The Weathervane smelled like cinnamon.
I sat at a corner table, hands wrapped around a coffee cup I'd watched the barista make from start to finish, and tried not to stare at the boy behind the counter. Tyler Galpin moved through the coffee shop with practiced efficiency, taking orders, working the espresso machine, offering that easy smile that made customers feel comfortable. He looked so normal. Shaggy dark hair, tired eyes, the kind of lanky teenage frame that suggested he hadn't quite grown into himself yet. There was nothing about him that screamed "monster." Nothing that suggested he was capable of tearing a person apart with his bare hands.
Except I knew better.
I'd spent last night researching Hydes until my eyes burned and Valerie's memories of abnormal psychology textbooks blurred together with half-remembered scenes from the show. Hydes were rare, triggered by trauma, controlled through psychological conditioning. They were stronger than werewolves, more vicious than vampires, completely subservient to their master once the bond was established. The transformation was apparently agonizing—bones breaking and reforming, skin tearing, humanity subsumed beneath something ancient and hungry.
And the boy currently making a latte with a little heart in the foam was going to experience all of that because a woman named Laurel Gates had decided to weaponize his grief.
"Dr. Kinbott?"
I looked up to find Marilyn Thornhill standing beside my table, and my heart did something complicated in my chest. She looked exactly as I remembered from the show—red hair in soft waves, warm smile, floral dress that screamed "wholesome teacher who definitely doesn't have a torture chamber in her basement." She was holding two cups of coffee, which meant she'd gotten here early, which meant she'd had time to add whatever she wanted to my drink.
"Ms. Thornhill," I said, standing to shake her hand. "Please, call me Valerie. And thank you for the coffee, but I actually already ordered." I gestured to my cup with what I hoped was an apologetic smile. "Caffeine addiction. I couldn't wait."
Something flickered in her eyes—annoyance, maybe, or calculation—but her smile never wavered. "Of course! No problem at all. I'll just give this to Tyler, then. He's been working so hard, poor thing." She turned toward the counter, and I watched as she walked over to Tyler, placing the extra cup in front of him with a gentle hand on his arm. They spoke in low voices, too quiet for me to hear, but I could see the way Tyler's expression softened, the way he leaned into her touch like a plant turning toward the sun.
My stomach turned. This was the grooming in action. The subtle touches, the gestures of care, the positioning of herself as the only person who truly understood him. She was building the foundation of control right in front of me, and there was nothing I could do about it without revealing I knew exactly what she was doing.
Marilyn returned to the table and settled into the chair across from me, wrapping her hands around her coffee cup. "He's such a sweet boy," she said, her voice warm with what sounded like genuine affection. "It breaks my heart to see him struggling so much. His mother's death really devastated him."
"Principal Weems mentioned that," I said carefully. "It's always difficult when adolescents experience that kind of loss. The grief can manifest in complicated ways."
"Exactly." Marilyn leaned forward, her expression earnest. "And I don't think he's getting the support he needs at home. His father means well, but Sheriff Galpin is... well, he's very focused on his work. Very rigid in his thinking. I don't think he knows how to talk to Tyler about emotions."
She was good. Everything she was saying sounded reasonable, concerned, the kind of observations a caring teacher would make. If I didn't know what she really was, I'd probably find her insightful.
"That's not uncommon," I said, taking a sip of my coffee and watching her over the rim. "Law enforcement families often struggle with emotional expression. The culture can be very stoic."
"Yes!" Marilyn's eyes lit up. "That's exactly it. And Tyler is naturally sensitive, you can just tell. He needs someone who can help him process what he's feeling, help him understand that his emotions are valid." She paused, her expression becoming more serious. "I'm worried about him, Valerie. I've seen him have these... moments. Where he seems almost absent, like he's not quite himself. And there's an anger there, just beneath the surface. I'm afraid of what might happen if he doesn't get help."
The anger she'd carefully cultivated. The dissociation she'd probably induced through God knows what kind of psychological manipulation. She was describing the early stages of Hyde activation like they were naturally occurring symptoms, and I had to sit here and nod along like I believed her.
"I appreciate you bringing this to my attention," I said. "These warning signs are important to address early. Has Tyler indicated any willingness to seek therapy?"
"Not yet," Marilyn admitted. "He's resistant to the idea. Typical teenage boy, doesn't want to admit he needs help. But I was thinking—if you happened to be at the Weathervane regularly, maybe struck up a conversation with him naturally, you could build rapport before formally suggesting therapy. Make it feel less clinical, more like talking to a friend."
She wanted me to pursue Tyler. She was actively positioning me to become his therapist, which meant she'd already decided I was the right person to frame for the murders. I was being recruited into my own death.
"That's a thoughtful approach," I said slowly, buying myself time to think. I couldn't refuse outright—that would seem suspicious. But I also couldn't make it too easy. "Though I do want to be mindful of ethical boundaries. There's a reason therapists don't typically treat people they have social relationships with outside of the clinical setting."
"Of course, of course," Marilyn said quickly. "I wasn't suggesting anything inappropriate. Just that if you're here anyway, getting coffee, and Tyler happens to be working, a friendly conversation might help him feel more comfortable with the idea of therapy in general."
"I suppose that's true," I conceded. "Building trust is important, especially with adolescents who are resistant to treatment."
Marilyn beamed at me like I'd just agreed to something wonderful instead of signing my own death warrant. "I knew you'd understand. You seem so compassionate, Valerie. Not all therapists really care about their patients, you know. Some of them are just going through the motions. But I can tell you're different."
The compliment felt like a knife sliding between my ribs. She was studying me, I realized. Trying to figure out what kind of person I was, whether I'd be easy to manipulate, whether I'd make a convincing suspect. Every word I said was being catalogued and analyzed.
"I try to take my work seriously," I said neutrally. "The students I work with at Nevermore have been through enough already. They deserve someone who actually wants to help them."
"Speaking of Nevermore," Marilyn said, shifting in her seat. "I'm so excited to start teaching there. It's my first year, and I've heard such wonderful things about the school. Have you worked with many of the students?"
"For the past two years," I said, grateful for the change of subject. "It's challenging work, but rewarding. The outcast community faces unique stressors."
"I imagine so." Marilyn's expression became thoughtful. "All that power, all those abilities. It must be frightening sometimes, feeling like you're different from everyone else. Feeling like you don't quite fit anywhere."
There was something in her voice when she said it, something that made me pay closer attention. In the show, Laurel Gates had been an outcast herself—a normie born into an outcast family, never developing powers, always feeling like she didn't belong. That rejection had festered into hatred, into a obsession with destroying the outcasts who had everything she'd been denied.
"It can be isolating," I agreed carefully. "Being different often is, whether you're an outcast or not."
"Exactly." Marilyn looked down at her coffee, and for just a moment, her mask slipped. I saw something raw there, something bitter. Then she looked up again and smiled, and the moment was gone. "Well, I won't take up any more of your time. I'm sure you're busy preparing for the new semester. But I really appreciate you being willing to help Tyler. He needs someone like you."
Someone like me. Someone who would care, who would get invested, who would eventually need to be eliminated.
"I'll do what I can," I said, standing as she did. "Feel free to reach out if you have any other concerns."
"I will." She touched my arm, the same gentle gesture she'd used with Tyler, and I had to resist the urge to flinch away. "It's so nice to know there are good people in Jericho. People who actually care about helping others."
I watched her leave, stopping to say something to Tyler on her way out. He smiled at her, that same soft, trusting expression, and she squeezed his shoulder before disappearing out the door. The bell chimed cheerfully behind her, completely at odds with the dread settling in my stomach.
I should leave. I should grab my things and walk out and never come back to the Weathervane. But Marilyn was probably watching from somewhere, making sure I did exactly what she'd suggested. And besides, I needed to see Tyler up close. Needed to understand what I was dealing with.
I picked up my coffee cup and walked to the counter. Tyler looked up from wiping down the espresso machine, and up close I could see the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. He looked exhausted in a way that went beyond physical tiredness.
"Can I get you anything else?" he asked, his voice polite but distant.
"No, thank you. Just wanted to say the coffee was excellent." I hesitated, then added, "I'm Dr. Kinbott. I have an office a few blocks from here. I'll probably be a regular, if the coffee's always this good."
Something shifted in his expression. "Ms. Thornhill mentioned you. She said you're a therapist."
"I am. I work with some of the students at Nevermore Academy."
"The outcast school." His tone was carefully neutral, but I caught the edge underneath. Of course there was tension there—his mother had been killed by an outcast, or at least, he'd been led to believe that. It was another piece of the conditioning, another way to direct his anger where Laurel wanted it.
"Yes," I said simply. "Though I'd argue they're just students. The 'outcast' label is something society imposes on them."
Tyler studied me for a moment, and I had the unsettling sensation of being assessed. Was he reporting back to Laurel? Was this conversation going to be analyzed later, picked apart for any sign that I was more than I appeared?
"Ms. Thornhill thinks I should talk to someone," he said finally. "About my mom."
"That's ultimately your decision," I said carefully. "Therapy only works if you actually want to be there. If you're just going through the motions to make other people happy, it's a waste of everyone's time."
He blinked, clearly not expecting that response. "Most adults would say I should go whether I want to or not."
"Most adults think they know what's best for teenagers without actually listening to them. I try not to be most adults."
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, there and gone in an instant. "Ms. Thornhill said you were different."
Of course she did. She was setting me up to be the trustworthy authority figure, the one Tyler would confide in, the one whose death would hurt him and make him more dependent on her. Every piece was being carefully positioned on the board.
"If you do decide you want to talk," I said, pulling out one of Valerie's business cards, "my office is on Elm Street. But no pressure. The offer stands whenever you're ready, if ever."
I left the card on the counter and walked out before he could respond, my heart pounding harder than the casual conversation warranted. That was it. The trap was set. Marilyn had positioned me perfectly—the caring therapist, the one who seemed to really listen, the one Tyler might actually open up to. And once I knew too much, once I became a liability, she'd activate him and eliminate the threat.
Unless I could figure out how to change the script.
I walked back to my office on autopilot, barely registering the familiar streets of Jericho. My mind was racing through possibilities, strategies, ways to stay alive while still trying to help Tyler. The problem was that any real help would require breaking confidentiality, and I couldn't prove anything without revealing I had impossible foreknowledge. I was trapped in a catch-22 of epic proportions.
The office felt oppressive when I returned to it. I stood in the middle of the room, looking at the furniture arrangement, the door, the window. In the show, the Hyde had come through that door. Kinbott had opened it, probably expecting a patient or colleague, and instead she'd found death.
I walked to the door and examined the lock. Standard deadbolt, nothing special. A determined person could break through it easily, and a Hyde wouldn't even need to be determined. I made a mental note to install something better—a reinforced lock, maybe a security bar. It wouldn't stop the Hyde, but it might buy me precious seconds.
Next, I checked the window. Second floor, decent drop to the street below. In an emergency, I could probably survive the fall, though I'd definitely break something. I tested the latch—it opened smoothly. That was good. I needed multiple exit routes.
Finally, I examined the furniture. The desk was heavy wood, solid. Could be used as a barricade in a pinch. The chairs were useless as weapons but could be thrown as distractions. The bookshelf was bolted to the wall—good, that had been bothering me since I'd first seen it—but the books themselves could be projectiles. The potted plant in the corner was in a heavy ceramic pot. Not much of a weapon, but better than nothing.
I was cataloguing defensive options in a therapist's office. My life had become absolutely surreal.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: "Hi Dr. Kinbott, this is Sheriff Galpin. Marilyn Thornhill suggested I reach out to you about my son Tyler. Would you have time to meet this week to discuss the possibility of therapy? I'd appreciate your professional opinion on whether this is something he needs."
I stared at the message, feeling the walls close in a little tighter. The father now. Of course. Marilyn was being thorough, making sure every piece was in place. Sheriff Galpin would pressure Tyler to attend therapy, Tyler would reluctantly agree, and I'd become his therapist. The script was writing itself, and I was running out of ways to deviate without causing suspicion.
I typed back: "Of course, Sheriff. I'd be happy to discuss Tyler's situation with you. Would Thursday afternoon work? I have a 3 PM slot available."
The response came quickly: "Thursday at 3 works. Thank you, Dr. Kinbott. I appreciate you making time for this."
I set the phone down and sank into my desk chair, suddenly exhausted. This was only day two of my new existence, and I was already drowning in the complicated web of lies and manipulation that Laurel Gates had woven. Every conversation was a potential trap. Every decision could be the one that got me killed.
I pulled out my notebook and flipped to the pages on Tyler. I needed to prepare for this meeting with Sheriff Galpin. Needed to figure out how to position myself as helpful without becoming too deeply involved. Needed to thread the needle between doing my job and staying alive.
But as I stared at my notes, another thought occurred to me. Sheriff Galpin was Tyler's father, yes, but he was also law enforcement. If I could find a way to make him suspicious of Marilyn Thornhill without directly accusing her, if I could plant seeds of doubt that would make him investigate her background...
It was risky. If Laurel suspected I was trying to expose her, I'd die immediately. But if I could do it subtly enough, frame it as general concern about Tyler's influences rather than specific accusations, maybe I could push the investigation in the right direction without making myself a target.
I started writing, crafting questions and observations that would seem natural for a therapist to raise with a concerned parent. How was Tyler's social circle? Who were his primary support figures? Were there any adults outside the family he'd grown particularly close to? Not accusations, just gentle inquiries that any responsible therapist might make.
It wasn't much. It probably wouldn't be enough. But it was something, and something was all I had right now.
My phone buzzed again, and this time when I looked at it, my blood ran cold.
Another unknown number. Another text: "Dr. Kinbott, this is Gomez Addams. My daughter Wednesday will be arriving in Jericho next Sunday for her enrollment at Nevermore Academy. As per the terms of her probation, she is required to attend weekly therapy sessions with you. We will be accompanying her for the first session to ensure she understands the expectations. I trust this arrangement is acceptable?"
Wednesday. She was arriving in six days.
Six days until the main character entered the story. Six days until the murders would begin. Six days until my window for changing anything closed and the plot locked into place.
I looked around my office again, at my pathetic defensive preparations, at my notebooks full of desperate strategies, at the door where death would eventually enter. Six days to figure out how to survive. Six days to prepare for Wednesday Addams, Tyler Galpin, and Laurel Gates.
Six days to rewrite my ending.
I picked up my pen and started writing faster.