Thanksgiving was by far the most popular holiday in New Bedford.

No sooner had the Fall Festival's jack-o-lanterns been relegated to the compost piles did Pilgrim hat-wearing, larger-than-life turkey cut-outs replace them in the town square. Cranberries dominated every baked good and corn became an unavoidable side dish. With the original Plymouth colony less than one hundred miles away, it was little surprise that the town was ga-ga for the feast of gratitude that could be traced back to the Puritans.

Four centuries of tradition be damned, Sarah still couldn't get into the spirit.

"I don't know. I still think it's all kind of gross," she had replied when her aunt asked if she was as excited as she was about the annual Thanksgiving Day parade.

"Gross?" Jane had asked, dropping a tiny faux-gourd she'd been meticulously arranging in the cornucopia on the dining room table. "What's wrong with celebrating the three Fs: food, family and football?"

Sarah had scoffed. She loved her aunt dearly, but for a teacher, the woman could sometimes have a very naive world-view.

"There's nothing wrong with any of those," she had said, picking up the fallen decoration and placing it into the centerpiece next to a plastic ear of purple corn. "I just mean we shouldn't be doing it at the expense of ignoring the exploitation of Indigenous peoples who were actually responsible for the white colonizers' survival that first winter."

"Fair enough," Jane had said. "But you are still coming, right?"

Sarah had been prepared to say no—until she found out Caleb would be there. Since his restraining order against her still stood, a public event like this was the only way she could get near him. And there was one last thing Sarah needed to do before leaving New Bedford.

She wasn't even sure how she'd gotten the idea. But it was in the last few weeks when she had nothing better to do than to stew in her misery. After it had come to light that she had a history of acting weird and even blacking out, the DA declared her an unsympathetic witness and declined to press charges. Having been banned from the high school and now with no hope of getting justice for herself or the woman found behind the fireplace mantle, she was left with just one thing: revenge.

And revenge in this crappy-ass town apparently started with huddling, half-frozen in a folding chair on the corner of Main Street and Elm while waiting between hundreds of others for the parade to begin.

"Hot cocoa?" asked Jane, thrusting a Thermos in Sarah's face from the chair beside her.

But Sarah shook her head. "No, thanks," she said, holding up her own insulated container she usually used for water. "I'm good."

At that exact moment an emergency siren blipped on, the sound coming from the police car leading the parade. The signal made everyone lean into the street to watch the first of the two New Bedford patrol cars turn the corner—with lights ceremoniously flashing—as the festivities kicked off.

For the next half hour, everyone in town who wasn't on the route watching was in the street taking part in the procession. Music, costumed characters, and Chamber of Commerce supported businesses were interspersed between themed displays set up on flatbed trucks. The mayor rode in an open Cadillac like some fat-cat out of the Nixon era, waving to the cheering crowd while sitting next to a kid in a turkey costume. A troupe of Pilgrims and Indians marched after, twirling fake muskets and tomahawks to the beat of an accompanying drumline. People on bicycles dressed like ears of corn (sponsored by the local maize association per the preceding banner) were next, followed by the New Bedford High marching band.

Sarah's interest momentarily piqued as she scanned the musicians, easily spotting both Bennett and Venus. She almost waved, but both were too focused on playing their trumpets while stepping in formation to see her. Neither had talked to her in weeks, so she didn't even know why she'd expect any acknowledgement and she slumped back in her seat.

Next came the dancing gingerbread cookies that stumbled behind the band in a nod to the Christmas season that started as soon as all turkey dinners had been devoured. A firetruck draped in tinsel, a float shaped like a 17th century sailing ship, a group of equestrians, and the local chapter of the ROTC also followed.

Sarah was getting antsy. She couldn't feel her toes and her back ached, but she still didn't see what she'd come for until a group of pipes and drums passed by. Behind the musicians, New Bedford's pep squad kicked their legs and waved their pom-poms as they led another convertible down the street. The banner on the hood of the Mustang touted the Pilgrims' football team as the year's district champions, and perched on the top of the back seat was none other than the team's star quarterback.

The sight of Caleb in his letterman jacket, waving to the spectators with a stupid grin on his face made Sarah's tomach turn. Standing up and pretending to stretch, she began to unscrew the top of her bottle just as her gaze met Ever Moore's.

The girl who'd helped her get into the city's archives was yelling "let's go, Pilgrims!!" from among her fellow cheerleaders when she noticed Sarah. If looks could kill, Sarah would have dropped dead right there.

It shouldn't have surprised her because Ever and Caleb had been a thing before Sarah had even come to New Bedford. And rumor was that since the events of the Fall Festival, the two had once again gotten cozy. The fact that the girl could be with someone with even the shadow of accusations against him like Caleb had made Sarah angry. And now the flipping cheerleader was the one giving her the stink eye??

What happened to girl power? Weren't women supposed to stick together to fight the patriarchy or some shit? Where were all of the feminists to stand up in support of her? Where was her #MeToo moment? So much for believing all women.

"Fuck it," Sarah muttered under her breath as she removed the lid of the bottle and gently swirled its contents around. Inside, the dark red liquid sloshed against the sides.

In an idea world, she would have filled the container with blood. Only if it were just pig's blood, it would have made the strongest statement when tossed at Mr. All-American. Even the papers in Boston would have picked that up, running with headlines like "Star Player and New Bedford Senior Publicly Shamed for Alleged Rape."

But Sarah had no idea where to buy pig's blood. And asking around was going to arouse suspicion about her plans. So she went with the next best thing.

Her goal in taking Drama class may have originally been to get closer to Caleb, but in a burst of sweet irony, it was now going to help her bring him down. It was during one of those lessons on stage make-up that she learned that mixing regular corn syrup, water, cornstarch and food coloring in the right proportions would give a surprisingly realistic substitute for blood. And the best part was that not only was it non-toxic (a plus for reducing possible assault charges), but it was a real bitch to wash off.

With her heart pounding as the convertible gradually got closer and closer, Sarah wrapped her fingers tighter around the bottle. She'd only need to take a few steps forward and fling her arm to throw the sticky liquid right into Caleb's face before anyone even realized what was happening. It would only be another few seconds now . . ..

Taking a big breath to steady herself, Sarah took one more good look at her target. Barely just a few feet back now, Caleb was looking in the other direction. She'd need to call his name to get him to turn, but at least he'd get an even bigger shock. Ready to yell, Sarah's attention for some reason fell on the side of the car. There, on a smaller banner and like on every other commercially supported float or ride, were the words "New Bedford Thanksgiving Parade - Sponsored by Arcadia Financial Group, Boston MA."

Sarah hesitated. That name was familiar, but she didn't know why. Arcadia. Where had she heard that before? She frantically wracked her brain trying to recall when it hit her. She hadn't heard it. She'd seen it, on the eighty-year old financial paperwork she'd found in the archives. The paperwork documenting Arthur Tuffin's purchase of the Black house. The paperwork linking everything about Mabel's murder together.

By the time Sarah had come to the realization, the car carrying Caleb had rolled by. Lowering her arm, she placed the bottle's lid back on as she slowly slunk back into her chair. She'd missed her chance.

"Are you okay?" asked Jane, her shenanigans radar probably going off at full tilt. "We could go if you're too uncomfortable, but there's only like two more floats left until Santa."

Sarah shook her head. "No, I'm fine. But can I ask you something?"

"Sure," her aunt said in a tone that was somewhere between amenable and suspicious.

"So all of the sponsors for the parade have some type of local connection, right?" Sarah asked, easing into the question. "What's the deal with that Arcadia one all the way from Boston, then?"

Jane sighed with relief, indicating that she might have been expecting a more difficult query. "Oh, that? Louis Ceballos—uhm, Caleb's dad—is a vice president there. And actually, if I remember correctly, his own father may have been a partner, as well."

Sarah swallowed the lump in her throat. The final piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place.