Chapter 86 Mercedes

Chapter 86 Mercedes
Mercedes  

⛸️

We were a tangle of limbs and anxiety on Brianna's oversized bed, her bedroom a chaotic mess of discarded clothes and half-empty diet soda cans. It was our usual command center, but tonight, the air was thick with a kind of dread we'd never faced before.

"Okay, let's just think," I said, pacing the small space at the foot of the bed. "Maybe it's not what it looks like. Maybe Luke spent fall break with her for extra hockey training. Intense, one-on-one coaching."

Brianna snorted from her spot propped against the pillows. "Intense enough for him to look 'tense and afraid' at a restaurant? Intense enough for him to completely ghost all his friends and come back dressed like a CEO? What kind of hockey training involves a complete personality transplant?"

"She has a point," Mitch chimed in, staring at the ceiling. "And what about the name? Why is she going by Beverly Colette at school but her house is under Shayla Greene? That's not a coaching strategy. That's... shady."

We tossed out theories, each one more ridiculous than the last. Maybe she was in witness protection. Maybe she was a secret agent. Maybe it was all a massive misunderstanding. But none of it fit. None of it explained the cold, empty look in Luke's eyes or the possessive way he'd talked about having a new "girlfriend."

I stopped pacing and looked at Mitch, who had been uncharacteristically quiet. "Mitch, you're on the team with him. You see her every day. Is there anything? Anything at all that seemed weird, even before all this?"

He sat up, rubbing the back of his neck, a thoughtful, troubled expression on his face. "I mean, she's intense. Like, next-level intense. But there was one thing..." He trailed off, as if debating whether to say it.

"What?" Brianna and I asked in unison.

"Okay, so a few weeks ago, there was a random, mandatory drug test for all winter sports athletes," he began, his voice low. "Everyone was freaking out. And Luke pulled me aside after practice and he was... weird. He told me to just trust him and Beverly. He said, 'Trust me, Mitch. You and I are going to pass with flying colors. Just do everything she says, exactly when she says it.'"

My blood ran cold. "What does that even mean?"

Mitch shook his head, still looking bewildered by the memory. "I had no idea. But then I got called out of the locker room for my test. And while I was walking down the hall, I got a text from an unknown number. It was Bev. It said, 'There's already a pee cup waiting for you in the ceiling tile above the toilet use it. Don't say a word.'

My jaw dropped. "You're kidding me."

"I'm not," Mitch said, his eyes wide. "I was freaked out, but Luke told me to trust her. So I went. I popped the tile, and there it was. A sealed cup with a temperature strip on it, still warm. I did exactly what she said. I was in and out in two minutes. The official just took it, didn't ask any questions."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And the whole time, I was thinking... what kind of coach does that? Why would she go through all that trouble for me and Luke? Why not the whole team? It felt special. But it also felt... really, really wrong."

The room fell silent. The theories about secret training and fake identities evaporated, replaced by a much darker, more concrete reality. This wasn't about hockey. This was about manipulation. This was about control. Beverly Colette, or Shayla Greene, or whoever she was, wasn't just a coach. She was a criminal. And she had her claws so deep into Luke that he was helping her do it.

"But why?" I asked, the question hanging in the air, heavy and unanswered. "Why fake a drug test for just you two? Why the fake name? Why the secret house?"

My words hung there between us, chilling and absolute.

A new resolve hardened inside me. The wallowing was over. The confusion could wait. It was time to act.

"Okay," I said, my voice sharp and clear, taking charge. "We need a game plan. No more guessing. We need facts."

I looked at each of them, making sure I had their full attention. "First, research. Both of you. I want you to dig up everything you can on 'Beverly Colette' and her real name, 'Shayla Greene.' Social media, old news articles, anything. If anything pops up, anything at all, you share it in our group chat. We'll discuss it together."

I turned to Mitch. "Second, you're on the inside. You keep your eyes and ears open at practice. Watch how they interact. Watch how the other guys act around her. Does anyone else get special treatment? Does Luke ever look... normal? Observe everything. Don't engage, just watch. Be a fly on the wall."

Mitch nodded, his expression grim. "I can do that."

Then I looked at Brianna. "You and I are on surveillance. We make drive-bys at her house. Not every day, that's too risky. But a few times a week, at different times. We just observe. See if Luke's car is there. See if anyone else comes or goes. We build a timeline. We find a pattern."

"Got it," Brianna said, her jaw set with determination.

Finally, I took a deep breath. "And I'll be the one to talk to Luke again. I'll catch him alone, when he doesn't have an audience or an escape. I'll try to get through to him. Maybe if he knows we're onto her, if he knows he's not alone..."

"It could backfire," Mitch warned gently. "He could just shut down more."

"It's a risk I have to take," I said, my voice firm. "He's in there somewhere. The real Luke. And I'm not going to let her erase him without a fight."

We all looked at each other, a silent pact forming between us. We were no longer just worried friends. We were investigators. We were a rescue team. And we were going to get our friend back, no matter what it took.

⛸️

The next day felt like we were watching a movie on repeat. From our vantage point in the senior parking lot, we saw Luke's red car pull in. He got out, dressed in another ridiculously sophisticated outfit—a charcoal gray sweater over a collared shirt—and walked toward the school with a singular, unnerving focus. He didn't glance around, didn't look for his friends. He just moved forward, a man on a mission in a sea of teenagers.

Throughout the day, Brianna and I would pass him in the hallways. It was always the same. His head was down, his expression a mask of cool indifference. He didn't talk to anyone. He just moved from class to class, a ghost haunting his own life. The old Luke, the one who would lean against my locker and steal a kiss between periods, was completely gone.

When hockey practice rolled around, my phone felt like a ticking time bomb. I was desperate for an update. Finally, a text from Mitch came through.

Mitch: Practice was normal. She's a hardass, picks on everyone. Nothing weird. She treated Luke the same as the rest of us.

It was a small, disappointing relief. At least she wasn't singling him out in front of the team. But it didn't explain the change in him.

Meanwhile, our research was a dead end. It was like she didn't exist. We searched every variation of "Beverly Colette" and "Shayla Greene" we could think of. No social media profiles, no old yearbook photos, no news articles, no public records beyond the house. It was a digital black hole. She was a ghost online. After two nights of coming up empty, we gave up. The research angle was a bust.

The next few days bled into one another, a monotonous cycle of watching and waiting. Luke remained a stranger in our halls. Our surveillance drives by Shayla Greene's house yielded nothing but the sight of the Escalade parked in the driveway. We were hitting wall after wall.

Then, on Thursday, another text from Mitch came in after practice. This one was different.

Mitch: Okay, I noticed something today.

My heart leaped into my throat. I waited, my thumbs poised over the screen.

Mitch: Luke and Bev are always the last ones to leave. Today, everyone cleared out, but they stayed. I hung back by my car, pretending to be on my phone. They were on the ice for a whole extra hour. Just the two of them.

I read the text to Brianna, her eyes widening.

Me: An extra hour? After a full practice?

Mitch: Yeah. And that's on top of the private one-on-one sessions they supposedly have. Why the extra hour alone after practice? It doesn't make any sense.

The text confirmed what we already suspected in our guts. This wasn't about hockey. This was something else. An extra hour, alone, on the ice, after everyone else was gone. It was their private world. And whatever was happening in that world was the key to unlocking the mystery of what had become of our Luke.