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*****
"What are you two freaks doing in our town?"
Ethan and Wednesday stopped talking as three boys in outdated Pilgrim costus surrounded them forming a loose circle around them.
Exactly the kind of Jericho locals Wednesday expected—historically ignorant, theatrically hostile, and convinced they were intimidating.
One of the boys puffed out his chest. "This is Pilgrim turf. Outcasts aren't welco here."
Wednesday glanced at their outfits, completely unimpressed.
"Why are you dressed like religious fanatics?"
"We're Pilgrims," the tall one shot back.
"Potato, po-tah-to," Wednesday said dryly, as if both words belonged to the sa category of pointless.
"We work at Pilgrim World," the chubby boy added, proud of it for so reason.
Wednesday didn't miss a beat.
"It takes a special kind of stupid to devote an entire the park to zealots responsible for mass genocide."
"Who are you calling idiot? My father owns Pilgrim World."
Lucas Walker stepped forward, jaw tight, voice cracking with the kind of outrage only a spoiled heir could produce.
Ethan recognized him instantly. Lucas Walker — the mayor's son. Loud, arrogant, and destined to be a footnote in Ethan's mory.
As for the other two boys crowding behind him… just extras. Background noise. Faces that wouldn't take up even a byte of space in his mind.
Sparks snapped quietly between the four of them—Lucas and his two faceless cronies puffing themselves up, Wednesday staring them down with predatory calm, Ethan ready to step in if things got entertaining.
For a mont, it looked like fists—or worse—might start flying.
But before the first move could be made, a firm voice cut in.
"What are you boys doing?"
Sheriff Galpin's voice cut through the street like a blade. Lucas and his two sidekicks froze, shoulders tensing as the sheriff stepped up onto the sidewalk.
Even Lucas—the mayor's son, used to walking around like Jericho royalty—instinctively took a step back. Having a powerful father didn't give him immunity in front of Galpin.
"Nothing, Sheriff," Ethan said before any of them could open their mouths. "They were just asking us to buy so fudge from Pilgrim World."
The three boys recoiled as if he'd insulted their ancestors.
Buy fudge?
From them?
What were they—Girl Scouts selling cookies?
But none of them dared correct him. Admitting they ca over to start a fight would get them in real trouble.
Galpin stared at Ethan like he was déjà vu wrapped in a headache. "You again? Do you cause trouble everywhere you go?"
Ethan shrugged. "No. Trouble finds . Important difference."
The sheriff let out a long, weary exhale—the kind he reserved specifically for Nevermore students. "Every year," he muttered, "you kids make my job harder."
He jabbed a finger between the two groups. "Nas. Now. And you three—" He flicked his hand toward Lucas and his friends. "Beat it. Before I call your fathers."
Lucas' bravado evaporated. He swallowed hard, nodded stiffly, and motioned for his friends to move. They backed away fast, sending Wednesday one last dirty look she didn't bother acknowledging.
"I'm Ethan Corvin," Ethan said calmly, slipping his hands into his pockets as if the tension in the air were none of his concern. "And this is Wednesday Addams."
The sheriff's gaze shifted. Wednesday stood perfectly still—braids hanging like execution ropes, posture carved from cold stone.
Her expression carried all the warmth of an unmarked grave. The sheriff's jaw tightened the way it did when paperwork tripled or trouble found him before breakfast.
"Is Goz Addams your father?" Sheriff Galpin asked, his tone clipped.
"Yes," Wednesday replied, her voice flat enough to sand wood.
The sheriff snorted. "Guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. You're just like him."
Wednesday's eyes narrowed—not out of offense, but calculation, as if imagining the most efficient way to dissect the statent… or the sheriff.
"You seem to harbor sothing against my father," she said, a faint edge sharpening her words.
"Oh, I do," Sheriff Galpin snapped. "Because he's a murderer. He killed an innocent man and destroyed a family. That blood is on his hands."
Sheriff Galpin's hatred for Goz Addams ran deeper than simple annoyance. It was old—rooted in a case that Jericho still whispered about.
Years ago, Goz had been accused of murder, dragged into the center of a scandal that should have ended with handcuffs and a trial. Instead, he walked away untouched.
To Galpin, that wasn't justice. It was corruption winning.
"The only thing my father is capable of killing," she said dryly, "is the soap-opera songs he insists on singing in the shower. If he murdered anything, it was musical integrity."
She didn't believe for a second that her father had killed anyone.
His father was many things—eccentric, overly dramatic, catastrophically affectionate—but a murderer was not one of them.
If he ever did take a life, he wouldn't have been caught.
Ethan glanced at her, unsure whether to laugh or step back. The sheriff didn't find it funny.
"Whatever," Sheriff Galpin muttered. "I'll be keeping an eye on you, Addams. Don't give a reason to notice you again."
His gaze slid to Ethan. "And you—don't assu the Mayor will always cover your back."
He shot them both a final warning look before turning away.
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