Riverdale Now

“The very same,” Betty said. “And here’s the detail the police report missed. The barn was sold six months ago to a shell company. A shell company that traces back to a certain Mr. Percival Pickens.”

The rain intensified, hammering the windows like it was trying to get in. Pop Tate appeared, silent as a ghost, and refilled Jughead’s coffee. He knew better than to ask questions. He’d seen too many Riverdale seasons turn from milkshakes to murder. Riverdale

Inside, the usual suspects were arranged in their usual constellations. Archie Andrews sat in the corner booth, knuckles scraped raw from a session at the gym that had done nothing to quiet the storm in his head. Across from him, Jughead Jones nursed a black coffee, a worn-out notebook open but untouched. “The very same,” Betty said

“Archiekins,” she said, sliding a folded gala invitation across the counter to Pop, who accepted it without comment. “I see the Scooby gang is already assembled. Good. Because the navy suit won’t cut it this time.” A shell company that traces back to a certain Mr

“Trouble,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“And?”