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.
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Saturday, April 11, 2026
Dream Logic Strikes Again
I had the forest dream again last night.
Not exactly the same one. But close enough that my brain has apparently decided we’re committing to this theme.
Same mythical forest. Same strange, foggy light that makes everything look almost familiar—but not quite.
The trees felt taller this time. Or maybe I was smaller. Dream physics is not known for its consistency.
And the cute boy was there again.
I didn’t see where he came from. He was just ahead of me on the path, walking like he already knew exactly where he was going.
Which was rude, honestly, considering I had no idea.
I followed him deeper into the trees. Branches snapping under my boots. Leaves brushing my arms. That strange forest quiet where it isn’t silent exactly—but it still feels like the whole place is holding its breath.
He walked faster.
Like he was trying to reach something before I caught up.
Then the trees opened into a clearing.
He stopped.
I finally reached him just as he turned around.
For a second it was still the same boy.
Then something shifted.
His face softened. The shape changed. His hair got longer—different.
And suddenly it wasn’t a boy standing there anymore.
It was Ellie.
This time she didn’t flicker back into the boy. She stayed.
She looked right at me like she was about to say something.
And of course that’s the exact moment my brain decided: cool dream, let’s wake up now.
So that was fun.
Apparently my subconscious has the subtlety of a brick through a window.
Still.
Kind of curious what Ellie was about to say.
Because dream-Ellie looked like she actually knew something.
Spotlight Theft
Gramps was watching the TV when I came into the kitchen for breakfast.
Local news.
Which lately means one thing.
Jemma.
They were showing footage outside the police station. Microphones everywhere. Cameras. That tense knot of reporters trying to look patient while clearly hoping something dramatic happens.
Gramps nudged the volume up and shook his head.
Then the screen cut to clips from the Town Hall meeting last night.
Then Jemma’s parents.
Her mom looked smaller somehow. Like the cameras had taken a piece of her along with everything else this week.
Her dad was doing most of the talking. You could tell he was trying to hold it together. Saying the kinds of things people say when they’re trying to believe help is still coming.
At first I thought she was just there with the rest of the friend group.
Then the reporter turned toward her—and suddenly Candy stepped forward like this had been planned the whole time.
“She was one of my closest friends,” she said.
Closest.
Interesting choice of word considering what I know about her leverage tactics.
Candy kept talking on the screen. Saying all the right things. Looking appropriately emotional.
Which is impressive, considering what I know she’s capable of doing to her “friends.”
The cameras loved her.
Of course they did.
And I suddenly had a very strong suspicion Candy hadn’t just ended up in front of those cameras.
She’d taken the spotlight.
And that felt way too intentional.
Cascades Crowd
After the TV drama, I decided we needed sugar for the diary deep dive.
Okay, Ineeded sugar.
Specifically: Cascades cupcakes. Tradition must be honored.
We might as well face the mystery with frosting.
Except when I got to Cascades, the place was packed.
Not normal Saturday packed either.
Usually it’s locals—families grabbing pastries, someone’s grandmother treating herself to a latte, the occasional tourist who wandered in off the promenade.
Today it was… different.
Half the people in there weren’t from Meridia Falls.
You can tell immediately. Outsiders have this look when they’re trying to act casual while scanning the room like they’re gathering clues for a podcast episode.
Laptops open. Phones out. Conversations that stop the second someone local walks by.
One guy was digging through a huge camera bag.
A woman nearby was asking the barista if anyone from Jemma’s school had been in today.
Subtle.
I joined the line, planning to grab some strawberry-frosted cupcakes and escape before anyone started interviewing random teenagers.
A voice suddenly whispered in my ear.
“Observe the visiting Sherlocus Detectivus in their natural habitat.”
I turned and found Teddy grinning behind me.
Apparently he’d had the same idea about the emergency sugar supply.
I nearly laughed out loud. Good thing I wasn’t drinking anything or the woman in front of me would have been wearing it.
But he was right.
Reporters. Bloggers. Amateur investigators.
Probably at least three people planning a twelve-part podcast series titled The Disappearance of Jemma Landry.
Standing there in Cascades, listening to strangers talk about my town like it’s a mystery they’re about to solve…
It hit me.
Meridia Falls isn’t just our quirky little town with ridiculous weather anymore.
It’s become a spectacle.
Sherlock Situation
Teddy and I walked back to the Meridian after Cascades.
He was balancing a tray with three hot chocolates while I carried the cupcake box like it contained something far more fragile than cake and frosting.
The town felt different on the walk back.
Not louder exactly. Just… watched.
Everywhere you looked there were small groups—phones out, cameras slung over shoulders, conversations dropping to whispers whenever someone local passed by.
The Sherlocus Detectivus had officially spread beyond Cascades.
By the time we reached the Meridian, I was very ready to be somewhere that didn’t feel like a live crime documentary.
Ellie showed up a few minutes later.
She dropped a grocery bag onto my desk like she was delivering supplies for a mildly chaotic expedition.
Inside were chips, chocolate, and clear evidence she’d had the same idea about deep-dive snacks.
Soon my room looked like our usual investigation setup—cupcakes on the desk, the diary and index open on the bed, snacks already disappearing at an alarming rate.
For a minute nobody said anything.
Which was weirdly comforting.
Then Teddy wandered over to the window and muttered something about the “Sherlocks” currently occupying half the town.
Ellie frowned at that.
So I filled her in on Teddy’s earlier observation—about the sudden migration of amateur detectives into town.
Reporters. Bloggers. True-crime enthusiasts.
The kind of people who show up when something terrible happens and decide they’re going to solve it.
The Sherlocks.
Honestly… the name fits a little too well.
The Other Facility
The diary deep dive actually started gently.
Which should have been my first warning.
Ellie and I settled on my bed with the diary while Teddy took position at my desk with the index.
Cupcakes slowly disappearing. Hot chocolate cooling beside us as we tried to make sense of the next entry.
Ellie held my hand while we read each entry before I triggered the memory blast. When it hit, she steadied it—turning the chaos into something Teddy could actually document in the index.
At first it followed the usual pattern.
School memories.
Clearwater.
Letters.
The same forget / remember rhythm haunting these pages since the start of Younger Penny’s second diary.
Then the next memory blast hit.
And everything changed.
Suddenly we were surrounded by smoke.
Alarms screaming overhead under that same cold laboratory lighting that always makes everything feel wrong.
For a second I thought we were back at Clearwater.
Except we weren’t.
The building was different.
The corridors were wider and the walls a different color. Kids everywhere—children I didn’t recognize being rushed down the hallway by adults in lab coats.
Evacuation.
Fire alarms.
The air tasted like smoke and panic.
And in the middle of all that chaos—
I was holding hands—younger me in the middle, younger Ellie on one side, and a boy on the other.
Logan.
Ellie felt it harder than I did. I could tell by the way her grip tightened while the memory played out.
Maybe because she was seeing her younger self too.
Smoke filling the hallways.
Someone shouting orders.
The three of us pushed outside with the rest of the kids.
When the doors finally burst open we ended up standing in front of this massive estate-looking place while the building behind us burned.
Not Clearwater.
Something else.
Another facility.
The diary entry itself barely mentioned it—just a rushed evacuation and a confusing note that didn’t explain anything.
But the memory gave us more than the diary did.
Ellie said she heard two voices during the chaos.
Dr. Lane.
Dr. Grant.
Both familiar names from Clearwater.
And one word kept coming up between them.
Bakewell.
When the blast finally receded and we were catching our breath, Teddy immediately grabbed his phone and looked it up.
Turns out it’s a real town in the UK.
Which raises a very interesting question:
How exactly did Ellie and I—kids from Meridia Falls—end up in a burning research facility across the Atlantic… and then somehow end up back here again?
The diary had absolutely nothing helpful to say about that part.
Classic.
The rest of the afternoon was less dramatic but just as frustrating.
More ordinary entries.
More Clearwater references.
More of the same maddening pattern.
Forget.
Remember.
Repeat.
Teddy searched for anything about another facility—anything matching what Ellie and I remembered.
Nothing useful came up.
Which, honestly, is starting to feel suspicious all by itself.
Eventually the cupcakes were gone, the hot chocolate cold, and the investigation energy had officially run out.
Quiet After the Deep Dive
Teddy headed home first.
Ellie stayed for a while.
She said she didn’t feel like going home yet, which I completely understood.
So we put on a movie and tried to let our brains cool down.
At some point I told her I’d had another forest dream.
She already knew about the first one from reading my diary, but this time I tried something a little risky.
I let her see the memory blast.
Still Saturday, so technically the rules weren’t broken.
Holding Ellie’s hand while the dream replayed made it feel more intense.
When it ended, we both went quiet.
Because the cute boy in the dream looked a lot like an older version of Logan.
The same Logan we’d just seen in the other facility memory blast.
Which is… unsettling.
Late Night Realizations
After Ellie went home—chauffeured by her dad’s driver—I lay on my bed waiting for the migraine that usually follows a memory blast.
Except this time it didn’t.
Or at least not the way it normally does.
The headache was there, sure.
But it felt dulled.
Like sharing the blasts with Ellie had taken half the weight off my brain.
I just hope it’s not hitting her harder than she’s letting on.
Just as I was drifting off, my phone rang.
Teddy.
Apparently the police are asking for volunteers tomorrow to help search Spiritwood for Jemma.
The Landry place backs onto the woods near their golf course, and they think she may have gotten out of the house that way since that route avoids the cameras.
They’re not saying foul play yet.
But Teddy thinks they’re starting to suspect someone took her.
Spiritwood.
Which, up until today, was mostly famous for being the makeout capital of Meridia Falls.
Amazing how quickly a place can change.
Tomorrow it’s going to be full of search teams instead of teenagers sneaking around in the dark.
The mayor is going.
Which means Ellie probably will be too.
Teddy and I agreed we’d go.
Because right now this town needs people looking.
And if there’s even the smallest chance we can help find Jemma—
We’re not sitting this one out.
Sunday, April 12, 2026
Skatepark Reset
The migraine started creeping back sometime around sunrise.
Not the full skull-splitting version. Just that slow tightening behind my eyes—like my brain being gently squeezed by an invisible hand.
At this point I know exactly what it is.
The memory-blast hangover.
So I did the only thing that reliably shuts my brain up.
I grabbed my board.
The skatepark was empty.
Early morning light. Cold air. That quiet Sunday feeling before the town wakes up.
I dropped into the bowl and let the ramp carry me.
For a while I didn’t think about Clearwater.
Or the burning facility.
Or the fact that I apparently remember places I’ve never been.
Just balance.
Push. Turn. Drop. Roll.
Your brain doesn’t get much room to panic when your body is busy not falling on its face.
By the third run, the pressure behind my eyes had eased.
By the fifth, it was mostly gone.
Which is starting to feel less like coincidence and more like a pattern.
Skateboarding resets things.
Not permanently.
But enough that the world feels manageable again.
Which is good.
Because today we’re searching Spiritwood for Jemma.
And something tells me manageable is the best I’m going to get.
Search Party Energy
Gramps drove us to the search staging area after breakfast.
Which is how I knew this had officially become a town event.
The parking lot near Spiritwood was already packed. Pickup trucks, SUVs, a couple of news vans—and what looked like half the vehicles in Meridia Falls judging by the plates.
Folding tables had been set up near the trail entrance.
Full command-center vibes.
RCMP vehicles lined one side of the lot, lights off but engines idling. Officers moved between groups with clipboards while radios crackled every few seconds.
Search teams formed in clusters—volunteers being handed maps, people adjusting backpacks, someone passing out fluorescent tape markers.
And, of course…
The Sherlocks were still here.
A handful of them hovered just outside the police area, pretending not to eavesdrop while absolutely eavesdropping.
Phones out. Cameras ready.
Because apparently a missing-person search is now a spectator sport.
I spotted Teddy near the edge of the lot.
He was standing with his parents and Sergeant Dillon, who looked like he hadn’t slept much since this whole thing started. Teddy’s dad was talking with him in that calm, steady way adults use when they’re trying to help without getting in the way. His dad still didn’t look too well.
Teddy caught my eye and gave a quick nod.
Then I saw Ellie.
She was standing with her dad a little farther down the line. Her sister rested a hand lightly on her shoulder while they listened to one of the officers explain the search grid.
Then the atmosphere shifted.
Candy arrived.
Not quietly.
She stepped out of a black SUV with half her friend group trailing behind her—sunglasses, coordinated jackets, the kind of entrance that makes people look whether they want to or not.
Which is an interesting choice of energy for a missing-person search.
And suddenly I could see it.
The invisible social map of this town.
Police. Families. Volunteers. Media. The Sherlocks.
And then Candy’s group, orbiting just outside everything but somehow still drawing attention like they owned the place.
She motioned for Ellie to join them.
Ellie hesitated for a second, then slowly made her way over.
She caught my eye on the way past—an almost apologetic look.
I gave her a small understanding smile.
Because Candy doesn’t invite people into her orbit.
She keeps them there.
I know how that works.
It’s strange seeing the whole town gathered like this.
You notice things you normally wouldn’t.
Like who talks to the police directly.
And who waits for the cameras.
Into Spiritwood
They split us into search teams after the briefing.
I was hoping Ellie might end up with Teddy and me.
Instead she got grouped with her sister and the mayor.
Which makes sense, politically speaking.
Still annoying.
Maps. Assigned sections. Instructions to stay within sight of each other and mark anything unusual.
The forest swallowed us almost immediately.
Spiritwood looks manageable from the outside. Trails, picnic signs, nice family hiking energy.
Step twenty feet off the path and it turns into something else entirely.
Our team moved slowly through the brush, spreading out just enough to keep each other in sight.
People started calling Jemma’s name every few minutes, just like Sergeant Dillon told us to.
The sound carried through the trees before fading back into the quiet.
Every few minutes another call echoed through the forest, like we were trying to wake the trees themselves.
At first there was this shared determination.
People checking every hollow between trees. Pushing through thick patches of undergrowth. Peering down small slopes and behind fallen logs.
But hours in, the energy started changing.
Voices got quieter.
Steps got slower.
Because woods and forests are very good at reminding you how small people are.
You can walk and walk…
And the trees just keep going.
By the time we circled back toward the trail markers, everyone looked tired.
Shoes muddy. Jackets snagged on branches. Faces carrying the same quiet thought nobody wanted to say out loud.
Hope had been loud when the morning started.
Now it was getting quieter.
And the forest wasn’t giving anything back.
Bushes and Bad Timing
By mid-afternoon, Teddy and I had drifted slightly ahead of the rest of our group.
Not far enough to break the “stay within sight” rule. Just far enough that the forest went quiet again.
We were moving along a narrow strip of brush when we heard something.
A rustling sound.
Not wind. Not falling branches.
Movement.
Teddy froze and looked at me.
“Did you—”
“Yeah.”
Another rustle came from a cluster of bushes just off the trail.
Considering we were technically searching for a missing person, both of us immediately switched into maybe this is important mode.
Teddy stepped forward first, pushing a branch aside.
“Hello?” he called.
The bushes moved again.
And then—
Two people stumbled upright.
Kaelyn Baines—pink-highlighted dreadlocks and all.
And Rich “The Dick” Cavanagh.
Looking very surprised.
And very close together.
Which is going to be very interesting when Candy inevitably finds out.
Even if she’s technically the one who dumped him.
There was a solid three seconds where nobody said anything.
Kaelyn smoothed her hair like she’d just been caught fixing her jacket instead of… whatever that was.
“Oh,” she said brightly. “Hi.”
Behind her, Cavanagh looked like he’d rather be eaten by the forest.
Teddy slowly lowered the branch he was holding.
“Well,” he said.
Another pause.
“Good to see everyone staying focused on the search effort.”
Kaelyn rolled her eyes.
“It was just a break.”
Sure.
Because nothing says community volunteer effort like sneaking off into the bushes during an active missing-person search.
Teddy and I backed away at the exact same speed.
And the moment we were far enough down the trail that they couldn’t hear us anymore, I muttered:
“That might actually be the worst discovery we make all day.”
Honestly?
At that point I kind of hoped it was.
Search Day Fadeout
By late afternoon the search teams started drifting back to base camp.
You could feel the moment the energy shifted.
In the morning everyone had been moving fast. Talking loudly. Calling Jemma’s name like the forest might suddenly answer back.
Now people just walked.
Boots muddy. Faces tired. Voices low.
The tables near the trailhead had turned into a kind of unofficial debrief zone. Volunteers checked in with officers, handing over maps and quietly reporting what they had—or hadn’t—seen.
Mostly hadn’t.
No sign of Jemma.
No trail that suddenly explained anything.
Just trees.
I spotted Candy hovering near the command table.
Steve Dillon was there too with his dad, listening while someone from another team described the section they’d covered.
And Candy was doing that thing she does.
Head tilted. Big sympathetic eyes. Nodding at everything he said like he was solving the mystery of the universe.
The full concerned citizen performance.
Which might have been convincing if I hadn’t seen her roll her eyes at the search briefing earlier.
Then I spotted Ellie.
She was walking toward the parking lot with her sister, one hand pressed lightly against her temple.
Migraine.
I could recognize the posture from across the lot.
Her dad opened the car door for her and she slid inside after giving me a quick smile.
People were exhausted. Headaches happen. Especially after a day like this.
Still.
Watching the car pull away left this weird unfinished feeling in my chest.
Not an argument exactly.
Not even a problem I could name.
Just that sense something between us had stretched a little.
And neither of us had figured out how to say it yet.
UK Question
Later that evening I found Gramps in the kitchen making tea.
Which is basically his version of winding down. Kettle on. Quiet radio somewhere in the background. The Meridian finally feeling normal.
I leaned against the counter for a minute, trying to figure out how to ask the question without sounding unhinged.
Eventually I just went for it.
“Gramps… have I ever been to the UK?”
He looked up from the mug he was filling.
“The UK?”
“Yeah. England. Scotland. Anywhere over there.”
He thought about it for maybe two seconds.
“No.”
Not hesitant. Not uncertain.
Just a very straightforward no.
I tried again.
“Like when I was little or something? Maybe before I remember?”
Gramps shook his head.
“Penny, you’ve never been outside North America.”
Which is a pretty definitive travel history.
I nodded like that answered the question.
And technically it did.
But the problem with answers is they don’t always fix the feeling underneath them.
Monday, April 13, 2026
Hallway Tension
School felt louder than usual this morning.
Not actual volume—although that was part of it—but that restless buzz that happens when the whole school is talking about the same thing.
Jemma.
Every locker row had its own version of the story. Fresh theories. New sightings. Someone’s cousin who definitely saw a suspicious car last week.
None of it lined up.
But that didn’t seem to slow anyone down.
I was halfway to my locker when I spotted Candy across the hallway.
She was standing near the windows with Kaelyn, both of them leaning in close like the conversation had crossed into heated territory.
Candy kept glancing up the hallway while they talked.
Not casually.
More like she was checking who might be watching.
Which, naturally, made me watch.
Looks like Candy finally heard about Kaelyn and Cavanagh’s little forest adventure.
Cafeteria Theories
By lunchtime the rumors had reached full cinematic production levels.
The cafeteria sounded less like a school and more like a conspiracy podcast recording studio.
Considering yesterday’s search turned up nothing, that apparently gave everyone permission to invent their own endings.
This is week two now.
Every table had a different theory about Jemma.
Kidnapping. Runaway. Secret boyfriend.
Someone swore their neighbor heard police helicopters at three in the morning. Another person claimed the RCMP had already found “important evidence,” which somehow nobody could actually describe.
Facts were apparently optional now.
Speculation was doing just fine.
Candy’s table was the loudest.
Not surprising.
I kept glancing over at Ellie, still trapped in Candy’s orbit.
And I found myself wondering something uncomfortable.
Did Jemma ever feel like that too?
Like she was stuck inside someone else’s gravity, smiling along while something underneath was quietly getting worse.
Because I know at least one person who still is.
I poked at my lunch and tried to tune it out.
Hard to ignore when an entire room decides a missing girl is the day’s entertainment.
Everyone analyzing. Guessing. Building theories out of half-sentences and vibes.
And sitting there listening to it all, one thought kept circling in my head.
If Jemma walked into this room right now…
Half these people would start asking questions instead of just being glad she was safe.
Which says some deeply unfortunate things about human curiosity.
Mom vs Penny (Round 2)
Mom was waiting when I got home from school.
Not in the casual “how was your day?” way.
More in the standing-by-the-counter-with-arms-crossed way that tells you something has already gone very wrong.
“So,” she said.
Which is never a promising opening word.
“I heard you joined the search yesterday.”
Apparently news travels fast in Meridia Falls.
“It was organized,” I said carefully. “The police asked for volunteers.”
“That doesn’t mean you needed to be one of them.”
Her voice wasn’t shouting, but it had that tight edge that means volume isn’t the issue.
“You shouldn’t be out combing through Spiritwood looking for a missing girl.”
“I wasn’t alone.”
“That’s not the point.”
Which, according to Mom logic, usually means the point has already been decided.
For a minute we stood there having the world’s most uncomfortable staring contest.
Then something shifted.
The anger drained out of her expression almost as quickly as it appeared.
She rubbed her forehead and sighed.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
That part I hadn’t expected.
“I just… when I heard you were out there…”
She didn’t finish the sentence.
But the strange part was she didn’t need to.
It sounded like the kind of sentence a parent is supposed to say in this situation.
For a second I wondered if she knew more about what happened to Jemma than the rest of us.
Not enough to say anything about.
Just enough to make the silence feel heavier.
“I know you want to help,” Mom added after a moment. “But the thought of losing you…”
Her voice trailed off again.
And maybe she meant it.
Or maybe it was just the line that comes next in the concerned parent script.
Hard to tell sometimes.
Tuesday, April 14, 2026
Gossip Fatigue
The cafeteria had fully committed to the Jemma Discourse.
Same theories. Same rumors. Same people confidently explaining events they clearly know nothing about.
I’m starting to think if you repeat speculation often enough it eventually starts sounding like facts.
Which, for the record, is not how facts work.
The search over the weekend didn’t help.
If anything, finding absolutely nothing just poured gasoline on the rumor machine. Now everyone has a theory about what that means.
Kidnapping.
Runaway.
Secret double life.
Because apparently the complete lack of information just encourages people to fill the gap themselves.
I was halfway through lunch when Candy’s voice floated across the cafeteria.
Not subtle.
Never subtle.
She was holding court at the center of her table, leaning forward like she was about to announce something very important.
Which, according to Candy standards, usually means something very dramatic.
Turns out this time it was her birthday party.
April 25.
Still happening.
Actually—bigger than originally planned.
Candy explained (loud enough for half the cafeteria to hear) that she was going to “dedicate” the party to Jemma.
Apparently the idea is that if Jemma is “hiding somewhere for attention,” hearing about the party might convince her to come home.
Because nothing motivates a missing person like a themed birthday event, even if it is eleven days away.
According to Candy, it’s supposed to be supportive.
According to literally everyone with a functioning brain, it’s just Candy finding a way to make the situation about herself.
Meanwhile the rest of the cafeteria kept running its own version of the Jemma investigation.
Two conversations happening in the same room.
One about a missing girl.
One about a birthday party.
Same lunchtime.
Same town.
And somehow both things are apparently normal now.
Small Escape
Media Studies turned out to be the first normal thing that happened all day.
It felt like I hadn’t spent time with Ellie in forever.
While Noah and Olivia went over the schedule for Saturday night’s sunset filming, Ellie and I mostly just sat there listening—our knees touching under the table.
Noah started talking about camera angles.
Olivia suggested framing the ridge line so the sky fills most of the shot.
And Ellie and I just nodded along, half listening and half enjoying the rare moment where nothing weird was happening.
No investigations.
No rumors.
No Jemma theories.
Just a school project.
We talked about sunset timing, fog rolling in off the bay, and whether a wide shot or slow pan would look better on camera.
It’s strange how quickly creative work pulls your brain into a different gear.
One minute the whole town feels like it’s spiraling into conspiracy theories.
The next you’re debating lighting and camera movement.
It doesn’t fix anything.
But for a little while, the noise fades out.
And it was just nice sitting there next to Ellie.
Wednesday, April 15, 2026
Assembly Silence
The school held an assembly this morning.
Which is how you know things aren’t normal anymore.
They packed everyone into the gym—folding chairs, teachers standing along the walls, the kind of quiet buzz that happens when a hundred teenagers are trying to figure out whether they’re supposed to whisper or not.
At the front, the school counselor, Mrs. Deveau, stood next to Principal Dawson.
She looked tired.
Not just early-morning tired—the kind that comes from repeating the same difficult conversation all week.
She talked about the search.
About the community coming together.
About supporting each other.
All the right things.
The kind of words adults use when there aren’t actually any useful answers.
Most people were listening.
Some weren’t.
A few students stared at their phones, probably checking for updates the same way everyone has been doing for days.
Then Mrs. Deveau started talking about Jemma.
And something about the way she said it made my brain snag on the sentence.
It sounded like Jemma wasn’t coming back.
Not directly.
Nobody said that out loud.
But there was a shift in the language. Careful phrasing that slid past the present tense and landed somewhere closer to memory.
Like when people start talking about someone they’re already grieving.
I don’t know if anyone else noticed.
The gym stayed quiet. The speech kept going.
But sitting there in that folding chair, one thought pressed quietly into my head.
If the adults have already started talking about Jemma like she’s gone—then something about this situation has changed.
And nobody has told us what it is yet.
Thursday, April 16, 2026
Lunch Table Reversal
Something unusual happened at lunch today.
Ellie sat down at our table.
Not a passing glance while she walked by—an actual tray down, staying-here version.
Teddy noticed at the exact same moment I did, which led to a brief moment where both of us tried to act like this was completely normal and not a rare astronomical alignment.
“Hey,” Ellie said. Loudly.
“Hey,” I said.
Teddy nodded like a diplomat acknowledging a visiting delegation.
For a minute we just ate.
Then Ellie leaned forward slightly.
“Candy needs a favor.” Still loud enough for nearby tables to hear.
Of course she does.
Apparently Candy has decided that getting close to Steve Dillon is now part of her personal mission.
Yes.
That Steve Dillon.
Sergeant Dillon’s son.
Teddy’s friend.
Which means Candy wants Ellie to help engineer situations where they might “accidentally” cross paths.
Because apparently solving the mystery of romance now ranks slightly above the missing girl.
Classic Candy priorities.
Ellie rolled her eyes while explaining it, glancing back toward Candy’s table and flashing the occasional smile to keep up appearances.
But sitting there listening to the plan, something quietly clicked in my brain.
If Candy wants access to Steve Dillon…
And Steve Dillon’s father happens to be the lead officer on the investigation…
That’s… interesting.
Teddy caught the same thought about half a second after I did.
We didn’t say anything out loud.
But the look we exchanged across the table basically translated to:
Huh.
Then we both moved on immediately, because the real upside of Candy’s plan was simpler.
Ellie gets to sit with us.
Spend time with me.
And this time we don’t even have to pretend it’s an accident.
Friday, April 17, 2026
Unseasonable Heat
Today felt like someone accidentally skipped two months ahead in the weather calendar.
It was hot.
Not normal April warm. Actual summer-preview heat. The kind where everyone suddenly remembers shorts exist and half the school looks mildly confused about how sunlight works again.
Which is particularly weird for Meridia Falls.
April here is usually gray skies, cold winds off the bay, and everyone pretending it’s spring while still wearing hoodies.
Then again, Meridia Falls has a reputation for unpredictable weather.
At least it did before the town became known for something else.
By second period the classrooms already felt stuffy.
Windows open. Fans running. Teachers pretending the weather wasn’t slowly turning their lesson plans into background noise.
Outside between classes it almost felt like the first real day of summer.
Except the conversations hadn’t changed.
Jemma was still the main topic everywhere.
Lockers. Hallways. The line outside the cafeteria.
New theories had appeared overnight, because of course they had.
Someone claimed their uncle heard the police were searching the haunted cabin near Shadowmere Lake. Another person swore a helicopter had been spotted near the coastline yesterday.
Evidence level: approximately zero.
But the rumor economy is thriving.
Candy’s group had migrated outside near the courtyard tables, soaking up the sun like a social media photoshoot waiting to happen.
Ellie was sitting with them.
The sunlight caught her red hair and for a second it looked like an actual flame flickering in the heat.
Which would have been a perfectly normal observation to make.
If I hadn’t realized I’d been staring.
Long enough that she noticed.
She glanced over and smiled.
The kind of smile that does very unhelpful things to my ability to think normally.
It was also long enough for Teddy to notice.
He glanced between us once, like he was quietly solving a math problem, then went back to his food.
Which I appreciated.
Meanwhile the rest of the school moved through the day like normal life was still supposed to happen.
Classes. Homework. Bells.
Bright sunshine overhead.
Missing-person posters still taped to the hallway walls.
It’s strange how those two realities can exist at the same time.
Summer weather.
And a town that can’t stop talking about the girl who isn’t here.
Still…
If this weird heat sticks around one more day, the sunset tomorrow might actually be perfect for filming.
For once it almost feels like the universe is cooperating with our schedule.
Which is probably suspicious.
Rolling Clear
I skated to the Meridian after school instead of getting a ride with Mom.
Partly because the weather was still weirdly perfect.
Partly because my brain needed distance from the school rumor mill.
The roads were warm enough that the pavement had that smooth rolling feel under the wheels.
Not the gritty winter version where every crack tries to throw you off.
Just clean momentum.
Push. Roll. Push again.
Main Street looked almost cheerful in the sunshine.
People sitting outside Cascades. Doors propped open. Someone walking a dog that clearly had zero interest in sidewalk rules.
A couple of reporters were still hanging around near the promenade, talking to anyone willing to stand still. And there were at least two people I’m pretty sure were amateur detectives.
They kept pacing slowly past the storefronts like they were going to solve the case by staring at sidewalks.
Small-town Sherlocks are thriving.
If you ignored the posters in shop windows, you could almost pretend Meridia Falls was having a normal summer afternoon.
Well, as normal as Meridia Falls gets in April.
Which, of course, it isn’t.
Still, skating has a way of hitting the mute button on your brain.
The wind gets loud enough that the rest of the noise fades into the background.
By the time I rolled up near the Meridian, my thoughts had slowed enough to feel manageable again.
Not gone.
Just quieter.
Sometimes calm doesn’t mean everything is fixed.
Sometimes it just means your brain gets a minute to breathe.
Something Happened
I had just settled in my room after catching up with Gramps when my phone buzzed.
Teddy: Where are you?
Which is already suspicious.
Teddy normally opens with context.
Or at least punctuation.
Me: Meridian. Why?
The reply came almost immediately.
Teddy: Something happened.
That was it.
No explanation. No details.
Just the two most effective panic-inducing words in the English language.
I stared at the screen, waiting for the follow-up message that usually comes after something like that.
Nothing.
Which somehow made it worse.
So I typed again.
Me: Define “something.”
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Which meant Teddy was typing.
Or thinking.
Or both.
Either way, sitting on my bed one thing became clear.
Whatever he was about to say—it wasn’t small.
None of the guesses were particularly comforting.
Curiosity: 1.
Peaceful afternoon: 0.
Then a new message appeared.
Teddy: I’m coming over.
The Envelope
Teddy arrived sooner than I expected.
I was still halfway down the stairs when Gramps beat me to the door.
“It’s Teddy,” he called toward the stairs.
Teddy stepped inside looking like he’d jogged most of the way here, which, knowing Teddy, meant something was definitely wrong.
He glanced toward the stairs, then back at me.
“Your room?”
That was already suspicious. Teddy usually opens with some details. Or snacks.
Instead, we went upstairs.
The moment the door closed behind us, he pulled out his phone.
“I messaged Ellie,” he said. “She’s coming too.”
That made my stomach tighten.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “Why?”
Instead of answering, he reached into his backpack and pulled out an envelope.
At first glance, it looked ordinary.
Then my brain caught up with my eyes.
The paper. The same thick, slightly yellowed notebook paper from The London Antiquarian notebooks.
The diaries. The same paper we use for my letters. The same paper the eye-stamp was wrapped in.
Someone had folded it into an envelope, just like we did.
And suddenly my room felt a lot smaller.
“Teddy…”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I noticed too.”
He slid the contents out.
There wasn’t much.
Just a small sheet of the same notebook paper.
One line written in neat ink.
Use it wisely.
That was it.
No signature. No explanation. Just the sentence.
“Where did you get this?”
“It was waiting at home when I got there,” Teddy said. “Someone hand-delivered it.”
He turned the envelope over. His name written on the front.
He checked their security camera, but it glitched at the moment of delivery.
Convenient.
Then he reached back into the envelope.
“There’s something else.”
Whatever it was had been wrapped tightly in more of the same notebook paper.
Carefully. Almost the exact way the eye-stamp had been wrapped.
Teddy unfolded the paper slowly.
Inside was a USB flash drive.
Small. Black. Completely ordinary-looking.
Which somehow made it feel even more suspicious.
We both stared at it.
Because someone had gone to great lengths to deliver this small piece of technology.
Someone who knew exactly what kind of paper protects things.
Someone who knew Teddy should have it.
And that meant one thing.
This wasn’t random.
Someone wanted us to have this.
Right then, we heard footsteps racing up the stairs.
A second later, my door burst open.
Ellie stood in the doorway, slightly breathless.
“I came as fast as I—”
She stopped.
And noticed the letter and USB drive in Teddy’s hand.
Play Me First
After bringing Ellie up to speed, we spent about a minute debating viruses, traps, and whether plugging in a mystery USB drive was the worst idea we’d ever had.
In the end, curiosity won.
Unanimously.
Teddy plugged the flash drive into my computer while I kept half an eye on the door like we’d suddenly been cast in a low-budget spy movie.
Which, honestly, I wasn’t expecting from a normal Friday afternoon.
For a few seconds nothing happened.
Then the screen went black.
A message appeared in stark white letters.
NETWORK CONNECTION DETECTED DISCONNECT BEFORE CONTINUING
Teddy leaned back slightly.
“Okay,” he said.
“Whoever made this was not messing around.”
He reached over and shut off the Wi-Fi.
The screen paused for a second.
Then another message appeared.
ENVIRONMENT VERIFIED ARCHIVE UNLOCKED
Suddenly a whole set of folders appeared on the drive.
And one video file sitting at the top.
The filename read:
PLAY ME FIRST
Subtle.
Teddy clicked it.
The screen flickered for a moment before the image settled.
A woman sat at a desk with rows of blinking lights behind her—servers, Teddy guessed.
Auburn hair. Sharp blue eyes.
Late twenties, I guessed.
The kind of person who looked like she already had three backup plans before anyone else finished their first sentence.
She leaned closer to the camera.
“If you’re watching this, RG,” she said calmly, “then something has gone wrong—and I didn’t make it.”
Excellent start.
Teddy and I exchanged a look.
She continued speaking like she was recording a lecture instead of a contingency message.
Behind her on a second screen were lines of code scrolling past.
She explained that the drive contained everything she knew.
Files.
Instructions.
Tools.
All of it designed for hacking into places you’re not supposed to access.
Systems.
Networks.
Information.
She finished with one final line.
“Everything I can do is on this drive.”
The video kept playing.
But I barely heard the rest.
Because one thought kept looping.
This USB wasn’t meant for the police.
It wasn’t meant for the town.
It wasn’t even meant for us.
It was meant for someone called RG.
And whoever RG is—
It looks like they think we’re going to need help.
CONTINUED IN:
Penny’s Diary - Week 16: Proof Expanding, Reflections Cracking, and the Reset Closing In - Arriving in your inbox on April 23, 2026
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DB
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