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  Copyright © 2019 by Archie Comic Publications, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First printing 2019

  Cover art by David Curtis

  Cover design by Heather Daugherty

  e-ISBN 978-1-338-28949-7

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Part One: The Party

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part Two: The Lake House

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Part Three: Dead Ringers

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Epilogue

  Teaser

  About the Author

  JUGHEAD

  Summer. Just the mention of the word conjures a series of comforting images. Long evenings spent watching the sunset creep over the horizon, fireflies lighting up the air like renegade Fourth of July sparklers. Lazy days on a porch swing nursing a soft-serve cone, trying to strike the balance between savoring the treat and devouring it before it liquefies, sticky-sweet, under the searing press of the sun’s glow.

  Summer is for being idle, for swatting mosquitos and splashing in Sweetwater River, for ignoring the alarm clock and losing track of time. It’s for living in that state of suspended animation where any semblance of responsibility evaporates and it’s just you, your best friends, and the sensation that everything you do and are is ephemeral, hazy … and yours alone.

  In Riverdale, summer belongs to us.

  Or that’s what we thought, anyway. Until this summer. Until Archie Andrews was arrested for murder and forced to spend the summer before his junior year standing trial. Before we were forced to consider the terrifying—and terrifyingly real—possibility that Archie’s trial was only the beginning.

  Cassidy Bullock. We weren’t necessarily torn up about his death. After all, he and his thug friends had terrorized us when we were up at Veronica’s cabin in Shadow Lake for the weekend. And they probably would have done worse if Veronica hadn’t triggered the silent alarm.

  So we weren’t sorry he’d been killed (presumably by the Lodge family bodyguard, Andre). What we were sorry about was that Hiram Lodge, Veronica’s father, had framed Archie for the murder. And that the charges had stuck.

  Endless summer. Summer love. The poet Wallace Stevens wrote that “summer night is like a perfection of thought.” But for Archie, Veronica, Betty, and me, there was no perfection to be found. Only the relentlessness of reality.

  For Archie, that reality meant reviewing his testimony until he was as familiar with it as he was with breathing. It was examining the case Hiram Lodge had built against him with a proverbial fine-tooth comb, alongside his mother, Mary Andrews, arguably the most devoted counsel a teen accused of murder could have in his corner.

  Second to Mary on the Team Archie lineup was Betty Cooper, pragmatic and determined as always. Last summer, the sunny-with-a-side-of-edge girl next door was brushing up on her journalistic skills with an internship at a lifestyle blog in LA. Now, though, she was using her investigative talents to prove that her oldest friend’s innocence. All this on the heels of finding out that her father was the serial killer Riverdale had known as the Black Hood.

  Meanwhile, Riverdale’s resident fish out of water, Veronica Lodge, had rejected her sizable birthright—and the tarnished strings that came with it. The one-time princess of Park Avenue had turned her back on her family name and all the financial security that it implied. And while she was trying to stake a claim of her own as the newest owner of Pop’s Chock’Lit Shoppe, she was also horn-locked—and hopelessly deadlocked—with Daddy Dearest. The price at the heart of their feverish feud?

  One Archie Andrews’s liberty. Maybe even his soul.

  As for me, I was doing my best to honor my own father’s sense of loyalty, of family, adapting to my new role as Serpent King. I was worried for Archie, of course—more like desperately scared for him—though I was trying to keep a positive spin on things. (It doesn’t come easy to me, to say the least.) But I had a gang—literally—looking to me, depending on me to lead them. The Serpents would have done anything for me, and for the Andrewses, too, especially after they put us up when Hiram Lodge displaced anyone unlucky enough to be living on the Southside. With my dad retired from the Serpents, it was time for me to show people I deserved their trust and faith.

  The problem was, I wasn’t sure I believed it.

  When Jason Blossom was murdered, the town of Riverdale lost something innate, something ineffable. For decades, our tiny community shimmered with wholesome, small-town charm. No one bothered to peel back the facade, to strip away the picture-perfect Norman Rockwell homage. No one wanted to … Not even those who knew better. Those who knew all too well this town’s secrets, and its rotting, dark-hearted core.

  Jason Blossom. The Black Hood. And now Archie Andrews, one-time small-town golden boy, on trial for murder, twisting under a disgraced mobster’s thumb. Poised to lose everything for the simple mistake of crossing the wrong man.

  Summer had stretched, sticky and unforgiving, tangling the four of us in an intricate web. The days were endless, like all summer days, but now the heavy molasses pace felt dangerous, threatening.

  Labor Day was bearing down. Most teens would be dreading going back to school: homework, cliques, early wake-ups.

  We weren’t thinking about that. We would have given anything to be thinking about stuff like that. Instead, we were worried that Archie’s last chance—his last shot at freedom, at beating Hiram Lodge at his own game—was slipping away from us.

  And if we couldn’t save Archie from the dark horrors lying at Riverdale’s heart, who would?

  Reggie:

  Party at Casa Mantle tonight, bro.

  Archie:

  Not sure I’m in a partying mood, man. Sorry.

  Reggie:

  I hear yo
u. But my folks are out of town, and you’ve got closing arguments next week, yeah?

  Archie:

  Don’t remind me.

  Reggie:

  What else can you do? Your mom has def got this covered. Take a night to just chill. You could prob use it, right?

  Archie:

  Don’t want to leave my mom alone while she’s busting her ass for me.

  Reggie:

  She’s your MOM. Guarantee she wants you to have one night of being a normal guy and not an accused murderer.

  Reggie:

  Tell me I’m wrong.

  Archie:

  …

  Reggie:

  I’m gonna round up the rest of the Bulldogs. Then I’m texting Veronica. Between her and your mom, I’ll count on you being here.

  Reggie:

  One night off. Then you can go back to Dead Man Walking.

  Archie:

  Gee, thanks.

  Reggie:

  JK, dude. You’re gonna be cleared. Put it out of your mind. Just for tonight.

  Archie:

  Will try. Easier said than done.

  Reggie:

  What isn’t, man?

  Veronica:

  Archiekins, I just got the most interesting text from Reggie Mantle …

  Archie:

  Ronnie, ILU, but are you sure a party is the best idea? Even if I were in the mood—we should be working. On my case. Or, I should be. Mom WILL be.

  Veronica:

  All work and no play makes Archie a dull boy. Don’t you remember your King-by-way-of-Kubrick?

  Archie:

  If it’s not from Carrie: The Musical, I haven’t read it yet.

  Veronica:

  Kidding, dearie. But anyway, you deserve some fun.

  Archie:

  … Because it may be the last fun I see in a while, you mean.

  Veronica:

  I didn’t say that. And I refuse to entertain negative energy. I have 100% faith in our ability to prove your innocence. BUT I still think we deserve a night off.

  Archie:

  But my mom …

  Veronica:

  Not to worry. Your mom thinks it’s a fabulous idea, of course. She was thrilled when I suggested it.

  Archie:

  What about Betty?

  Veronica:

  She was harder to convince, babbling about files and highlighters, that girl is the true definition of ride-or-die, but your mom talked her into it. Proof that you really do have the most persuasive lawyer. And can take. One night. To breathe.

  Archie:

  What are the chances I’m gonna talk you out of this?

  Veronica:

  About the same as your chances of being convicted for a crime you didn’t commit.

  Veronica:

  In other words, I’ll pick you up at 8.

  Veronica:

  Archie’s in, of course.

  Betty:

  Your powers of persuasion, V. A+.

  Veronica:

  Never underestimate a Lodge’s determination.

  Betty:

  Ugh. Don’t remind me. That’s just what I’m afraid of …

  Veronica:

  Nope! Cease and desist, sister. Forget I said anything. Good vibes only tonight. See you soon!

  Betty:

  Dust off your dutiful boyfriend hat, Jug.

  Jughead:

  I only have the one hat, Betty. You know that. Anyway, I heard. Party at Reggie’s. I’ve had anxiety dreams more pleasant than the prospect.

  Betty:

  You’re doing it for Archie. And me.

  Jughead:

  I can’t say this is my most festive hour. I don’t even HAVE a most festive hour. But I can’t say no to you, either.

  Betty:

  xoxo

  Cheryl:

  JoJo! LA is such a delight. I’m so glad Toni talked me into this cross-country jaunt! We’re like … Thelma and Louise, but without the tragic ending, of course. And if Susan Sarandon was a genuine ginger, like moi. Have you been following on insta? #ChoniGoesWest.

  Josie:

  Girl, you know I’m following your excellent adventures. And I’m glad you’re having fun. The cats are hanging in by our sharp little claws. Riverdale is same old, same old, small-time small-town.

  Cheryl:

  How many times do I have to tell you, you’re too good for the town that time forgot? You should be in La La Land with us!

  Cheryl:

  Last night we saw a show at Tom Sawyer & tonight we’re doing Hotel Cafe. Toni has a Serpent hookup basically everywhere that’s anywhere. It’s the ultimate VIP pass.

  Cheryl:

  The next road trip will be a Pussycats tour. I volunteer as booking agent.

  Josie:

  Good looking out, Bombshell. Meanwhile I’m getting text-bombed by Reggie Mantle about a house party tonight. Not exactly bright lights, big city. When you get back, you can work my security detail, too. Mantle wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Cheryl:

  Men are such dogs. And that boy is a dog with a bone. So are you going?

  Josie:

  Not sure. Gotta check in with my kitties. Maybe one of them has a better offer.

  Cheryl:

  Well, hope springs eternal, Josephine. Crossing my cherry-cosmo-lacquered fingers for you. Keep me posted!

  Kevin:

  Party at Reggie’s tonight. You there?

  Moose:

  Yeah, man. I’ll find you there, OK?

  Kevin:

  I thought maybe we could go together?

  Moose:

  …

  Kevin:

  Never mind. I’ll just see you there. TTYL.

  VERONICA

  Normally, a house party hosted by a small-town jock isn’t the sort of event that I’d rush to add to the top of my social calendar. But that was before I lost my heart to a small-town jock myself … and then watched in abject horror as my increasingly cartoon-villain-evil father corrupted my beloved paramour and ultimately threatened to put him behind bars.

  It makes a girl anxious. Understandably. This summer, I was reevaluating a lot of my previously held tenets.

  Mind you, I was thoroughly certain that the mere truth of Archie’s innocence would exonerate him. And if anyone could bring justice to light, it was Mrs. Andrews and Betty. Hell hath no fury—and no drive—like those two.

  But certain is a relative term … And, while it’s one I use unwaveringly in the presence of Archie and our friends, the whole unvarnished truth was—is always—a little stickier.

  I know my father. Maybe not quite as well as I’d always thought—for starters, I never thought he’d stoop so low as to actually frame the love of my life for any crime, let alone murder. I knew when Archie started getting closer to my father that there was danger my all-American boy would be corrupted. In fact, I warned Archie of just that. But a part of me wanted to believe that even Hiram Lodge had ethical limits.

  Clearly, I was wrong. It turns out Daddy doesn’t have a rock bottom.

  And if I was so wrong about that, then who’s to say I wasn’t also wrong about Archie’s chances at an acquittal?

  These were the thoughts that were keeping me up at night, tossing and turning in my 1,800-thread-count Frette sheets.

  Veronica Lodge is nothing if not unflappable. That’s basically my personal brand. And that was the image I was going to project for my friends, for our town, for as long as it took to clear Archie’s name. Like a country song cliché, I’d stand by my man. Even if my legs were feeling a little shaky.

  The thing about having a monster for a father is this: People have sympathy. Sure, some of those people are indebted to Daddy and need to make sure their i’s are dotted and their t’s are crossed. I can’t blame them. Some people—the less valiant of the populace—would never visibly go against my father. It didn’t take long—after my father revealed his true visage, after our family’s fall from grace—for me to sort the cowards ou
t of my contacts list. Now I know who I can count on.

  Since we lost Andre, I’ve had the household staff wrapped around my finger. Our new driver is basically my bestie. Which meant he was all too happy to drive Archie and me to Reggie’s house for a brief respite from the courtroom drama that had haunted us all summer long. Luckily, Daddy had a late-night “business” call (no doubt shady AF)—meaning that he was locked in his office at the Pembrooke. Even if we weren’t engaged in the domestic version of a cold war, he wouldn’t have noticed my departure.

  I suppose there are occasional upsides to having a complete Fascist for a father.

  The sun had already set by the time we pulled up to the Mantle abode, just another reminder that summer days were waning, and fast. Fall was just around the corner, and with it, the threat that school would start and regular life in Riverdale would resume, everything reverting to normal, as it does, every year. Only this time, all that might happen without Archie. I shivered, and not just because of the chill in the air.

  “Miss Veronica, we’re here. Unless there’s something else you require.”

  The driver’s gruff voice broke through the chaos in my head. I cleared my throat delicately, smoothing the sharp pleats of the skirt of my Kate Spade minidress. It was a vibrant purple print, more festive than I felt on the inside. That was the whole point. Fake it till you make it, a mantra that had proven helpful in trying times.

  Archie put a warm hand over mine. “Everything okay, Ronnie?” I could feel the calloused pads of his fingers where he’d worn them down practicing guitar. I knew those hands like they were part of my own body. The thought that I might lose Archie?

  It was unbearable. I had to fake it better. For Archie’s sake.

  I forced a smile. “Everything’s great!” My voice sounded too high in my ears. I blinked and waved a hand in the direction of the front door. “Looks like we’re fashionably late. Perfect.”

  The party was clearly in full swing, deep bass thrumming even all the way inside our car and a crush of bodies moving frenetically against the living room picture window. I could hear chatter outside, floating toward us from around the backyard. The garage door was open and a bunch of boys from the football team hovered inside, surrounded by a cluster of adoring River Vixens.