K-CHUNK.
The jukebox in the corner, a dusty relic that usually played 90s alt-rock, roared to life without anyone putting a quarter in.
The music started. But it was wrong.
It was a slow, distorted song. I recognized the melody, but it was warping, dragging. Like a tape deck running out of batteries.
...emankcin ruoy gnillac si ynitseD...
"Is that... The Killers?" Greg asked, lifting his head completely off the table. "Why is it playing backwards?"
"It’s not just backwards," I realized, the blood draining from my face. "It’s deconstructed."
I looked at the note again. Stuck at a funeral.
I looked at the mud on the Bartender’s shoes. Grave dirt.
I looked at the mirror behind the bar. Usually, it reflects the three of us—the anxious guy in the suit, the chaotic girl in leather, and the sad guy in the hoodie.
But for a split second, the reflection flickered.
I didn't see us.
I saw a view from a height. I saw rain hitting asphalt. I saw the railing of a bridge, wet and slick.
"He’s not at a funeral for a friend," I whispered, and the realization hit me harder than the tremor. "Desi, Greg... he’s not attending a funeral."
The bar shook again, violent this time. A bottle of whiskey shattered on the shelf.
"The note," I choked out. "He’s not observing the funeral. He's planning it."
"Leo, what are you talking about?" Desi screamed over the screeching, backward music.
"He's planning his own!" I shouted. "We aren't waiting for him to show up! We're waiting for him to jump!"
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.