Chapter 16
The First Body Always Hits the Hardest
Violet
The news hits me like a slap, the name Alessandra Moore blaring across every screen and social feed I own. Glossy photos. Screaming headlines. None of it feels real. People like her don’t just die. They burn too brightly for that.
But there it is. Dead at twenty-three. Overdose. A mysterious new designer drug.
I stare at the words longer than I should, my chest tight, my pulse slow and wrong. This can’t be Zephyra. It isn’t supposed to be. It’s controlled. Measured. Designed to metabolize clean, and I didn’t make anymore since the last party.
Still—the question creeps in anyway.
How did it get there?
The name drums in my head as I pace the small living room, guilt threading through my thoughts whether I invite it or not. Ella’s at school, and the quiet leaves too much room for everything I don’t want to think. Cami wouldn’t do this to me… would she?
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Zephyra is meant to be safe. Controlled. Predictable.
But someone is dead.
And the poisonous thought I’ve been circling finally lands.
I killed her. That’s the only option. Zephyra is the only new one out there right now.
The phone buzzes on the counter. I ignore it twice before my hands start shaking, and I grab it just to make the noise stop. Cami’s name lights the screen.
I hesitate, stomach twisting, then answer. It can’t be true.
“Vi!” Her voice comes through fast, already pitched too high. “Please tell me you’ve seen the news.” My chest tightens. She knows about it too.
“I’ve seen it,” I say. Flat. Empty.
“Okay, but listen it can’t be as bad as it looks, right?” she rushes on. “No one’s saying it was Zephyra. It could’ve been anything. These parties are like a walking pharmacy.”
“Cami, a woman is dead.” The anger cuts through before I can stop it. “And it’s our fault.”
“Our fault?” she snaps. “Don’t put this on me, Vi. I didn’t bring Zephyra to that party.”
My breath catches. “What are you talking about? I didn’t send it there. I thought you did.”
Silence stretches between us for so long that I check the phone to see if she has hung up.
“You think I would do that without telling you?” she hisses. “Are you kidding me?”
“You’ve done reckless things before,” I fire back, even as my chest tightens.
“How am I supposed to know this wasn’t another one of your ideas?
” I know what I’m saying is cutting like a knife.
But it’s true. She is reckless, and I’ve let her talk me into making this drug again. Fuck. I’m just as reckless as she is.
“And how do I know you didn’t go behind my back?” she shoots back.
The accusation stings more than I expect. We’ve been in this together—friends, partners, and whatever this is—but suddenly it feels like we’re standing on opposite sides of a widening crack, both trying to shove the blame across before it swallows us.
“I didn’t do this,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “And if you didn’t either, then we have a bigger problem than we thought.”
She exhales hard. “Fine. But we have to figure this out. If they trace it back—”
“They won’t,” I say quickly. “They can’t.”
I hang up before she can argue.
The truth settles in the silence she leaves behind…they will. And when they do, we’ll both drown.
My phone vibrates again. I half expect it to be her calling to chew me out for hanging up on her.
UNKNOWN: You should have stayed out of this. Your drug. Your mess.
Cold slides straight down my spine. The room seems to shrink as my grip tightens on the phone, my breath coming too fast, and too shallow. Every shadow feels longer. Every sound too loud.
I sink onto the couch, nausea curling low in my stomach. It was supposed to be under control. It was supposed to be safe.
But Alessandra Moore is dead, and someone wants me to believe it’s my fault.
Fear wraps around my ribs, constricting until it’s hard to breathe. I want to believe this is just a warning—but I know better. This isn’t a coincidence. It’s intention.
How did they find me? Has someone been watching me? Following me? I try to ground myself in logic, but the questions won’t stop. Who is doing this? Why now?
What do they want?
Because if they know who I am—what I’ve done—then a warning won’t be enough. And if their goal is to corner me, to make me desperate enough to run…
Running would make me look guilty, and that thought terrifies me more than the message ever could.