Page 73 of Our Darkest Summer

Even with the low quality, I recognized her instantly. She crossed the hall, then disappeared behind another door.

“Fuck,” Thomas and Braxton muttered at the same time, then Thomas added, “That’ll be on another tape.”

We all moved, searching through the cassettes for another five minutes. With this many unorganized tapes, it was like searching for a needle in a haystack.

“I got it,” Aaliyah shrieked, raising it high above her head. “I got it.”

We gathered back around the monitor, and Thomas switched out the two cassettes. Lizzie was in a room full of computers, sitting with her back to us at one of the stations. The screen she was looking at glowed faintly, but I couldn’t make out anything on it.

“What is she doing?” Connor leaned forward.

Samantha frowned. “Can you zoom in?”

Thomas clenched his jaw. “On this old shit? No, I can’t.” His voice fell flat, but I could hear the tense edges in it. His fingers flexed against the desk, his shoulders stiff.

“I can take it home and try some things,” Braxton offered, and Thomas only hesitated a moment before turning around and handing him the tape.

“How long will it take?”

Braxton grinned. “For you? I can do it tonight.”

Thomas exhaled, rubbing his thumb along his jaw. “Thanks.” His voice was softer now, like something heavy had settled inside him.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Kinsley

We leftthe others behind in town, the four of us heading to Braxton’s house. The night air was thick with the scent of pine and distant bonfires. The only sound was the rhythmic hum of the tires against the road, until the low roar of an engine cut through the quiet.

I turned just in time to see Braxton’s red sport bike closing in fast. He veered into the opposite lane, engine growling louder as he passed us, making a deliberate show of revving and backfiring. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, he twisted his upper body around, shot us a cocky salute, and vanished into the night.

Show off.

Ten minutes later, we were gathered in his room, crammed around the glow of his computer screen. The bright LED lights cast neon streaks over our faces as Braxton typed away, refining the grainy security footage from the library.

With a few clicks, the image sharpened.

And there it was. A newspaper from the year 2000. Silence settled over us, and my pulse quickened.

Why was Lizzie looking at this?

There were five articles here. How were we supposed to know which one she was looking at?

“Does she ever zoom in on any of these?” I asked, but Braxton shook his head.

“She just sat there for a few minutes then got a call and left.” He typed something on his keyboard, and the picture changed to Lizzie leaving the room.

“Any idea why your mom was looking at a newspaper from 2000, Massachusetts?” I asked, and Connor shrugged beside me.

“Can we print this?” Thomas looked up at Braxton, who nodded, then hurried out of his room.

Moments later, he was back, handing a paper to Thomas. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Thomas turned to the door, but Braxton stopped him.

“If I can help in any way?—”

“I’ll text in the group chat,” Thomas cut in, his tone measured and matter-of-fact, but with just enough edge to suggest:Fine, you win. I’ll do the thing. But let’s not make a big deal of it.