CHAPTER 3
Whispers in the Hallway
POV: Aiden Hart
I woke to my phone buzzing against the mahogany desk, the glow of my locker room wallpaper making my heart skip a beat. Groggy thumbs fumbled through group chat notifications:
*"Guys, have you seen this pic?"*
*"Who's that leaning on a Harley behind Jessie's?"*
"Isn't that the kid who murdered someone, like, two years ago?"
"No way. That guy's massive. The murder kid was scrawny as hell."
"How can you even tell? The picture's so blurry."
"Trust me. I know my men."
The photo was blurred—a dark silhouette against neon diner lights. Still, I scanned it twice. Whoever "that guy" was, Kingswood had already woven its web of whispers.
When I stepped into the student council room, Taylor was already tearing through our pep rally checklist. Vanessa Moore hovered with paint-stained hands and a frown that said *"We're behind schedule."* Trey Collins sat quietly in the corner, offering a steady, reassuring smile whenever my eyes flicked his way.
"Banner's not dry," Vanessa fretted, dabbing at a wet spot. "If we don't finish it by lunch, the Float Committee will crucify me."
"Don't worry," I said, checking off items on my phone. "We'll finish it. I'll"
A shadow passed the frosted glass door. I looked up, expecting Tyler or Principal Jenkins, but the hallway lay empty when I slipped outside to check.
Nothing but lockers and stale hallway air.
I shook my head and returned, heart thumping.
Later, at my locker, two freshman girls huddled over their phones, voices low.
"Did you hear he stabbed someone?" one whispered.
"Yeah, and they say he's got tattoos all over his face. He's probably the scariest thing Kingswood's seen in years."
Their words hit me like a stray pass. My chest tightened. Whoever this kid was, he'd already become a ghost in every locker room rumor. I caught their eyes, forcing a polite nod before sliding between them. Their relief must've been comic, they turned back to whispering gossip as if I hadn't been there.
Practice that afternoon felt different. Coach Ramirez watched my every throw with a hawk's intensity. After drills, he pulled me aside.
"State scouts or no, Hart," he said, voice low, "someone else might be watching. Keep your head in the game, but don't ignore the sidelines."
I nodded, sliding my hand up to wipe sweat from my brow. Scouts, I was ready for. This was something else, a sense that I wasn't the only one with plans for Friday night lights.
Jessie's Joint was our usual refuge after practice. The neon sign buzzed overhead as Tyler slid into the booth, already mock scolding me.
"You look like hell." He set a loaded fry on my plate. "But Prince Charming doesn't get tired, right?"
I forced a grin. "All good."
He leaned in, voice dropping. "So tell me why you're not freaking out about that note."
I froze. He meant the anonymous slip I'd found last night *"TONIGHT. 11 PM. OLD QUARRY. YOUR FUTURE DEPENDS ON IT."*
Tyler's grin widened. "Come on, admit it. You want to go. Stake out the Old Quarry, see this bad boy for yourself."
I scooped up a fry. "I've got float sketches to finish, a speech to write, practice tomorrow, and how do you know it's the "bad boy"…"
He shook his head, picking at his fries. "You're never not busy. But this this this could be interesting, maybe his coming for the top dog, claiming his territory like they do in prison."
Taylor rolled her eyes from her seat across the table. "You two are insane."
I laughed, but my pulse quickened at the thought.
By the time I got home, the Hart estate was quiet. Dad's study light burned late. I found him there, rearranging campaign flyers under a green shaded lamp. Mom hovered in the doorway, her expression soft but strained.
"How's the speech coming?" she asked, stepping into the warm glow.
"Good," I said, sliding my notes onto the desk. Dad glanced up, smiled briefly, controlled, and proud.
"Make it sharp," he said, folding a flyer. "The town expects excellence."
Mom brushed my shoulder. "Don't let him push you too hard," she whispered, as if I couldn't hear her voice over Dad's footsteps retreating down the hall.
I caught her eye and nodded. I wanted to tell her I was fine, that so long as I nailed that speech and led the float, so long as I won that game on Friday, Dad would see me as more than his second son. I would be the golden boy, the future he'd been waiting for.
But as I locked myself in the study and stared at that scrap of paper—*Old Quarry. 11 PM.*—My world shifted. Tomorrow's pep rally, the scouts in the stands, the cheers under Friday night lights… they all suddenly felt like whispers behind a darker, more dangerous chapter.
And I couldn't decide if I was ready to turn the page.