A crowd had gathered on the bank. Faces Y/n had seen her whole life—shopkeepers, teachers, neighbors—all wearing the same hollow expression. Mouths hanging open. Arms crossed or wrapped around themselves.

The police tape fluttered in a weak breeze.

And there, half-submerged in the reeds, lay Jason Blossom. His golden hair was dark with river water. His skin the color of old parchment.

Jughead Jones wasn't staring at the body. He was staring at the water. At something only he could see.