So we all know the killers are possessed, but I have a theory that they still know what they’re doing. Hear me out, when the Goodes posses someone, you can’t just take over their body easily. So what happens is, they’re possessed but the actual them is still there. They fight against an evil force and no matter how hard they try to fight back, no matter how hard they try to stop themselves from hurting the people they love, no matter how much they scream internally, they can never win.
They only ever “win” when they can die. Like, Ryan was shot by Nick Goode, Tommy was stabbed then had his head chopped off, Ruby ended herself, Pastor Cyrus Miller was killed by Solomon Goode. It’s apart of the process. If a part of them is still there, it makes controlling them harder. When their body is killed, it kills their actual spirits which leaves them an empty shell and therefore, leaves nothing there to fight back.
I just think the idea of them seeing what they’re doing, but having some invisible evil force hold them down and not let them control their own body is depressing.
⎔ MASTERLIST ⎔ REQUESTS ⎔ FEAR STREET ⎔ UNDER YOUR SKIN ⎔
Word Count: 3.6k
Warnings: dominance, teasing, control, mentions of female stimulation, language, mentions of abuse, violence, angst
A/N: sorry its been a while coming, I've been busy. Think i found all the warnings, don't hesitate to tell me.
← Chapter 1 ▫️ Chapter 3 →
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Last night was quiet, no arguing to disturb your sleep. You wish that meant you slept well. Instead sleep eludes you while thoughts of the encounter with Sheriff Goode invade your thoughts and when you wake in themorning you were sure it must have been a dream. The cautionary warning ticket reminds you otherwise as you stare at it on the coffee table sipping your morning tea. Your fingers tap the side of the mug, reflecting the anxiety swimming around your body. It is currently seven thirty in the morning, what time does the station open? Does it even shut? Were you expected dead on time at opening hour or were his words an empty threat. “If you fail to turn up at the station tomorrow…” You understood his meaning last night and believe him to be a man of his word, among other things. The tea mug slams down on the coffee table, sloshing hot liquid everywhere. You make a mental note to clean it up later as you rush to the bedroom to quickly change; pulling on a pair of old jeans, white t-shirt and a beige cardigan only managing to get a few buttons done before slipping some shoes on and heading for the front door. You take the stairs two at a time, being careful not to slip, but something grabs your attention halfway down. The door to the downstairs apartment is open. You hadn’t noticed in your frustration last night but the police must have kicked it down. The door is buckled near the keyhole, splitters coming out in every direction. Pity fills your chest as you think of the poor woman who lives there, how she’s been treated and now not even a secure place to live. The feeling is soon replaced when you remember she got you into this predicament with the Sheriff anyway.
With a renewed sense of urgency you exit the complex and start down the street at a half running half walking, somewhere in between, pace. It takes less than twenty minutes to get there on foot but you’re filled with dread as a police cruiser passes you by, only five minutes away from the station. You don’t dare look to see who is in the car, you already know. Shit. How bad can he possibly make your life? He’s only one man and there must be some higher official so he doesn’t abuse his power… or maybe not. You lose motivation and your pace slows, arriving at the station for eight fifteen. Begrudgingly you pull the heavy door open and walk into what feels like your doom. Hoping to be greeted by some annoyingly energetic young receptionist, you couldn’t be more wrong. He waits, propped against the welcome desk, one hand at his side while the other leans on the waist height counter. You wish he was wearing the usual smug grin, but instead he watches you with a cool expression, not portraying much emotion. He’s wearing his official business façade. What did you expect? Of course he would be, he’s at work. He doesn’t say anything before glancing at the clock on the wall above you playing it calm and collected. Finally you give in, speaking first: “Should we proceed?” you prompt eager for his attention to be elsewhere. Without speaking he lifts his free hand to point in the direction of an interview room, not needing words to show his authoritative energy which sparks nerves in you. You stand at a stalemate for a few seconds, neither one of you moving first. He shows no signs of budging, so you reluctantly start walking down the brightly lit corridor noticing how bland the walls are in an intimidating way with nothing to stimulate or distract the mind. You stop at the first door not sure where it was you’re supposed to be going, he doesn’t correct you as you look back at him on the approach. He stops by you and leans in closer than necessary to open the door, keys jangling as he slips them into the lock. You turn your face away from him to show your contempt as the door swings open revealing a dark cold room with no windows. He waits for you to step inside before switching on the lights to reveal an empty room save for a table and two chairs. He shoves past you as the door behind you clicks shut. You realise he’s treating you like every other criminal that’s been here. Well, not every criminal, you can’t imagine he pulls a chair out for just anyone. It’s an act, all of it. One that he knows works. He doesn’t wait for you to take the seat before sitting himself down opposite, staring at your vacant chair. Let’s get this over with. And with that thought you sit yourself down, carefully, keeping yourself on guard. You scan the room, eye flickering to the CCTV in the corner. Other than that, there’s no tape recorder or paper. Nothing. He pulls his chair closer to the table, legs manspreading to assert dominance and hands on the table all the while his cold blue eyes stare into yours. You stay where you are, not wanting to get closer than needed and cross your legs. Your arms are crossed over your chest, your nails digging into your palms to regain some focus. The door to the room swings open as another officer walks in carrying a brown manila folder. You squirm in your seat not liking the idea of being trapped with two males but to your relief the newcomer only hands the file over to the Sheriff before leaving the two of you alone again. You lean forward slightly to see what the file was as the Sheriff flips it open revealing a mugshot of your neighbour. He pulls a blank document out and starts filling in the sections.
“Name?” He bluntly asks. You don’t reply quick enough so he reiterates it “Name?” He glances up at you, eyebrows raised “Name and Date of birth?” You snap into action giving them. “Do you have any proof of identification if we wish to check up on what you provide here today?”
You nod, following it by giving your answer “Yes.” His eyes return to the page in front of him scanning for the next part relevant to you.
“Do you know this man?” He asks, pushing the mugshot towards me. You nod which leads him to ask “Do you recognise this man to be Mr Thomas Brown?” Your voice catches in your throat as you attempt to answer.
“No, I mean, I don’t know his name?” You clarify
“I thought you knew him?” He's trying to trip you up, making you question what you were saying.
“I know of him, only as the man that lives downstairs.” His eyes turn away from you.
“Do you know the wife?”
“Only in the same way.”
“Mrs Brown says you could testify, have you-” you rudely jump the gun and cut him off, knowing full well what goes on in the apartment below yours. Having been in a similar situation yourself, you’re quick to defend her.
“Yes. I can hear it all night long, most nights. He’s a brute.” He nods his head in understanding. Maybe he’s not so bad after all if he’s willing to help. “Are you going to help her?” you blurt out, catching him off guard. He leans back in his chair and for a moment his guise slips, allowing you a glimpse of the compassionate, albeit tired, devoted Sheriff.
“I’m going to try.” Just like that his hard exterior goes back up. He continues to press you for answers, going round and round in circles until you have enough.
“We’re going in circles.”
“Why are you so interested in your neighbours?” And there it was, the question you’d been dreading. It floods your brain with horrific memories rendering you unable to speak. He studies you, feeling sorry as he hits the nail on the head yet also accomplished in working you out. “Perhaps you relate a little too much to Mrs Brown… was it a boyfriend?” he probes. Your eyes wander up from their position staring at the table to meet him. Hatred and rage burns in you, lacing your stare with heavy tension. You want to scream at him but where would that get you other than giving him satisfaction? You have, undeniably, a good poker face, but years of reading people gives him the upper hand. It’s the small flickers in the eyes and the change in pupils. You were hiding something from him. “Or was it your daddy?” You stand up, the chair pushing away from you. Jackpot: daddy issues he makes a mental note.
There’s no need for words, your fast escape from the room says it all. You don’t look back as he follows you out to the corridor, watching you leave. Morning air hits your face sharp and tangy as you suck in rapid breaths in an attempt to stay calm. You leave the station grounds, waiting until you’ve rounded the corner before dropping to a crouch and grabbing your knees as waves of nausea hit. You fight against the memories of the past that flood your brain. Your right hand flys to your left arm, pinching the skin with your nails until bright red crescent moon shapes appear on the smooth skin. Tears well in your eyes at the pain of the marks but it pushes all other thoughts away. You forbid yourself to ever think of this morning ever again. Reluctantly your feet start to move, carrying you back home. You have a few hours until your shift starts, enough time to eat and get ready. You spend the rest of the morning lounging around the apartment, drinking coffee and eating toast before going for a shower. You rush getting dressed as the shift nears. The shift itself goes by incredibly slowly, the entire time you’re dreading a certain someone showing up to mess with you. But he doesn’t. After six hours you’re thankful to be finishing, tiredness has set in, your limbs feel heavy and your eyes sting. The rest of your evening goes quickly following the same boring routine as always. Dinner, TV or book and then bed. Sleep came to you quickly once you’d crawled beneath the duvet, your body sinking into the soft mattress and immediately relaxing. The world fades away.
***
Thud.
It’s the middle of the night, silence fills the air, but something has woken you. Or did you dream of it? No, there had definitely been a sound. You lay in the dark, straining your ears to catch it again.
Thud.
There’s no missing it the second time as someone pounds on your door. You reach out of the cozy duvet where it’s warm and safe, to turn the bedside lamp on and illuminate the room. You grab the cardigan you had discarded on the end of the bed and pull it on, covering yourself before setting two feet on the ground. Creeping across the carpet you head for the front door, which is eerily silent. Now would be the perfect opportunity for a spy hole, you curse the decision not to have one. Instead you opt for calling out, asking who was knocking at this hour.
“Open up” the familiar voice rings out, “It’s Sheriff Goode.” You pull away from the door, hesitant as to why the Sheriff is at your apartment late at night. What could possibly have happened. Nerves eat at you as you realise you’d walked out of the interview. Did that also count as perverting justice? Would this be another ticket, or worse? Your hand reaches reluctantly for the lock, sliding it back on itself. The door opens to reveal him, standing with his arms against the frame, hair slightly dishevelled from long hours in the office, eyes slightly sunken. Something about his appearance makes your nerves disappear to be replaced with butterflies. If it was official business he would be dressed to impress.. “Can I come in?” You hear the softness in his voice, the gentle plead to his tone. This is the side of Sheriff Goode that not many people see, one that makes you forget the ass he can be. It’s seductive. You don’t think about it before opening the door wider to grant him access to the apartment. He takes a few long strides into the room as you shut the door, closing the two of you off from the world. You stare at him expectantly, looking for an answer as to why he is here but he offers no explanation.
Finally you speak, “Is there something I can help you with?” Your voice is husky from sleep, he notes, unable to deny how sexy it makes you sound.
He clears his throat trying to piece together thoughts but he can’t take his eyes off you and can’t concentrate properly. “I have some questions” is all he manages, leaving you more perplexed, the nerves coming back. Perhaps it is official business after all.
“I’ll have to go back to the station tomorrow-“ you start to joke before he cuts you off.
“Why are you like this?” He asks, a playful quality to his voice, which has gone down an octave into a low sensual tone.
“I don’t understand…” you purse your lips in thought as more confusion hits you. He takes a step towards you, as you suddenly become aware of the tension in the room. He’s radiating authority as he comes closer still, making you nervous but also excited. Something in you wants to test the waters more but you don’t get the chance.
“Why are you so…” he grasps for words, his eyes travelling your body taking in your short pyjama shorts and the camisole exposed beneath your cardigan. The top of your breasts peak out teasing him as they start to move under the deep breaths you draw in proximity to him. He can’t deny loving the way he feels around you, powerful and dominant and the way you feel around him. Finally he finds the words “why are you so damn irresistible?” Your mouth drops in shock not expecting this turn of events. His body is so close to yours it takes every ounce of concentration left to focus.
“I don’t-“
“Don’t play coy with me.” He flashes that boyish smile “I know you feel it too.” He backs you into the door leaving you no escape route, his hands planting firmly beside your head. All you see and feel is him in your space, in your senses. There’s no room for anything else. He leans in to whisper against your ear “How am I supposed to focus all day long when you haunt my thoughts?” His breath is hot against your cheek and sends tingles down your spine. You can smell his cologne, and under it his scent. It drives you wild as heat ignites in your core. His mouth moves closer until it hovers inches from your neck, his right hand sliding down the door to grab your hip before his lips caress the soft skin by your jaw. You move your head to give him better access as he plants a trail of kisses down to your collarbone. The other arm finds itself following the pursuit of the right and works its way around your waist pulling your body closer until it’s pressed tightly against his. A gasp falls from your mouth as he gently bites the dip in your neck, before sucking on this same spot. Your hands wrap around his neck and lock into his hair with a vice like grip earning a moan from him. You smile to yourself as you discover a weakness of his but it soon disappears to be replaced with a whimpering moan of your own as his hand travels from your hips to your ass and pulls you onto your tiptoes. His head moves away from your neck as he takes a moment to admire his handy work, tomorrow morning would reveal a nasty love bite. A claim for all the world to see. You look up at him with heavy eyes, arms still around his neck. He knows what you want but needs to hear you say it. He wants to hear you beg for what you’ve denied, the feelings suppressed. He’s known since the minute you laid eyes on one another, despite your best efforts to dislike him. The stronger your contempt grew for him, the more his desire matched it.
Your cheeks flush as he stares down at you, which riles him up further. You notice his eyes move from yours down to your plump lips, as he thinks about what he’d like your mouth to do, before travelling down to your chest. Something inside him snaps as he crashes his lips to yours, hungry for your touch. The movement slams you back into the door earning yet another moan from you which was music to his ears. He slid his tongue past your lips as your hands moved to his chest trying to quickly undo the buttons of his blue shirt. There was urgency in your actions, desire lacing every move. Nick decides he isn’t going to let you have what you want, not just yet. You need to know who’s in charge around here. His hands come down to enclose yours on his chest, stopping them a few buttons down from his neck. The kiss breaks as you look at him, aware of the change of atmosphere. He locks his fingers around your wrists bringing them above your head which isn’t hard being so short, he moves his positioning so he can secure them with one of his hands, keeping the other free to do as he pleases. It comes down to your right breast, squeezing it through the fabric of your top. Immediately your nipples harden at the sensation, delighting him endlessly. His fingers trail across the skin at the neckline of the top, threatening to go below. Your eyes shoot him a pleading look which is met by a devilishly smug smile.
“Say it” He whispers, eyes boring into yours as if in doing so he could read your mind, “Tell me…” he trails off as his hands slips below your camisole and he cups your breast. He grows hard at the feel of you, his growing erection pressing against your hip. You try to squirm free of his grip to get a hand loose but it’s impossible. Your head rolls back as his fingers pinch your nipple, rolling it between his thumb and index. Your breath hitches as you try to subdue a moan. Nick isn’t having any of it, he wants you exposed, not just your body, but your feelings too. He wants to know he’s been right all along.
“Nick” you whine as you lift yourself away from the door and press yourself to him, lips inches from his. He senses you’re close to admitting total surrender as he glides his hand down your body and slips it inside your shorts. Your eyes flutter shut as his fingers start to work circles around your clit, your resolve melting away into nothing. It’s all over too soon. His hand retreats, earning a glare from you while the other drops your arms. He pulls away from you, putting space between the two of you. He eyes you in the state you’re left, breathless and flushed with a burning need for him. Your eyes drop to the floor in embarrassment at the realisation of what just happened and at how quickly you became putty in his hands, but more so of how much you wanted it. You find the courage to meet his gaze, how can he remain so cool and collected? Truth is, he has one hell of a poker face. Underneath he’s just as much a mess as you are. The heat between your thighs burns with a renewed sense of directive as you take in his appearance. His hair which was already disheveled, is now sticking out in multiple directions from where your hands ran through it. His eyes are dilated and watch you intently as you ponder your next move.
“Nick…” He hears the surrender in your voice at the loss of not knowing what to do. You don’t know the next move. You’re a good girl, you don’t play like this and don’t know how to respond but your eyes speak a million words. They draw him back in and he takes your hands again, holding them against your body as he watches your face for a sign. “Nick” you whine, “Please.” There it is. He lets your hands go and they automatically fly up to his neck pulling him down into a passionate kiss. You pull away, forehead against his as your fingers lace through his hair. “I need you” you pant. It’s enough for now, but he makes a mental note to teach you how to properly beg later. “Please Nick, fuck me.” He didn’t think he could get harder, but hearing you say that made him stiffen more. You lean in and kiss him before biting down on his lower lip, fueling not only your desire but the monster within too.
You sit bolt upright in bed, your eyes flying open. The room is dark as your eyes scan around searching, moonlight leaking in through the window. You’re alone. Your body collapses back onto the mattress, duvet tangled around your lower half. Your chest heaves under your heavy breathing as you realise it was all a dream.
“What the fuck” you announce to the empty room, trying to wrap your mind around why you were dreaming of the sleazy, annoying, ass that is Sheriff Goode. Despite that, you can’t ignore the way you feel, your nipples are hard and your legs are squeezed together in an attempt to relieve the tension that’s built in between your thighs.
Your body was betraying you, worst of all, it was betraying you to him.
Writing a history-based fic, even if it’s an alternate history, means falling down the endless rabbit hole that is an insane shitton of research. I’m not even a History major! (Anymore.)
For example: good goddamn, the 1850-1860s had some gorgeous dresses. I’m drowning in fashion plates and crinolines over here, and I want to wear some of those frocks! Impractical as hell, yes, but beautiful all the same.
And then I came across this old school photo of a woman who looked enough like Lacy Camp, AKA the actress who plays Sam’s Mom/Goody Miller in Fear Street, to possibly be her great-great-grandmother.
So if you ever wanted to know what pre-Civil War Rachel Rikken looked like circa 1960 before the Union County Slaughter, here y’all go.
(Damnit, I want those sleeves! Don’t tell me they’re impractical! 😩😒😕)
Request: Anon requested ‘Nick having a crush on a Shadyside single mom, who has a child who’s a bit of a troublemaker and Nick decides to get the daughter to like him as a somewhat father figure but it backfires completely because she could see that he doesn’t give a shit about her and is only using her to get with her mom, who doesn’t like Nick.’
Word Count: 1.38k
Warnings: Language, violence, angst, no smut, purely non romantic connection between Nick and Reader
A/N: That picture though, I can imagine him saying that to the reader when they're in the cell. If you like Nick Goode, You can check out my series Under Your Skin
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“I thought you said you’d come to me next time,” Nick’s hand shoots to his face to rub his eyes, exasperated with the conversation that’s going in circles. You shoot him a look through the bars of the holding cell in the station. “You were doing better! I thought we were working through it-” You cut him off laughing as you turn your back to him. You hear him sigh and come closer, leaning an arm against the bars. You can’t turn to look back at him, furious over what had come to light. You feel so stupid, of course he wasn’t your friend, you’re a child and he’s... well, he’s the Sheriff of Union. In all honesty, you were beyond troublemaking now, but you felt joy making his life difficult again. God knows you’ll do whatever you can to keep him away from her.
“You betrayed me” you spat, the venomous remark sinking in deep. There’s little in life that Nick cares about, but that hurts. You turn to meet his gaze, your eyes welling with tears in your fury. “You never cared about me-”
“Of course I do. I don’t want to see you in here” He hits the bars with his hands before starting to pace.
“It’s not your job to care.” You cross your arms and just stand there staring into his soul. Your blessing is important to him and this issue causes problems for his plan. “I get it, your job first. Exactly why it wouldn’t work.”
“You don’t know that-”
“She hates you.” There it was, the blow you’d been keeping back because hurting him wasn’t an option before. “When she finds out you’ve been doing all this to get close… to… Well…” You fumble for words, not exactly sure where you’re going with this.
“I don’t want to see her hurt by this, but I’ll have to call her.” He walks off to do just that, leaving you alone to regret what you’d done. Maybe you shouldn’t have set that Sunnyvaler’s gazebo on fire after all. It wasn’t long before you could hear your mother’s voice in the building, she sounds weary and tired.
“What did she do now?” Hopelessness evident in her voice as it wavers while talking.
“She set fire to some old man's gazebo.” Officer Kapinsky’s voice fills her in. Relief floods over you at the thought that Sheriff Goode isn’t with her.
“A Sunnyvaler’s Gazebo” Nick’s voice adds to the conversation which puts a stop to your relief. “I’ll go get her.” With that you hear him come back down the corridor towards the cell. His footfalls stop, alerting you to his presence. “Time to go.” You look up at him as he puts the key in the lock and the click of the mechanism sounds loudly in the quiet chamber and echoes. The barred door swings open but he stops to catch it before you could get out. “Promise me you’re not going to do this again.” He looks at you patronisingly, “Do better with your life.” Anger rises in your chest as you shove against the door which gives way, barging past him.
“You’re not my dad, don’t act like you are!” You shout at him as you storm out, running away from the station and the people inside. Only when a safe distance away, do you let the tears fall. Despite what you’d said, Nick had been there for you when others hadn’t and when you couldn’t go to your mother. He had, despite all the resentment you harbour now, been like a father these past weeks. Those illusions shattered a few hours ago when you’d gone to speak to him at the station and overheard Kapinksy and him talking.
Your feet continue to take you faster and further away until you come to the woods that separate Shadyside from Sunnyvale. You only stop once inside the comfort of the dark forest. Your breath comes in sharp as you suck in the damp air, dark setting in quick around you. With haste you head through the trees as a shortcut home. The sun sets and the woods become darker so you start running again, your chest burning from the prolonged pace. At some point considerably later you emerge from the trees in the usual spot on the Shadyside border and you contemplate going back into the treeline, but it’s too late he’s spotted you. On the road ahead Nick gets out of the police cruiser and leans against the car as he waits. His radio makes noise on his shoulder before he speaks into it. “It’s okay, let her mother know I’ve got her.”
“What do you want?” You call out not getting too close. You watch Nick raise his hands in surrender, a show of peace. Ignoring him, you head for the road further down earning an exasperated sigh from him.
“Get in the car.” He yells over the distance, his tone changing to one unamused and frustrated. To his annoyance you continue on your path of avoiding him. The road is in your sights, just a few meters away but he’s started towards you, his pace that of a man on a mission. You know it’s probably not a good idea to mess with him but the douchebag deserves it. Would he go as far as to shoot you? He wouldn’t seem so perfect if he did. You force your feet to run, the blisters that formed from today protesting in pain. You're across the road and into a field, heading towards a rundown, graffitied play park. The escape is short lived as an iron grip locks around your arm and yanks you backwards. He twists you around so your face is level with his. “Get in the damn car.” He snarls, obviously tired of the scenario. You stomp your foot down on his, to which he swears but his grip on you does not falter. “I fucking hate kids, why do I bother?” He chuckles as you thrash and start to scream.
“Because you want to fuck my Mother!” You yell as you both stop fighting. He stares back at you, working out his next move. “I’m not stupid!” You fill the silence “You’ll use me to fuck her and then run off like every man, I heard you and Kapinsky-” He cuts you off as he grabs you and throws you over his shoulder. You scream and hit his back, trying anything to get a reaction from him, but he’s silent and dead to the world as he carries you back to the car and opens the back door before dropping you sharply to your feet.
“Get in.” His cool gaze bores into you as you stand motionless. His left arm shoots to the side of the car, stopping you from escaping, trapping you between the vehicle and his body. “Get in the car.”
“It won’t work-” He shoves you inside the back seat, trying not to listen to your words as he slams the car door closed. Despite that, he can still hear your shouts “I’ll tell her everything.” Nick lets out a long drawn out breath as he heads to the drivers side, the same thought going over and over in his mind. All he has to do is offer up your name and the problem will go away. No more pretending to like you. It would fit your story, already being troubled and would leave your mother wide open to be comforted in the face of tragedy and grief. He slides into the driver seat and starts the car. After sometime, you wonder where he was taking you as you miss the exit home and then the exit to the station. “Where are you taking me?”
He bites back the guilt building inside him as he hears the panic in your voice, why did you have to be such a problem? His knuckles turn white around the steering wheel and then he looks into the mirror and straight into your eyes for the briefest of seconds. An internal battle rages inside him, one which you can sense in the quietness of the vehicle making your hand reach for the door handle, but it’s locked.
I ought to be working but my brain keeps meandering off on non-work related tangents ad this is probably too long for an Ask so bugger all here we go:
Can the Firstborn Goode, if necessary, sacrifice and condemn another male Goode (of both the name and blood) to the Wall?
Or will Solomon’s original contract with the Powers That Be (that had his male-line descendants survive and thrive) automatically protect the cousin in question?
Because it’s notable that after Solomon’s sons, Ahab’s generation, all of the firstborn heirs were either only children or otherwise the only son.
(Bc yes, girls are useful to bind other families to the Goodes in marriage. Girls are cherished, spoiled, loved. Girls are not the threat a boy would pose, uncles and male cousins looking on with envy. As for a son, he who would supplant his father, what’s to say ambition might trump filial piety?)
(Goodes trust no one save themselves. And they have always underestimated girls.)
Seth Goode in 1860s Civil War America is ignorant of the Pact - up until he isn’t.
The Head of the Family, Gabriel, decides this cannot stand.
Can’t Name Seth (he too is a Goode)?
That’s fine. He’ll Name Seth’s landlady and co-conspirator instead.
(It helps Rachel Rikken is all and everything Gabriel hates anyway.)
