The bridge looked ordinary in daylight.
That was the most unsettling part.
Sunlight filtered through the thinning fog, revealing warped planks, rusted bolts, and graffiti half-scrubbed away by years of rain. The river still rushed beneath it, but the sound felt smaller now—manageable. Harmless, almost.
Ethan knew better.
He stood at the edge of the bridge, hands gripping the railing, staring down at the water. His watch was still on his wrist.
It read 3:17.
He frowned and tapped the screen. Nothing changed.
“I don’t wear this watch anymore,” he muttered.
He hadn’t packed it. He was sure of that. Yet there it was, scratched, familiar, heavy with meaning he couldn’t yet reach.
Behind him, gravel crunched.
Mara stopped a few steps away, careful not to startle him.
“You were lucky,” she said. “Cole doesn’t usually come running.”
Ethan didn’t turn. “You knew I’d come here.”
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself.”
She joined him at the railing, eyes on the water. For a moment, neither spoke.
“People say Lucas fell,” Ethan said finally. “That’s the official version.”
Mara nodded. “That’s the lie.”
Ethan looked at her sharply. “The first one?”
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
She met his gaze. “The most important one.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Old. Yellowed. She handed it to him.
Ethan unfolded it carefully.
It was a photocopy of a police report.
Incident Report – Lucas Reed
Date: October 17
Time: Approximately 3:17 a.m.
Cause: Presumed drowning
Witnesses: None
At the bottom, one line had been crossed out and rewritten.
Last known contact: Unknown
→ Ethan Cross
Ethan’s stomach dropped.
“They added your name later,” Mara said quietly. “After you left town.”
“That’s not possible,” he said. “I gave my statement. They said I went home early.”
“They changed a lot of things,” she replied. “Files. Times. Stories.”
Ethan’s head throbbed again—not sharp pain, but pressure, like something pushing from the inside.
“I remember walking away,” he said slowly. “I remember Lucas yelling. I remember being angry.”
Mara said nothing.
“I don’t remember pushing him,” Ethan continued. “But I also don’t remember not doing it.”
That was worse.
Mara placed a hand on the railing. “Do you know what the town remembers?”
Ethan shook his head.
“They remember that you were convenient,” she said. “You were grieving. Guilty. And you left.”
“That doesn’t make me a killer.”
“No,” she agreed. “It makes you useful.”
A car engine sounded nearby.
Sheriff Cole pulled up at the far end of the bridge, slower this time. He didn’t turn on the siren. Didn’t rush.
He walked toward them, eyes tired.
“You two are persistent,” he said.
“You changed the report,” Ethan said, holding it up. “You put my name on it.”
Cole sighed. “Someone had to.”
“Why?”
“Because the truth would’ve torn this place apart.”
Mara’s voice hardened. “So you buried it instead.”
Cole looked at the river. “Lucas was already dead when anyone found out he was missing.”
Ethan’s breath caught. “What?”
Cole finally met his eyes. “He didn’t fall that night.”
Silence slammed down between them.
“He was taken somewhere else first,” Cole continued. “Hurt. Panicked. When he ended up in the river… it was already too late.”
Ethan’s mind reeled. “Then why blame me?”
“Because you were there earlier that night,” Cole said. “And because the people who were responsible had power.”
Mara laughed bitterly. “Say their names.”
Cole didn’t.
That was answer enough.
“The lie was easier,” Cole said. “For everyone.”
Ethan looked back at the water, at the bridge, at the time frozen on his wrist.
3:17.
The moment everything stopped.
The moment the truth was rewritten.
And the moment Ethan realized something worse than guilt was waiting for him in Blackwood.
The truth had been buried on purpose.
And someone was willing to kill to keep it that way.
