A Twist of Fate SERIES (Pentatonix)

(38) Silent Night

( SCOTT )

The trial doesn't go like we had assumed it would. Taking the stand to testify against Jackson Walters and Derek Ritz was, by far, one of the most anxiety-producing things I've ever had to do. Though the judge reiterated about fifteen times in a span of two minutes that "what is said in this courthouse stays in this courthouse only," I couldn't stop the worry of the jurors breaking the oath creeping in as Mitch's actual cause of death was revealed.

None of them even really knew who we were anyways, but it was still nerve-wracking. Who knew how many of them would go home tonight, Google our names, and learn every little thing about us? Who knew how many of them would pretend to be a fan on some Instagram account and contribute to the masses of people who think Mitch committed suicide?

I couldn't stop my bouncing knee, or the bloody fingernails, or the slight quiver in my voice while I talked, while I peeled off my sweat-covered shirt to reveal the scar from the bullet wound, while I talked about how Walters' and Ritz's doings let to Mitch's suicide. Every word that came out of my mouth tasted like poison, and I had to fight to keep the secrets hidden—like they should stay. Because they're the kind of secrets that not even Kirstie knows, or would suspect.

After over a week, we eventually won the case, and Walters and Ritz were imprisoned for attempted murder. As we exited the courthouse, cameras flashing and people yelling questions at us, I should have been slightly happy. I should have felt like justice was served. But I didn't—I couldn't.

Because Ritz and Walters were only half of what forced Mitch to leave. The person—or people—who got Mike and Nel are still unknown, are likely still out there somewhere. We don't know anything about them other than that they have some sort of thing against Mitch, just like Ritz and Walters did.

Now, Kirstie and I sit side-by-side near our gate at Nashville International, snacking on sugary foods even though it's two-thirty in the morning. As much as we've always despised early morning flights, staying away from the media, the fans, and essentially the outside world has been our number one priority lately. The talk about us had died down a little, but the trial hyped us back up again. And Jonathan figured a two-forty-five a.m. flight from Nashville to Dallas International would be the best way to hide.

But I don't think he was really thinking about the fact that a) these two airports are never quiet, and b) somebody actually has to come and pick us up. And quickly. Because, when we're back in Texas, it's like the curtain has fallen; it's our hometown, some people even know where our parents live. In L.A., if anybody knows where we live, they don't say anything about it. And there's usually so many people and so much traffic that it's a lot easier to hide if/when you step outside than you would think.

I've never been a fan of disguises. Or of hiding. If a fan noticed me and came up to me one day I was out walking around, I'd gladly smile, greet them, sign something, take a picture with them. The whole nine yards.

Well, a year ago, at least.

Now, it's like Mitch's paranoia is slowly becoming mine, creeping into my head and threatening to swallow me whole—and I'm mortally terrified that somebody's going to pull another gun on me; that people will notice me and start asking me questions about Mitch, about the future of Pentatonix; that I'll accidentally let something slip out that I'm not supposed to, just because I'm so overcome with anxiety and stressed-out by whoever these people are.

But, for now, Kirstie and I just sit in front of the windows with our carry-on bags beside us, playing on our phones to try and blend in with the rest of the exhausted passengers sitting around us. I wonder why they've decided to take a two-forty-five a.m. flight to Texas. Maybe it's for the same reason. The rest of the crew is heading back home, too—either on a plane to LAX or in a Suburban to Owensboro.