Chapter 24
Target on My Back
Violet
I’m kneeling on the floor, folding one of Ella’s sweaters for the third time because my hands won’t stop shaking long enough to do it right. Lavender detergent clings to the fabric, clean and familiar and painfully normal. Home, distilled into cotton and warmth.
This wasn’t supposed to feel like an ending.
Ella’s sprawled across the bed behind me, legs swinging, and excitement bubbling out of her like it might lift her straight off the mattress. “Langport is going to be insane, Vi. Like—actually insane. Do you think the dorms have views? Sam says—”
“Yeah,” I say, smoothing the sweater again before placing it in the suitcase. “It’s going to be amazing, kid.”
My voice sounds steady. My chest feels like it’s caving in.
My phone buzzes.
The sound snaps through me like a gunshot. I grab it too fast, heart already racing, and dread curling tight around my spine when I see Cami’s name.
CAMI: You need to see this. Now.
There’s a link beneath it.
I tap it, my breath stalling as the screen fills with a live press conference. A police podium. Flashing cameras. A familiar blue-and-white NYPD seal stamped across the front like a warning.
“We are here today to inform the public about a dangerous new synthetic drug known as Z—”
The words hit before I can brace for them.
“—which has been linked to multiple overdoses, including the tragic death of socialite Alessandra Moore.”
My stomach drops. Multiple overdoses?
That wasn’t possible. Zephyra wasn’t lethal. Not like that. It was controlled. Clean. A little too long-lasting, sure—but safe.
A reporter shouts from the crowd. “Can you confirm the drug was laced with fentanyl?”
The official nods, grim and practiced. “Yes. This batch was highly lethal. We urge the public to avoid it at all costs.”
My vision blurs. Someone made a copy. Someone poisoned it. And now they’re calling it mine.
Another reporter leans in. “Do you have any leads on who distributed the drug to Ms. Moore?”
The pause feels deliberate.
“We have an eyewitness account of a woman providing the substance to Ms. Moore. Investigators are actively pursuing that lead.”
A woman.
My throat closes. The apartment feels smaller, the walls inching closer, and air thinning with every breath. It was four thousand dollars. Two parties. I told myself I could control it, that I could fix it if anything went wrong.
I never imagined people would die. I bolt upright, phone clenched in my fist.
Ella’s watching me now, her excitement dimming into concern. “Vi? What’s wrong?”
I force my face into something neutral, something safe. “Nothing. Just… thinking about all the last-minute stuff before you leave.”
She frowns. “I can finish packing.”
“No,” I say too quickly, then soften it. “It’s fine. I’ve got it.”
I don’t. Not even close.
A few minutes later I’m pacing the kitchen with the phone pressed to my ear, pulse roaring so loud I can barely hear Cami over it.
“It’s bad,” she says. “Like—really bad.”
“I saw.”
“You can’t stay there,” she continues. “If they connect the dots—Vi, if they decide you fit the description—”
“I know.” My voice cracks despite my effort to hold it together. “But I don’t have anywhere to go.”
There’s a pause. Then, quieter, “We’ll figure it out. I’ve got some savings. It’s not a lot, but it’ll help. I sent my driver to you with cash and a few things you might need.”
“I can’t take your—”
“Yes, you can,” she cuts in, sharper now. “And you will. This isn’t pride time.”
I swallow hard, leaning against the counter as the weight of it all presses down on me. The cops. The press. The lie unfolding in public, and my name hovering just offscreen, waiting to be said out loud.
Ella is getting out.
And I’m standing dead center of a story I didn’t write, with my name already on their lips.
I don’t know how much time I have left.
But I know one thing with terrifying clarity—
Once the world decides you’re guilty, it doesn’t wait for proof.