemma Landry’s missing,” I said.
There was a pause.
The heavy kind.
Disbelief is loud at first.
Then it gets very quiet.
And that quiet is where the dread starts.
Missing Feels Different
I didn’t think about it much at first.
Jemma Landry gone.
My brain kept trying to file it under something temporary. Something explainable.
Late night. Phone dead. Dramatic misunderstanding.
But the word keeps sitting there.
Missing.
Jemma has always lived in the Candy Gang avoidance category in my brain. Perfect hair. Perfect feed. People who laugh a second too loudly at her jokes.
She wasn’t supposed to disappear.
That’s not how girls like that get written.
And I hate that my first reaction wasn’t sympathy.
It was surprise.
Like disappearing is something that happens to other families.
Other lives.
Not the ones with matching SUVs and filtered Christmas cards.
I sat on my bed and let the word settle.
Missing.
Not grounded. Not dramatic. Not “taking space.”
Missing.
A flash of something old and sharp cut through me—hospital hallways, adults speaking in careful voices, that hollow space where Dad’s laugh used to live.
Sean’s sneakers still by the door.
Loss doesn’t screen for popularity.
It just takes.
I don’t care how mean she’s been. I don’t care about cafeteria territory wars or lip-glossed insults.
Somewhere in town, her family is waiting for a door to open.
And I know that kind of waiting.
Which means this suddenly feels a lot less like gossip.
And a lot more like the beginning of something nobody wants.
Monday, April 6, 2026
Easter Monday Limbo
No school today.
Easter Monday.
Which is supposed to feel like bonus weekend energy.
It doesn’t.
My phone was already at 37% before breakfast.
Group chat: active.
Ellie: photos from the party showing Jemma.
Teddy: local updates.
Me: refreshing like the answer might appear if I glare hard enough.
No confirmed sightings.
No clear timeline.
Just that Jemma was seen at the end of the party.
Inside the house.
And then nothing.
The house part is what won’t leave me alone.
She was there.
Didn’t come out.
I’m not saying that out loud.
But it’s sitting there.
Mom isn’t coming home today.
Not vanished.
Public holidays apparently don’t interfere with spa management.
For a second I thought maybe Easter would override Halifax life.
Apparently not.
“Catching up on paperwork,” she texted.
Classic.
So it’s me, Gramps, and a town stuck in refresh mode.
Ellie’s doing the required Easter family circuit this morning.
Teddy’s cross-checking timelines like we’re in a low-budget crime documentary.
And I’m trying not to connect who’s coming and going around town to Clearwater loops.
Because that would be insane.
Right?
The thing about public holidays is they’re supposed to feel slow.
Today doesn’t.
It feels like waiting.
Tuesday, April 7, 2026
Hallway Static
School felt louder than usual.
Not actual volume. Just tension. Like someone turned the emotional thermostat up and forgot to turn it back down.
Flyers everywhere. Lockers. Noticeboards. Posters on the walls. Even the glass doors by the entrance.
Jemma’s face everywhere. Smiling like she’s advertising lip gloss instead of being missing.
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL?
It’s unsettling seeing someone you rolled your eyes at last week reduced to a poster.
I was at my locker pretending to look for a book I definitely didn’t need when I heard Candy’s voice drifting from around the corner.
You know how some people don’t have to raise their voice to dominate a space?
That.
She was saying the police didn’t “have anything,” and that if something serious had happened there’d be proof by now.
Kaelyn sounded worried.
Candy sounded entertained.
Then she implied Jemma probably just ran off. Some dramatic stunt to make her birthday party famous.
To upstage Candy’s upcoming birthday.
Like vanishing into thin air is a publicity strategy.
My jaw locked before my brain could intervene.
I stepped around the corner and asked if she was serious.
Candy did the slow shades adjustment. The theatrical pause.
Called me Freak. Penny Dreadful. The usual.
Said it wasn’t my concern.
Which is interesting.
Because when someone disappears, it stops being about cafeteria territory.
It stops being about who sits where.
It just becomes serious.
For a split second, something flickered across Candy’s face.
Not guilt.
Not fear.
Annoyance.
Like I’d interrupted her performance.
The hallway had gone quiet by then.
Watching.
Moral outrage is a weird kind of fuel.
It makes you braver than you planned to be.
And right now?
I don’t care how many pairs of sunglasses she owns.
She doesn’t get to rewrite this.
Crisis vs. Camera Angles
Media Studies did not get the memo that the town is spiraling.
Noah was mid-presentation about camera stabilization like we weren’t all one notification away from another update. Olivia had color-coded folders. Someone in the back was arguing about drone permissions.
Life.
Just… continuing.
Mr. Lefevre clapped once and reminded us our 360-degree video projects needed locked-in filming dates.
April 18.
Weather permitting.
Ellie glanced at me across the table. We both nodded at the same time.
Saturday works. Of course it works. Why wouldn’t it?
(We’ll just casually reschedule a diary deep dive into childhood memory sabotage. No big deal.)
There’s something strange about scheduling creative projects while someone’s face is taped to your locker.
“Try to keep it immersive,” Mr. Lefevre added. “Think atmosphere.”
Atmosphere.
Yeah.
We’ve got that covered.
For a minute it almost felt normal.
Planning shots. Talking angles. Debating wind noise like that’s the biggest threat in town.
Maybe that’s how this works.
Crisis doesn’t freeze the world.
It just runs in the background while everyone pretends they can multitask.
Still.
Every time someone’s phone buzzed, half the class flinched.
Including me.
Cafeteria Parallels
Lunch was loud.
Too loud.
Like everyone was trying to talk over the thing none of us actually understand.
Teddy slid into the seat across from me with that bullet-point look.
Still no update from the police.
Then he frowned.
“It’s weird though. It’s like Jemma vanished into thin air.”
My stomach dropped.
He didn’t say the next part right away. Which is rare for him.
But I knew where he was going.
It sounded like the first diary.
Younger Penny’s entries. People going somewhere and then… nothing.
Of course it does.
He clarified he wasn’t saying it is the same thing. Just that the structure matches.
Structure.
There’s that word again.
And then something else hit.
Not just the diary disappearances.
Ellie’s mom.
One day she’s there. The next she’s not.
No body. No answers.
Just official phrasing and a hollow space where a person should be.
My chest tightened.
Across the cafeteria, Ellie was sitting at the Candy Gang table.
How many times has she heard the word missing used like a headline instead of a wound?
And I’ve been obsessing over patterns and loops and memory resets like this is a logic puzzle.
This isn’t a puzzle for her.
It’s a bruise.
Teddy followed my gaze and told me she doesn’t need me solving it.
She needs me steady.
That landed.
Because this stopped being abstract the second it touched her.
Wings and Warnings
Drama should have been chaotic.
Half-built set pieces. Someone arguing about spotlight angles. Someone humming like they’re already on Broadway.
Instead, everything felt muted.
Ellie was checking a backdrop against her sketch. From a distance, she looked fine.
Composed.
Functional.
Mayor’s Daughter Mode activated.
I waited until rehearsal paused for lighting adjustments and caught her by the wings.
I went for casual and landed somewhere near careful.
Asked if she was okay.
She said she was fine.
I just looked at her.
She exhaled and admitted it was weird.
Weird.
Right. Because that’s what you call it when a girl disappears, the town spirals, and you’ve already lived through that kind of absence once.
I told her she didn’t have to filter with me.
She didn’t say Mom.
She didn’t say that night.
Just that it brings things back.
Things.
Which is somehow heavier.
We stood there for a moment in that quiet space where you both know exactly what’s being referenced but don’t say it out loud.
I told her if it gets loud in her head, she needs to tell me.
She gave me a small smile.
Not bright.
Just real.
Then she went back to measuring scenery like precision might hold everything together.
She looks steady.
But I know steady and okay aren’t the same thing.
And some echoes don’t ask permission before they come back.
Meridian Investigation Mode
After everything today, we decided not to wait.
If Jemma’s disappearance really does look like the ones in the first diary, we needed to check it again.
Properly.
So: emergency diary deep dive.
Meridian after dinner.
I was already organized in my room when Ellie and Teddy got there.
Door closed. Diary out. Index open.
Waiting energy is worse than moving energy.
Teddy arrived first. No snack stop.
Which is how you know things are officially not normal.
Ellie came a few minutes later, quiet in the way people get when the day has been too loud.
This time the obstacle wasn’t Candy.
It was her dad.
Apparently “homework” is the approved coping strategy for town-wide panic. He relented in the end—on the condition his driver dropped her off and picked her up.
And then it was just us.
Meridian bubble activated.
The first diary sat open on my desk. Teddy’s index beside it—dates highlighted, oddities circled, everything cross-referenced like we’re studying for a final exam in Vanishing 101.
We reread the entries Younger Penny wrote.
Then—technically breaking our no unnecessary memory blasts rule—I touched the page.
Ellie held my hand and shared them this time.
But younger me didn’t see or hear anything dramatic.
Just whispers about disappearances. Adults using careful voices. The town shifting in ways she couldn’t name.
No smoking gun.
Just absence.
So before we spiraled, Teddy turned back to the computer.
He reopened the same articles we’d found before. News archives. Local reports. Dates matching the diary.
He searched names. Weekends. Addresses.
Then variations. Misspellings. Cached pages.
Nothing new.
That’s when his jaw started tightening.
Across the cases, the phrasing kept repeating.
Last seen going inside.
Entered the building.
No confirmed exit.
Over and over.
Same pattern.
But the details? Thin.
And then something else clicked.
Ellie’s mom.
Ellie mentioned it quietly, almost like she hadn’t meant to say it.
Christmas Eve 2024 in Halifax.
A charity function with her dad.
Last seen inside the venue.
No footage of her leaving.
The room went quiet after that.
No one said it out loud.
But the pattern didn’t just belong to the old cases anymore.
Filtered Reports
We kept digging anyway.
No timestamps beyond vague ranges. No video footage. No metadata. No expanded reporting.
“It’s like they’re summarizing on purpose,” Teddy muttered.
Not dramatic.
Just irritated.
Teddy does not like incomplete data.
He refreshed three different archives like one of them might suddenly confess.
“It shouldn’t be this empty,” he said, mostly to himself. “There’s always something. Logs. Updates. Supplemental reports.”
There weren’t.
It didn’t feel dramatic.
It felt filtered.
Like someone had sanded down the edges before the public ever saw it.
I turned toward the window without meaning to.
And there it was again.
A shape in the reflection. Dark. Slightly off-center. Still.
My stomach dropped.
“Brandon,” I said before I could stop myself.
They both turned.
Nothing obvious.
But the roofline across the street shifted.
A crow.
Just sitting there.
Watching.
Teddy exhaled softly. “So we’re being monitored by a ’90s gothic vigilante now?”
Of course he went straight to The Crow movie. Brandon Lee and the whole rooftop-crow thing.
The bird didn’t move.
Not when we looked.
Not when we didn’t.
Eventually it lifted off—slow, deliberate—like it had finished whatever it came to see.
For a minute none of us said anything.
Then Teddy turned away from the computer.
“That’s enough doom research for one night,” he said.
Honestly, he wasn’t wrong.
We’d looped the same cases three different ways and ended up exactly where we started.
Missing people.
Thin reports.
No exits.
So we called it.
Teddy offered to give us both a lift home—said it would save Ellie’s dad’s driver another late-night trip.
She agreed.
Which made sense.
Tonight wasn’t about solving anything.
Just confirming the pattern.
And the pattern is still there.
Missing people.
Last seen going inside.
No confirmed exit.
Wednesday April 8, 2026
Police Before First Period
There are some things that do not belong in school hallways.
Pop quizzes? Sure.
Awkward breakups? Unfortunately.
Two uniformed police officers standing next to Candy Steele before first period?
Absolutely not.
I turned the corner by the lockers and nearly walked straight into it.
Candy and Kaelyn by the water fountain. Shades on. Performing concern like it’s an extracurricular.
Of course Candy saw me.
Her head turned slowly—deliberate. She lowered her shades just enough to make eye contact.
And held it.
The hallway went weirdly dense. Everyone pretending not to stare. Definitely staring.
One of the officers nodded while she spoke and wrote something down.
Why are they talking to her?
That thought arrived loud and fast.
Candy’s birthday party was the last place Jemma was seen.
Followed immediately by worse ones.
Did she say something?
Did she redirect something?
Did she… mention me?
Her mouth curved slightly.
Not a smile.
More like acknowledgment.
I forced myself to keep walking.
Casual. Locker. Combination. Algebra face.
Totally normal student. Zero conspiracy strings attached.
As I passed, one of the officers glanced at me.
Not accusing. Not friendly.
Just… assessing.
And somehow that felt worse.
By the time I reached my locker, my pulse was tapping out Morse code in my throat.
Maybe I’m being paranoid.
I just know I didn’t like the way she looked at me.
Like she already knew something.
This Escalated
History lasted about twelve minutes before the loudspeaker decided I was overdue for a plot twist.
“Penny Summers, please report to the principal’s office.”
Every head turned. Of course they did.
Ellie squeezed my hand under the table. Teddy gave me the steady nod.
I walked down the hallway trying very hard not to narrate my own downfall in dramatic voiceover.
When I stepped into Principal Dawson’s office, the same two police officers were already there.
And Principal Dawson looked like he’d swallowed something sour.
They said they had a few follow-up questions.
Follow-up. Sure.
Then they played a video.
The cafeteria incident from last month.
Except it wasn’t the whole thing.
It showed me pushing Candy into Jemma. Jemma falling. End of clip.
No ketchup. No buildup. No context.
Just a neat little edit where I look like I started it.
A Candy Cut.
My stomach dropped.
I told them that’s not what happened and walked them through the real sequence. The ketchup. The bullying. Then the push.
I tried pulling up Candy’s TikTok where she posted the ketchup humiliation.
Gone.
Of course it was.
They took notes. Calm. Neutral.
Then they asked where I was Saturday night.
There it is.
I said the Meridian. With Gramps. Movie night.
They said they’d confirm it.
Which is when the word alibi showed up in my brain.
I asked if I was a suspect.
They said they were just gathering information.
Gathering.
Which apparently includes me.
The edited video bothered me more than the alibi question.
Someone cut that clip.
Someone handed it over.
Candy.
Now I’m orbiting this investigation whether I volunteered or not.
When they dismissed me, I caught my reflection in the office window.
Neutral. Composed.
But something shifted today.
This isn’t hallway drama anymore.
It’s documented.
Candy Cut Theory
Teddy was waiting for me at lunch.
I dropped into the seat across from him and gave him the short version.
Cafeteria incident. Last month. Edited clip. No ketchup. No buildup. Just me apparently shoving Candy into Jemma like I’d auditioned for hallway wrestling.
He went very still.
Edited.
Clean cut. Context gone.
His jaw tightened. Not an accident.
I told him they’d also asked about Saturday night. Where I was. Meridian. Movie night with Gramps. They’re confirming it.
He didn’t look relieved.
He looked like he was rearranging pieces in his head.
Then the question we were both circling.
Do we think Candy handed it over?
The hallway from this morning replayed automatically. Sunglasses. Officers. Performance mode.
I said I was pretty sure.
I know Candy’s history with carefully curated videos.
And the worst part?
I can’t even call her on it.
Because the second she feels threatened, Ellie pays for it.
Not proof.
But every ketchup version of the video vanished from her socials overnight.
Which feels… deliberate.
We sat there chewing cafeteria pizza that tastes like structural foam and worst-case scenarios.
Across the cafeteria, Ellie gave me a worried look.
I gave her the I’m fine nod.
I am not entirely fine.
This thing is picking up speed.
One edited clip.
One alibi check.
One conversation at a time.
And I’m not watching it anymore.
I’m in it.
Routine, Apparently
After school I headed straight to the Meridian.
Not for movie night.
Not for diary digging.
I just needed confirmation that reality was still behaving.
Gramps was in the lobby adjusting a dust sheet.
“You survive your interrogation?” he asked without looking up.
I stopped. “You already know.”
He peered over the sheet. “Sergeant Dillon stopped by earlier.”
Of course he did.
Apparently they’re checking in with anyone who had contact with Jemma recently.
Routine procedure.
Routine.
“What did you tell him?” I asked.
“The truth,” Gramps said easily. “That you were upstairs with me Saturday night. Movie. Popcorn. Your commentary about the plot holes.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
He didn’t look worried. Not even slightly.
“They’re doing their jobs, Penny,” he said gently.
I nodded.
Technically reassured.
Emotionally… not so much.
Police talking to Candy.
Police confirming my alibi.
Edited video clips appearing.
Threads connecting faster than they should.
I glanced toward the staircase that leads to the apartments.
The same place now stamped as my alibi.
Funny how fast normal memories turn into evidence.
Gramps squeezed my shoulder once.
“You’ve got nothing to hide.”
I know that.
But that doesn’t mean I like being part of the diagram.
As I headed upstairs, that word kept echoing.
Routine.
Because routine investigations usually don’t come with edited footage.
Something’s taking shape here.
And I don’t think it’s accidental.
Thursday April 9, 2026
Rehearsal vs Reality
Science this morning was lab goggles and forced enthusiasm about chemical reactions. Mr. Keeler kept saying “controlled variables” like the universe hasn’t clearly opted out of that concept.
By last period I was in Drama cataloging new props while Marilyn rehearsed a scene.
She’s good. I’ll admit it.
But today she was careful. Guarded.
Like everyone’s still adjusting to the idea that Jemma Landry just… vanished.
Meanwhile Spellbound Harmony is somehow still moving forward.
If you only looked at the rehearsal schedule, you’d think everything in Meridia Falls was completely fine.
But Jemma disappearing has to scrape against old scars.
Not because they were friends.
Because they both spent years stuck in Candy’s orbit.
Just… with a blackmail clause I didn’t know existed.
And when someone vanishes in this town…
Ellie knows exactly what that does to a family.
I zipped my bag ready for tonight.
Temporary illusion of calm: achieved.
Which, historically speaking, means something is about to happen.
I just don’t know what yet.
Town Hall Incoming
The school day dragged by in half-listened lectures and whispered theories.
On the way out we spotted a flyer taped crookedly near the doors.
TOWN MEETING — COMMUNITY UPDATE FRIDAY, 7PM MERIDIA FALLS TOWN HALL
Apparently the town has reached the public anxiety meeting stage.
The paper looked too crisp. Too official.
Jemma’s photo sat in the corner like it had been stamped onto everyone’s conscience.
People clustered around it in quiet little groups—the kind of half-hushed curiosity small towns are disturbingly good at.
Community update.
Which probably translates to: we still have no idea what happened.
I told Teddy we should go.
He agreed immediately. Civic dread apparently counts as a group activity now.
Ellie was standing across the hallway with Candy’s orbit.
And Candy right beside her like nothing in the world is wrong.
We caught each other’s eye.
A minute later my phone buzzed.
Ellie: My dad’s speaking tonight.
Mayor Horton.
Calm voice. Measured words. Reassurance carefully packaged for the town.
Also someone who knows exactly what a disappearance does to a family.
I texted back that we’d be there.
The Town Hall suddenly feels bigger than it used to.
Like whatever’s happening is about to step out of rumor territory and into something harder to ignore.
I’m not sure I like that transition.
But I’m going anyway.
Loop Confirmed
The Town Hall smelled like polished wood and nervous energy.
Every seat was filled. People lined the walls. Phones out but held low, like nobody wanted to be obvious about recording.
Sergeant Dillon spoke first. Calm. Measured. The kind of voice meant to smooth edges.
“We’ve reviewed available security camera footage from the Landry residence,” he said. “Jemma was last seen during her birthday party at approximately 11:30pm.”
A pause.
“The footage shows her entering the house earlier in the afternoon and appearing inside throughout the evening. There is no recorded footage of her leaving afterward.”
Another pause.
“Family members believed she had gone to bed after the party. She was reported missing Sunday morning.”
The room shifted.
Not loudly. Just a collective inhale.
11:30pm.
Entered.
No exit.
My stomach dropped like I’d missed a step.
Teddy’s fingers tightened around the flyer in his lap.
Closed loop.
The phrase hit before I could stop it.
Went in. Didn’t come out.
That cold alignment clicked into place.
Pattern echo.
Mayor Horton stepped up next. Crisp suit. Confident posture. Voice steady.
“We are doing everything in our power,” he told the room. “This community stands together.”
I glanced at Ellie sitting two rows ahead with her sister.
Two flame-haired silhouettes in a sea of worried faces.
Daughters composed. Family united.
Ellie’s shoulders were just a little too still.
Dread doesn’t always shout.
Sometimes it just lines up quietly with something you’ve already seen.
Entered.
No exit.
And now the whole town is inside the loop.
CONTINUED IN:
Penny’s Diary - Week 15: Search Parties, Strange Deliveries, and Something Placed - Arriving in your inbox on April 16, 2026
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