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.”
Betty placed a folded piece of paper on the table. It was damp, the ink bleeding slightly, but the message was clear: The Devil’s in the Details, and the Details are in the Old Barn. Riverdale
A bell jingled. The rain swept in, and with it, a figure in a black trench coat, dripping onto the checkerboard floor. Betty Cooper shook out her blonde ponytail, her face pale, her smile tight. She slid into the booth next to Archie without asking.
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. Betty’s eyes widened
She entered, shaking water from her hair, and locked eyes with Archie. For a moment, the diner held its breath.
Veronica’s smile was razor-thin. “What I had to. To protect the people I love. The question is: what are you willing to do to protect me?” He’s not after land
Jughead stiffened. Percival Pickens. The name alone tasted like ash. The newcomer who’d bought up half the town’s debts, who’d turned the Babylonium into a private club, who’d smiled at town council meetings while sliding a knife between Riverdale’s ribs.
She sat down next to Jughead, who moved over reluctantly. “Pickens isn’t just digging up a barn. He’s digging up a sealed deposition from my father’s trial. A deposition that names names. Including mine.”
“The very same,” Betty said. “And here’s the detail the police report missed. The barn was sold six months ago to a shell company. A shell company that traces back to a certain Mr. Percival Pickens.”
“And?”