Chapter 7
The drive back to Pembroke is quiet. Annica and I sit in total silence, no music, no conversation. I spend the whole two hours
trying to remember details of the party. I relive it in my head over and over again. But each time I get out to the balcony
my mind becomes an empty canvas, waiting to be painted with a memory.
I drop Annica off and tell her to fill in Dani for me, though I regret it after I do, because I can only imagine the exaggerated
version of this story she’ll come up with. Finally going through my phone alone in my room, I hope there’s something in here
that will jog my memory but there are no posts, no texts, and no calls. The one time I wish I over-posted, and yet it’s like
I didn’t even have a phone last night.
When I remember that I also wrote a eulogy for another now-dead person, I get out of bed to find the journal, intent on burning the whole thing.
But it isn’t in my bag. I figure it must be in my car from when I burned Jonah’s page in the park weeks ago, and decide I’ll burn it tomorrow, when it doesn’t give me a headache to stand up.
I lie back down and take deep breaths, waiting for sleep to take me.
It’s dark when I open my eyes again. The hangover is gone but the reality of it being Sunday night and I still have homework
to do sets in. My stomach growls viciously, reminding me I haven’t eaten today. I go into our kitchen, but all the food in
here is Ade’s. In fact, the only thing that’s mine is a bottle of merlot sitting on the counter next to the refrigerator.
It stares back at me, daring me to pour a glass. Just one glass—it would help. The hair of the dog, or whatever they say . . .
but I don’t need it. I really don’t.
I leave it there, untouched.
I have two discussion board posts to do, a quiz, and an outline to finish, but I pace around my room instead. I look at my
goals taped to my mirror and say them again.
“You’re going to ace all of your classes this year. You’re not going to get into trouble. You won’t let any boys get to you.
You’re going to write your first book.” This time I don’t feel as confident when I say them.
I text Ty and ask if she’s heard anything else today about Ryan, and whether it was a suicide, an accident, or a murder.
She says she hasn’t, only that Phi Delt was put on probation for letting the party get out of hand.
I order a pizza and get to work on my tasks.
When I get down to the outline, I take a break.
It feels impossible to pick something to write about when I know it matters.
I have countless story ideas sitting in my notes app on my phone, and some I even started to write, but now none of them feel good enough.
I still have tomorrow, I remind myself, and I almost shut my laptop but not before I get an email notification from a familiar address.
MH55123@ sits unopened in my inbox, with no subject line, and I know that it’s Miles Holland, the professor I had an affair with last year that ended with him being asked to resign. Hesitant, I click open.
Can we talk?
MH
No, Miles, we cannot. I delete it and close the laptop. Pure curiosity has me typing his name into the search bar of my phone
a moment later. The first several results are for the book he wrote a few years ago. I click into the publisher’s site to
read his biography. His book Shadows Over Stone Hollow is at the very top. I never actually read it, but I know it’s a mystery. That’s his favorite genre. I scroll through his biography
below it.
Miles Holland is an award-winning author, known for his bone-chilling words and captivating storytelling. Born and raised
in New York, Holland is a graduate of Columbia, where his passion for literature grew. When he’s not writing, Miles enjoys
traveling with his wife, Kate, and his dog Moose.
Must be an outdated biography, because he no longer has a wife.
Not after me, anyway. Another scroll toward the bottom brings up his photo, sending a queasiness to my gut.
Ocean eyes stare back at me behind wire-rimmed glasses with a smirk that always looks as though he has a secret to tell.
This must also be an old photo, one before the hints of laugh lines that have formed in the corners of his eyes, and the traces of gray at his temples.
This Miles looks young, late twenties, I suspect.
He’s at least ten years older than this photo by now.
“Gross,” I whisper to myself, and back out of the search. That’s when the faculty page for Ivy Gate University catches my
eye, showing that as of this year, that’s where he’s teaching. I sit up in bed, staring at the page. Holland and I were in
the same city, on the same campus, last night, and I didn’t even know it.
I decide to bypass the glass, as I uncork the merlot and drink right from the bottle.
My legs start to burn as I put the incline of the treadmill to ten. I text Ty again to ask if she’s heard anything. It’s noon
on Monday: Her whole school must be talking about it by now. She replies to tell me they still don’t know the cause. My phone
buzzes again and I grab it immediately. It’s a text from an unknown number, with nothing but a photo. I open it up to see
a crinkled-up piece of paper with writing on it. I zoom in a little closer and gasp, causing my phone to fall out of my hands,
hit the tread, and fly off onto the floor. I abruptly stop the machine and stand still for a moment, catching my breath, wondering
if I just saw what I think I did. What looked like a copy of my journal, specifically the page about Ryan. I turn around to
get my phone, but Asher is already there, picking it up from the floor. I snatch it from him before he has a chance to see
the photo on the screen.
“I just came to talk to you about next steps,” he says.
“What?”
“With Wes—”
“I don’t have time for this right now, Asher.” I step off the treadmill and around him. He follows.
“Do you have time to deal with Marissa and Annica knowing your secret?”
I turn slowly. “I just had another one of my exes die over the weekend, you asshole.” I watch his face fall, if only for a
moment, and I feel smug knowing that he probably feels bad now. He doesn’t say anything else, so I turn to leave. When I’m
far from him I look back down at my phone, opening the text again, and this time there’s a message below it.
I know you wrote this
I immediately feel lightheaded. I look at the eulogy again.
We are gathered here today to remember Ryan Austi, or is it Colton who died, hm, I’m always just such a “wasted bitch” I just
can never tell them apart. I didn’t know Ryan that long. Everything about our little tryst was short. Everything, if you know
what I mean. Sadly, Ryan was killed while pretending to be Colton. It’s something they did quite often and were rather good
at. With an army of friends to back up their fake stories and identity swaps, they got away with it every time. Just not this
time. Goodbye, Ryan. You might be missed by some, but not by me, since I’m always so drunk I’ll probably just continue to
mistake Colton as you. Through my unabashed drunkenness, you will live on forever. How unfortunate.
Oh, that is not a good look. Not at all.
Who is this?
I stand there staring at the screen, waiting.
They found this in his pocket. I told them it was you who wrote it. Is this why you pushed him? A grudge from three years
ago?
This must be Colton. My hands are shaking so bad I can barely read the text. Why would a page from my journal be in Ryan’s
pocket the night he died? I run out of the gym to my car. I forgot to look for it this morning, but the journal has to be
in here if it wasn’t in my bag last night. I search my car but it isn’t here. Did I leave it in the park? Did it fall out
of my bag? The picture he sent is a copy of this page, like someone photocopied it. So not only is my journal out there somewhere
but so are copies of its contents? I’ve never lost this journal, ever. And the only person I have ever shown this to was . . .
well, it was Miles Holland.
I don’t know what you’re talking about, I didn’t write that
Can they even prove I wrote it? I guess with a handwriting analysis.
Is that even a real thing they do or is that just in TV shows?
I block the number and put my hands above my head.
Slow breaths, eyes closed, trying to calm down.
Okay, Sloane, focus. Focus. I just have to retrace my steps from where I last had the journal. But that was also three weeks ago now.
I drive back to the park where I burned Jonah’s entry and practically crawl around the entire hill on my hands and knees looking
for the thing. It isn’t here. I don’t know why I expected it to be. I sit for a moment at the top of the hill. A chilly breeze
rustles the trees below, sending the first falling leaves out into the wind.
How did Colton even get a photo of the eulogy? Shouldn’t it be locked up in some, like, evidence cabinet or something? Unless
they called him in to question him on it, which I’m sure they did. I bet they showed it to him and he read it and immediately
knew it was me. If he told them that, then why hasn’t Grange called me yet? And when he does, what the hell am I going to
say? He could be at my door already; after all, I did give him my address. What if he’s there right now with Adrienne?
I walk in the door fully prepared to see Grange sitting on our couch, waiting for me, but the apartment is empty. I tear apart
my room looking for my journal, taking out every drawer, overturning every bag. It’s not here. I finally sit on the ground
surrounded by the mess and lean my throbbing head back against my bed. Jonah and now Ryan.
Jonah and Ryan, Jonah and Ryan, Jonah and Ryan. Their names run across my mind like a broken record.