7. Hayley
7
HAYLEY
T here’s something off about my family. It’s not just the little things anymore, like Mom avoiding questions or Sophie getting weirdly cagey. It’s everything. The way they disappear for long stretches, the whispers on phone calls they think I can’t hear when they visit, the secrets they’re not even trying to hide anymore.
I’ve always been good at noticing things. And now I can’t stop noticing. Maybe it’s because I hate it here. Maybe it’s because Mom refuses to let me come home, which isn’t even normal.
That’s why I’m here, alone in the library, scrolling through endless articles on my phone. Boarding school should be a gift when you’re trying to figure out why your family’s lies don’t add up. No one’s hovering over my shoulder. No one’s asking questions. But it’s not a gift. My mother is a liar. My sister is a liar. And if I can find out exactly what it is they’re lying about, I can use it to my advantage. It will be my ticket home.
And that’s where I need to be, because that’s where Elliot is. Sure, he has a new girlfriend now, but I’ve checked her out on Insta, and she’s hardly anything to worry about. Provided I can get back to Texas. Soon.
I search up recent murders in NYC, because I know this will be what Mom is looking at. Her fascination with true crime is odd to me; it should be odd to anyone. I mean, what kind of person wants to read about murder all the time? I know being a flight attendant is really boring, and she has to deal with assholes all the time, but still. It’s not normal. That’s what Dad used to say, anyway.
I pause on an article at the top of the search results. Gruesome Murder of Trafficking Suspect Vincent Marano. My thumb hovers over the screen as I skim through it. Murdered last night. Few details. Police say the public should be on alert, but feel it’s an isolated incident.
I beg to differ. In fact, I know that name.
Not from TV or the news, but from Mom’s computer. I wasn’t supposed to be snooping around on her laptop, but I did once, years ago, when I was looking to see if she’d ordered my birthday present. I thought maybe she was hiding something nice—a new phone or the trip to Disney I’d been asking for. Instead, I found files. Names. Faces.
Vincent Marano was one of them.
I feel slightly dizzy as I scroll back to the photo accompanying the article. It’s the same guy I saw in Mom’s files. I’m certain of it.
The librarian clears her throat, snapping me out of my thoughts. I glance up. Mrs. Fairchild is glaring at me from behind her desk, her hand on the light switch.
“Five minutes until closing, Hayley.”
I nod, slipping my phone into my pocket. “Got it.”
The article stays with me as I walk back to my dorm. It doesn’t make sense. None of this does. I’ve tried telling myself that Mom and Sophie are just…unusual. Different. But something el se is going on.
It can’t be a coincidence.
Later, in the quiet of my room, I pull up the article again. My roommate is out—probably sneaking vodka into her Coke at one of those lame study parties I’ve stopped pretending to care about. That’s fine. I need the space.
The words on the screen blur as my mind races. Mom’s always been secretive, but this feels bigger. It feels dangerous.
I scroll back to the top of the article, where the photo of Vincent Marano stares back at me, hollow and lifeless.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
A message.
Unknown number. Just six words: Are you looking for the truth?
My breath catches, and I sit up straighter, staring at the screen. I don’t move, don’t blink, just wait for something else.
A second message appears. I can help you find it.
I glance around the room like whoever sent it might somehow be watching me. My fingers hover over my phone. I shouldn’t respond. I know that. But curiosity—my biggest flaw—wins out.
Who is this?
Three dots. They disappear. Then reappear.
Someone who knows your family’s secrets.
The blood drains from my face. My hands tremble as I lock the phone and toss it onto the nightstand, like creating distance will erase the message.
I try to focus on the noises outside—the distant sound of laughter in the hall, the faint creak of floorboards overhead. Normal things. Safe things.
But I’m not imagining it. Someone knows something. Someone who’s watching, waiting.
And they want me to know, too.