Veronica raised an eyebrow. “I was thinking we start it.”
Inside, the usual suspects were arranged in their usual constellations. Archie Andrews sat in the corner booth, knuckles scraped raw from a session at the gym that had done nothing to quiet the storm in his head. Across from him, Jughead Jones nursed a black coffee, a worn-out notebook open but untouched.
A silence fell, heavier than the rain. Archie looked from Betty’s grim determination to Jughead’s calculating stare. Outside, a flash of lightning illuminated the parking lot—and a single, sleek black town car pulling in. Riverdale
Betty’s eyes widened. “What did you do, Veronica?”
“Pickens is collecting relics,” Jughead said, his mind racing. “Properties tied to old traumas. He’s not after land. He’s after leverage. Emotional real estate.” Veronica raised an eyebrow
Betty nodded. “And tonight, during the gala, he’s going to announce a ‘historical restoration project.’ My sources say the old barn is the centerpiece. If he digs there, he’ll find what’s still buried. What we buried.”
Archie put his hand over Veronica’s. Jughead closed his notebook. Betty refolded the letter. Across from him, Jughead Jones nursed a black
“Always,” Archie replied.