Chapter 7 Raelynn #2
“Yes, please,” Marlena and Khloe say in unison.
I glance at Austin, and he shakes his head after checking his phone. “Nah, I’m good, Rae. I gotta head to my class, but thanks, hun,” he says, his lips curling into a smile as he pulls Marlena into him and presses his lips to her forehead. “I’ll see y’all later.”
The three of us head across the quad, weaving through the usual swarm of welcome tents and overeager campus ministries that always pop up during the first week.
By the time we slip inside the bookstore Starbucks, the blast of air conditioning feels like salvation.
Only a few people stand in line before us, but at least ten or so more people stand off to the side, chatting idly as they wait for their orders.
Unfortunately, I am the only one who has class soon, but I also don’t give two fucks about being on time.
If she wants to mark me absent for being late, oh fucking well.
Missing one class won’t kill my grade. I can miss up to four times before I get an automatic fail.
After about a five-minute wait in line, I finally order our drinks.
I go with my usual grande iced vanilla blonde latte with vanilla cold foam.
Marlena decides on a grande matcha latte with strawberry-flavored cold foam, and Khloe orders a caramel ribbon crunch frappuccino in the largest size available, the fucking trenta.
I shoot Khloe a heated glare as I pay the tab, then join them at an open table tucked beside the emergency exit.
“Coffee is on you next time,” I mutter as I drop my bag onto the ground beside my seat.
She only giggles, clearly unbothered. “Deal.”
Almost ten minutes crawl by before my name is finally called.
Relief washes over me, and we push away from the table to collect our drinks.
Marlena grabs her matcha latte with a bright grin, Khloe clutches her massive frappuccino like it’s a newborn, and I secure my iced vanilla blonde latte, straw in hand.
The second we step outside, the heat slams into us like we’ve opened the door to an oven preheated to four hundred degrees. The blast of dry air steals the breath right from my lungs, clinging to my skin and making the condensation on my cup vanish almost instantly.
“Alright,” I sigh, tightening my grip on the cold plastic as I tug the hem of my shirt out, fanning myself with it.
The Arizona sun is ruthless—like the devil’s own breath scorching the earth.
We’re supposed to be easing into fall, but apparently, Mother Nature didn’t get the memo.
And to make matters worse, the monsoon season has been practically nonexistent this year: hardly any storms, barely any relief—just unrelenting heat.
“I’m off to endure seventy-five minutes of pure torture,” I announce, taking a long pull from my coffee. The caffeine is necessary, even if it’s already fighting a losing battle against the exhaustion of the day. “I’ll see y’all later for lunch?”
“Same place, same time?” Marlena asks, raising her cup with an easy smile.
I nod mid-sip, returning her grin before waving them off. With the sun already prickling against the back of my neck, I start my slow, reluctant trek toward the Chemistry Building—dragging my feet like I’m on my way to my own execution.
I sit cross-legged in bed, the morning sun streaming through the half-open blinds, casting soft streaks of light across my comforter.
Max is curled up before me, his massive head resting in my lap.
He’s snoring gently, his hind leg twitching every now and then in response to some dream he’s chasing.
I absentmindedly scratch behind his ears while my other hand cradles my phone, thumb flicking lazily through the usual parade of masked men, bikers, book-related posts, and chaotic meme dumps clogging up my feed.
It’s Friday, and after my alarm woke my ass up, I heavily debated whether or not I wanted to drive to campus for my only class, despite it being one of my favorites.
Clearly, I chose not to, or I wouldn’t still be doomscrolling on Instagram.
Neither Tessa nor I have to work. Her parents are the reason for that little miracle.
They cover the rent on our apartment, the bills, groceries, and practically everything else we could ever possibly need.
They insisted on it from the start, wanting us to focus on school rather than worrying about making ends meet.
Her dad is a trauma surgeon at the university hospital, and her mom owns a veterinary clinic, so money’s never really been an issue for them.
At first, I felt guilty as hell living off their generosity.
I’d been under their roof since I was thirteen, and even though they took me in without hesitation, I couldn’t shake the need to earn my keep.
During my first year of college, I got a job as a caregiver to help with expenses, as I was convinced I needed to contribute something.
That brilliant decision nearly tanked my GPA.
I was placed on academic probation, risking the loss of my financial aid and scholarship.
I pulled through (barely) and, after a long talk (and an even longer crying session), I finally accepted the deal they’d offered.
They’ve never treated me like an outsider, never made me feel like a charity case. And every time I open the fridge to see it fully stocked or find an envelope of “pocket money” slid into my mail slot, I swear I could cry.
I’ll never stop being grateful for what they’ve done for me. Not just the money, but also the way they welcomed me like family without hesitation or strings attached.
Eventually, the dopamine buzz from scrolling socials fizzles out, and like clockwork, I swipe over to my news app.
No matter how grim or disturbing, I always end up here.
It’s a reflex now—compulsion dressed up as curiosity.
It doesn’t just whisper to me, it claws at the back of my mind until I give in.
There isn’t much this morning—a couple of drug busts, some domestic disturbances, and a hit-and-run. Then, tucked between headlines about rising heat advisories and a city council debate, one article catches my eye.
Young Woman Found Fatally Stabbed Behind East Side Strip Mall—Identity Still Unknown
My thumb hesitates only a second before I tap the link.
The article is vague, which suggests that the case is still fresh, possibly even hours old.
The body was discovered early this morning behind a cluster of dumpsters in a narrow alley, not far from a 24-hour smoke shop and a cash-only pawn store.
The area is renowned for its vibrant nightlife and the diverse range of activities that thrive after dark.
No ID. No wallet. No phone.
The victim was estimated to be in her early twenties.
Petite. Signs of recent drug use, according to an unnamed source.
The coroner has confirmed multiple stab wounds, but no weapon was found.
She was wearing black strappy heels, a black mini skirt, and a neon pink crop top when she was found—an outfit the article pointedly describes as “indicative of sex work.” Just subtle enough to be judgmental.
There’s no surveillance footage, no suspects, no motive—just a young woman with no name, discarded like garbage.
My chest tightens—not with fear, but something sharper. Anger. Someone did this and walked away. And unless someone cares enough to dig deeper, she’ll be chalked up as another statistic. Another body in a city that’s no stranger to bloodshed.
I sigh and drop my head against the headboard, rubbing my fingers through Max’s short, silky fur. His tail thumps once against the mattress, like he’s reassuring me.
My phone buzzes against my thigh, vibrating hard enough to jolt Max’s ears. He lifts his head, blinking up at me sleepily while I glance at the screen.
KHLOE:
Do you and Tessa want to hang out today? I’m bored, and Marlena is too busy fucking Austin to literally do anything else.
A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. That girl has no filter. I tap out a reply with a smirk.
ME:
Will Dutch Bros be involved if I say yes?
I watch as the little typing bubble appears, dances, then disappears and reappears. After a few seconds, a message comes through
KHLOE:
I do owe ya one.
ME:
Yes, you do. Did you even finish that monstrosity????
KHLOE:
LOL No. I think I got about 3/4ths of the way before I had to throw it away
ME:
KHLOE:
Anyways, what do you want to drink, and what are we doing?
ME:
Nutty Irishman, obviously, and come over here. I have snacks, and we can talk about boys while watching something cheesy, because Tessa might literally smother me in my sleep if I put on something murder-y.
KHLOE:
BOYS YOU SAY???? DEAL! Give me like an hour and I’m there!
I laugh again and toss my phone gently onto the bed, watching it bounce once before settling into the blanket folds. Max looks up at me and yawns before standing up. He shakes out the lingering sleep, then hops off the bed as I throw my comforter off me.
Time to make myself presentable before the Chaos Queen arrives.
I put in zero effort to look decent today. Khloe was about to get the bare minimum from me—overslept, under-caffeinated, and utterly uninterested in pretending I cared about appearances. I was exhausted, and if I wasn’t leaving the apartment, then a bra was absolutely not happening.
I throw on an oversized purple t-shirt—soft, slightly worn, and perfect for a lazy day—and a pair of black leggings. My hair is twisted up into a messy bun with a claw clip, not for style but to keep it out of my face. That was as far as I was willing to go today.
Yawning, I shuffle out of my room, Max padding closely behind me like a loyal little shadow. The hallway opens up into the living room, where Tessa’s voice greets me before I even reach the end of it.
“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” she calls, her tone light and teasing.
I roll my eyes but smirk as I head straight for the patio door. “How long have you been up?” I ask as I unlock it and slide it open. Max trots outside without hesitation, tail wagging like it’s the best part of his day.
Tessa is curled up on the couch, legs tucked underneath her, a steaming mug of coffee balanced in her hands.
She’s wearing a pair of black spandex shorts and a burgundy butterfly Sleep Token t-shirt that’s roughly two sizes too large for her.
Her hair is braided and draped over her left shoulder, strands falling loose in that perfectly imperfect way she always seems to pull off without trying.
“About two hours,” she says casually, bringing the mug to her lips.
I blink. “The fuck are you doing up so early?”
“Rae,” she snorts into her coffee. “It’s almost noon.”
My brows lift as I blink again, like that might make time rewind. I slide my phone out of my leggings’ waistband and check it—11:52 a.m. Well shit. Guess I got a little too into my morning doom scroll.
“Huh. I guess it is,” I mutter, sliding my phone back into my waistband. “Anyway, Khloe’s on her way over,” I say as I lean out the door to check on Max.
“I know. She texted me like twenty minutes ago,” Tessa says, eyes focused on the TV as she scrolls through the endless black hole of streaming options. “Said she’s bringing caffeine and probably gossip.”
Max eventually trots back inside, his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth as he pants happily.
His tail wags like a metronome set to chaos, sweeping side to side as he heads straight for the couch like it’s his throne.
Without hesitation, he leaps up and circles once before flopping down beside Tessa, pressing his warm body against her legs with a huff of satisfaction.
Tessa smiles down at him and leans forward to set her coffee mug on the table. She eases back into the cushions and gently runs her fingers through Max’s fur. He practically melts beneath her touch, his tail thumping softly against the cushions in lazy approval.
I watch them briefly before turning toward the kitchen.
My stomach grumbles loud enough to be annoying, so I head over to make something simple.
I rummage through the cabinets, grab the honey-roasted peanut butter and raspberry preserves, then pull a couple of slices of butter bread from the loaf.
I’m halfway through spreading the peanut butter when a knock echoes from the front door.
“Hey, Tess, can you get that? I’m kinda elbow-deep in sandwich prep,” I call out, licking some peanut butter from the knife without shame.
“Isn’t it unlocked, though?” she replies, already pushing off the couch with a soft groan.
“Yeah, but she probably has her hands full or something,” I reply as I return to my sandwich prep.
Tessa mutters something under her breath but shuffles toward the front door anyway. She yanks it open and pauses. “Uh… no one’s here,” she says, her voice colored with confusion.
I peek out from the kitchen, sandwich in one hand and the knife coated in the raspberry preserves in the other. “Seriously?”
“I swear, no one—wait, what’s this?” She steps just outside momentarily, then returns holding a small white envelope. She closes the door behind her and eyes it curiously.
“What is it?” I ask as I toss the knife into the sink, then take a bite of my sandwich as I exit the kitchen.
“A card, I think. It was tucked under the welcome mat,” she replies, flipping it over in her hands. “There’s no stamp or return address. Just… a name.”
“Whose name?” I ask through another bite.
Tessa looks up, brows knitting slightly as she holds it out. “Yours.”