Confession Video!?
Brendon stepped out of Ivy's house, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the street. The air was cool, tinged with the scent of oncoming rain. The street was relatively quiet, a few cars humming by as if the world beyond Ridgecliff Academy's tangled web of secrets was blissfully unaware.
As he walked away, he pulled out his phone and dialed Robert's number. The tone rang twice before his partner picked up.
"Hey, Robert. I need you to check on a name for me — Bradley Norman. Find his records, address, anything you can dig up," Brendon requested.
"Bradley Norman, got it. Any specifics I should know?" Robert's voice came through with a hint of curiosity.
"Possible student at Ridgecliff Academy. Had some connection with Jacob Williams. Could be relevant to the case."
Robert's voice grew a shade more serious. "Alright. I'll comb through the system and let you know if I find anything."
"Thanks. Appreciate it," Brendon said, ending the call.
---
The Long Walk Home
Brendon flicked open his lighter and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply as he began his walk home. His apartment was a good distance away — far enough that most would call for a ride, but walking helped him think. The cigarette's smoke swirled in the cool air, its warmth a mild comfort against the impending night.
His mind sifted through the tangled threads of the case. Jacob's connection to BM19, the stolen package from the Hunters, and this new dimension of the love triangle with Sydney and Bradley. Two separate motives, two possible culprits — but there was still a missing link. The tampered chat between Jacob and Bradley weighed heavily on his thoughts. He knew Sofie would need time to crack it, but it felt crucial.
Halfway home, his phone buzzed — an unknown number flashing on the screen. Hesitant, he answered.
"Sheriff Wolf speaking."
"Good evening, Sheriff. Is this Brendon Wolf?" a crisp, poised voice asked.
"Yeah, this is him. Who's calling?"
"Apologies, Sheriff. My name is Anu Nair. I'm a journalist with BBC News. I'm currently covering the story of Jacob Williams' death. I wanted to congratulate you on your recent success — capturing an infamous gang leader."
Brendon's brows knit together. He knew journalists well — the way they twisted stories to feed the masses. He still remembered the reckless narratives the media spun about him five years ago, branding him a murderer without evidence.
"Evening, ma'am. What can I do for you?" His tone was careful.
"Well, as I mentioned, I'm following the case. I was hoping to gather some information — anything you could share about Jacob's death. The public wants to know how it happened."
Brendon exhaled smoke slowly, watching it dissolve into the night. "Apologies, ma'am, but I can't share details of an ongoing investigation. I don't have anything to offer right now."
There was a pause. He expected a pushback — a press for even the smallest hint. Instead, her reply was unexpectedly composed.
"Oh, I understand. Sorry to bother you, Sheriff. Thank you for your time. Goodbye."
Brendon frowned slightly as the call ended. The lack of persistence was unusual. Most journalists would have dug their claws in, but Anu's easy retreat left him with a sense of unease.
---
Untangling Threads
Brendon continued walking, piecing together the fragments of what he knew.
Jacob's ties to BM19 and the stolen package — it could be a revenge move by the Hunters. If the Hunters were retaliating, they'd be systematic, precise. Yet, if it was a crime of passion — a scorned lover like Bradley — the act could be rash, impulsive.
Bradley Norman. The boy whose name appeared in Jacob's tampered chat. The boy who had a past with Sydney and had supposedly met Jacob three days before his death. Brendon couldn't ignore the possibility of jealousy spiraling into violence.
But if it was Bradley, why tamper with the chat logs? To cover his tracks? Or was someone else orchestrating this? The possibility of manipulation tugged at Brendon's mind. Someone wanted this to be seen a certain way.
His phone buzzed again, yanking him from his thoughts. It was Judith.
"Hey, Judith. What's up? Didn't expect a call this late."
Her voice was rushed, urgent. "Brendon, open your Twitter right now!"
"Hey, calm down. What happened?"
"Just do it! You need to see this."
Brendon's frown deepened as he unlocked his phone and opened the app. The feed loaded, and a trending video caught his eye. It had gone viral — thousands of retweets and comments. The tags attached included #JacobWilliams and #TheTruth.
He tapped on the video. The screen shifted to a dimly lit room, an amateur recording setup. On screen stood a young white man, his hair messy yet styled, a microphone clutched in his hand. Brendon recognized the face — Bradley Norman.
A slow, haunting beat played, and Bradley began to sing.
---
Lyrics of Regret
"The weight of my mind, a storm in the night,
Caught between shadows, wrong and right.
The echo of choices, a voice I can't take,
Wishing I'd known before it's too late."
"They said it's a war, a battle I fight,
But I see the faces, the pain in their eyes.
Hands stained with guilt that no rain can clean,
Living a nightmare inside a dream."
"I didn't mean to make him fall,
Didn't think I'd break it all.
The silence echoes through my head,
Wishing I could wake the dead."
"They said it's justice — the rules of the game,
But now I'm the one who carries the blame.
Tears in the night, a shadow of sin,
The ghost of a friend I can't let in."
---
Brendon's eyes widened slightly as the lyrics unfolded. The ambiguity in the words left room for interpretation. The song's message seemed to reflect guilt and remorse, but whether it was genuine confession or a metaphorical reflection was unclear.
He scrolled through the comments — accusations, debates, sympathies. Some insisted Bradley was admitting to killing Jacob. Others argued it was a commentary on society's mistreatment of young men. The line between art and reality had blurred, and everyone had a different take.
Judith's voice crackled through the phone, still connected. "Brendon, what do you think this means?"
Brendon exhaled slowly. "I think Bradley just became our prime suspect. But the question is — did he really confess, or is he just another kid drowning in guilt and regret?"
The cigarette burned to its end, the embers dying slowly. In the quiet of the night, Brendon wondered whether the song was a tragic truth or a misinterpreted cry for help.