Chapter 9 #2
“Shit, sorry,” I hiss, backing up as if she’s got a gun aimed at my head.
She nods, but there’s a stern set to her mouth as she watches me retreat.
I hurry out the side door leading to the library gardens, hitting dial as soon as my foot hits the step outside.
Shouldn’t have bothered—it goes straight to voicemail.
“Fuck.”
I try again.
Still voicemail.
Maybe his phone is dead, too.
I pull up my messages.
@lee.haven
Where are you?
The message delivers but doesn’t go to read.
I wait.
Nothing.
My hands shake as I type.
@lee.haven
Sorry about last night. Can we talk? I’m at the library.
I send. I wait. Still nothing.
My thumb hovers over Kai’s name, ready to try calling again, when I notice the VibeFeed notifications again. Kai usually uses the messaging app to text me, but maybe in his drunken state, he sent VibeFeed DMs instead. They could clue me in to where the hell he is.
But when I open VibeFeed, all I see are three new messages from Bastian.
I should not open my DMs. I should just delete the app and pretend last night never happened.
I open my DMs instead.
@inherentvice
There’s my sweet girl.
My stomach flips.
@inherentvice
You don’t have to tell me who hurt you.
I already know.
He knows, because Bastian always knows.
I read it twice, three times, four. But the sick, shameful thing coiling in my gut isn’t fear.
No one’s ever made my pain their problem to fix
Not the teachers who saw my dirty clothes and skinny legs. Not my neighbors in the trailer park.
@inherentvice
All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream
Sleep well, sweet girl.
A half laugh, half sob slips out. Bastian sent me a lullaby…right after threatening my boyfriend without saying a single word.
I lock my phone and shove it in my pocket before I do something stupid.
Like replying.
Like thanking him.
…Like telling him how wet it makes me that he’d hurt someone for me, despite how vicious and wrong and fucked up it is.
Fuck, what’s wrong with me? I throw my head back and stare at the slowly churning sky.
It’s all in my head. That poem was Bastian’s way of comforting me. He’s not going to punish my boyfriend. Maybe he’ll pull Kai aside the next time he sees him, or send him some nasty DMs, but all he said was ‘I know.’
That’s not a threat.
So why can’t I shake the feeling that Kai’s in danger?
I try Kai’s phone again, but it goes to voicemail again.
It’s cold out, but not unbearable, especially with my cup of coffee to warm me up. The kind of crisp that wakes you up, makes everything sharp and clear.
There’s only a handful of people out here. Some students on a picnic blanket with textbooks spread out. Some guy doing tai chi or yoga near the footpath leading to a different area of the gardens.
And three girls from the GAZ sorority, only one of whom I recognize…and too late.
Abigail.
She’s sitting on a bench with her sisters, all of them in matching Agony Hollow hoodies and leggings and beanies, looking like an ad for the college’s fall catalogue.
She sees me and waves.
Mockingly.
I make a point of turning away, heading for a bench on the opposite side of the garden, closer to the woods.
When I glance back, Abigail is glaring at me.
Yeah, fuck you, bitch.
I sit down and try to ignore her as I sip my coffee. My phone is in my other hand, no new messages appearing, despite how many times I refresh.
Where the fuck are you, Kai?
Midterms start Monday.
The thought surfaces unbidden and most unwelcome. I should be working on my essay. Should be cramming Piaget and Freud and whatever other dead white guys Bastian deems essential to understanding the human psyche.
But I can’t focus. Can’t think past Kai and his silence and the fight and the message I sent—
My stomach drops.
Fuck.
I still haven’t heard from the dean. Which means…I’ll have to go back to Bastian’s class.
Because let’s be honest—what are the chances Bastian agrees to let me off the hook? That would mean he’s a reasonable person and not a predator who gives me a secret phone and funds most of my scholarship and makes me feel things I shouldn’t feel.
I have to keep my grades up. Have to pass his class.
Because if I don’t, I lose my funding, and if I lose my funding, I’m done. Back to being a trailer trash waitress with nothing more to look forward to than tailgate parties and bedbugs.
But with Melissa MIA, I can’t even get notes, so I’ll have to actually show up and sit in his classroom. Meet his eyes across the lecture hall. Pretend I didn’t message him last night like a desperate idiot.
…I know…
My hands are shaking.
I take another sip of coffee, but it’s lukewarm and turning bitter.
Where the fuck is Melissa, anyway?
It’s been five days since anyone’s seen her, according to Abigail.
That’s not ‘went home for a mental health break’ territory. That’s ‘something is seriously wrong’ territory. That’s missing person territory.
And no one seems to care except me.
I look up, scanning the garden.
Abigail and her identical friends are still on their bench, laughing at something on someone’s phone. They look so fucking carefree. So unbothered.
Maybe they’ve heard something by now. For all I know, my friend could have been in an accident, and she’s lying in a hospital bed right now.
I should ask.
The thought makes my skin crawl because talking to Abigail ranks somewhere between ‘root canal’ and ‘standing on a Lego’ on my list of things I want to do. But if anyone would have an update, it’s them. They’re sorority sisters after all. That’s supposed to mean something, right?
I set down my coffee cup and stand, brushing off my leggings before heading their way.
Abigail sees me coming, her eyebrows rising as she says something to the girls next to her. They all turn to look at me and start laughing behind their hands.
Oh. How fucking fantastic.
I’m halfway across the garden, trying to figure out how to phrase ‘have you seen Melissa?’ without sounding like a bitch, when movement at the tree line stops me cold.
I squint into the shadows between the close-knit trunks. The thick gray clouds leave little room for sunlight to pass through, so those shadows are inky black.
But I swear I can see something.
…Someone.
They’re heading to the garden, moving erratically, like they’re drunk.
Like she’s drunk.
The girl stumbles past the last tree, fully visible now, but even then I take a second to recognize her.
Because it’s not just any girl.
It’s Melissa.
What’s left of her, anyway.