One of Us Is Gone, page 21
sixty-seven
Cleo—Present
Everyone I’ve been to, for the second or third time, might I add, have all expressed one thing for certain: They’re all liars. Each person has conveyed that Sarah came to them with pleasant words and left. This doesn’t even sound like Sarah.
I’ve been racking my brain to piece together why Sarah would make her rounds with apologies and choosing the night she disappeared of all nights to do so. There’s something Sarah hasn’t told me because I’m the only one who didn’t receive one.
Milton hadn’t either, but she kissed him. They ended on the best terms they could have. Me? The last words I got to say were hurtful during an argument that would’ve been old news if we had more time.
‘Blaze, you’re braver than I ever could be,’ echoes in my mind, as it does whenever I need a boost, and then it hits me. Sarah’s letter. Was this my apology? I don’t have it and I won’t contact Milton to get it, but I’ve imprinted her words in my mind.
I never quite considered how she began the letter, because all I focused on were the best things she’s ever said to me. ‘If you’re reading this, this means that I’m gone’ were her exact words. Before she died, she had the time to write and mail this letter. I suck in a quick breath as the idea of Sarah never going missing in the first place resettles.
We suspected this before, but I’d forgotten about it once they found her body. That theory became irrelevant.
It’s true what Milton said after reading the letter: She was running away from me, from her life as she knew it. Like the pact Milton and I made, she wanted out, too, but no one noticed. Something didn’t go according to her plan.
I change my mind. The police must suspect someone killed her on campus. Otherwise, I don’t see why the details of her case are being veiled.
I release a built-up growl of frustration before vowing to silence myself the moment I enter the library. I’ve always been able to think here, without distraction and commotion. Perhaps I could have a breakthrough. This end-of-the-road business is unacceptable.
After going through my everyday motions, opening my laptop, checking my emails, and pulling up unfinished assignments, I get a notification.
The bottom right of my laptop flashes a black box that reminds me I have a memory on this date, from last year. I click on the message to pull up the image in question. It’s Sarah, Milton, and me, outside of our old high school, posing in the worst ways. It was a running joke, not being able to stop for a picture any time for good reason, so we’d do it while making fun of those who did.
Sarah puckered her lips, one eye open and the other closed, paired with her signature bunny ears behind my head.
Milton pretended to read an imaginary comic book while in a superhero stance. And then I circle back to me, wedged between them as always, straight-faced and tongue hanging out the side of my mouth. I intended to look like a zombie, but it came out no different from any of my other pictures.
Seeing this image makes me pile through more, yearning for other fond memories I’ve forgotten along the way. I’ve always backed up every single image to the Cloud. I could go back for years and years if I wanted. Sarah did the same once she dropped her phone in the toilet and lost three years’ worth of pictures.
“That’s it,” I jump from my seat with joy.
The librarian whips her finger to her lips to silence me, followed by the most mind-curdling “Shhh,”
I open a new tab and log into Sarah’s Cloud. From there, I should be able to access her notes, messages, and her entire life to date. I bite my lip in excitement when I hit login and the page loads.
A flush of adrenaline tingles through my body, knowing I have Sarah’s private thoughts and feelings at my fingertips. It’s like robbing her grave. But imagine if I’d done it to save a life… somehow.
I go into the column labeled Messages. The group chat thread is still at the top. I don’t know if anyone in the group is responsible for what happened. The thought alone brings me to tears. But that’s why I got nowhere the first time, because I refused to believe my darling friends would do anything wrong. Let’s face it. Their stories don’t add up. I’m missing something, and I believe I can find it here.
Clicking on the group chat, I leave them a little gift from Sarah: Yooooo, I’m back and better than ever! Has anyone missed me yet?
I have the urge to type more, but the more I say, the less I’ll sound like her. My goal is to spook whoever is liable, to lure them out of the dark and into the light.
Milton, Max, and Aubrey start typing, but no new messages appear. A few seconds later, Mika almost replies, but she changes her mind. They’re all confused, walking on eggshells. If a dead ‘friend’ messaged me unexpectedly, I wouldn’t know what to say either. But Sarah’s killer would.
My computer flashes with a notification outside of the group chat. Someone messages Sarah privately. Unfortunately, I don’t recognize the number, but it must be one of them: I know you’re not Sarah. Who are you and what do you want?
Trap set and captured.
sixty-eight
Sarah—1 Day Before
When I return to my room, I make use of my time by packing. I’m only taking the clothes that can fit into my backpack, though to fit more, I fold them militarily.
Amanda hasn’t been back to the dorm, most likely staying with a friend, which is fine with me. It would be great if she’d stay away until after I’m gone, but my chances are low.
I take one of my American Literature books and use the hardcover to write a letter, a goodbye, and a warning to Milton and Cleo. They’ll need this once I’m gone, as a reminder that they can survive without me, and thrive for it. That they’re the best people I’ve ever known, and not to worry about me. They shouldn’t come after me or ruin their lives by bringing me back.
If I mail it to Milton’s mama, they should get it not long after. I’ll take it to our local post office later, not far on the outskirts of campus.
I have walked enough this weekend to cover a trip to Mars.
The letter is done and writing my closing signature has released a fraction of the guilt I’ll have for years to come. But this way, they won’t be in the dark. This’ll shine enough light.
I take the bear from my bed and put it into the box labeled Gino. The box is also swimming with old sweatshirts, weed, a few tiny trinkets and knickknacks, and the corsage he gave me on prom night. I’m surprised by how little I have from Gino, though we’ve been friends for many years, sucking the energy and love from each other like parasites.
A knock startles the pen from my hand, but the sound of it hitting the ground is drowned by the banging. I fold the letter and slip it into my back pocket before standing to answer the door. “One sec,” I say, stashing my backpack of clothes beneath the sheets decorating the carpet.
“Hey,” Cleo says, waiting with her arms crossed.
Without allowing her inside, I exit and shut the door behind me.
“What happened to your hair?” Cleo asks, unfolding her arms to play with my ends, which are coming apart.
I snatch the end of my braid and toss it behind my shoulder. “Nothing.”
“Well, why are you ignoring me? What did I do?” Cleo is livid, her face red and her voice booming.
I have the instinct to take this into my dorm, but she’ll only ask questions if she sees the state of it all.
“You did nothing. I’m distracted, lately,” I bite my lip so hard that I can taste blood. The flavor of nickel or rust spreads across my tongue. I swallow to get rid of the foul tingle remaining, but it doesn’t work. With each swallow, the more it spreads.
“Too busy to even respond to a text? This is about what I told you, isn’t it?” Cleo points her finger. When she raises her hand, it brings my attention to her red wrists.
“No, I swear,” I cry, fighting for our friendship. This isn’t one of the last memories I want of her. Anything I can say to recover from this, I will.
“It is. Since I told you, you’ve been nicer, sweeter, and all weird. Now you’ve graduated to flat-out dismissive.”
“Blaze, don’t be that way. I’m not dismissing you…I love you,” if she insists on staining our last words, then I’ll have to sprinkle kindness wherever I can. All I want is to pull her into a hug, but I fear she won’t reciprocate it.
“You’re the most selfish person I’ve ever met. I hope you know this,” Cleo spits venom.
My head drops into my hands in confusion, “Where’d that even come from? You don’t mean that.” I can’t help but take offense. She’s hitting me where it hurts, attacking me. It’s like a switch. We could rip each other apart or present an uncanny warmth as the only person on earth that can speak reason into the other. All I must do is remind her of this, that I’m not her enemy.
“It’s a build-up of things. You only care about yourself,” Cleo says, still not considering her words, tone, or the impact they’ll have on me. She came here to fight, nothing more, or else it would be easier to talk her down.
“Please,” I reach to grab her hand, but she snatches away from me, stepping back. The emotion in her eyes is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before; I’m doing it again, bringing out the absolute worst in her, “Blaze, it’s me, okay? Look at me.”
A deep crimson fills her vision, impairing her judgment and making it difficult to keep the situation under control.
Instead of giving her the option to pull away from me again, I lunge at her, closing her in a tight squeeze. Cleo tries to wiggle out of it, screaming in anger, but there’s a layer of fear. She’s afraid I’ve abandoned her. She can’t see the benefit of it yet and won’t be able to until it’s done.
“Don’t be afraid,” I whisper into her ear, closing my eyes to avoid the stares of students passing two girls causing such a big scene in the middle of the hall.
After holding onto her for a few minutes, she’s tired of struggling. Her screams have died down into occasional yelps for help.
“I’m here for you,”
I loosen my grip enough for her to push me off. She’s calmer now, her chest no longer rising and falling enough to make me dizzy. But unfortunately, she still isn’t Cleo. There’s still burning resentment and pain in her eyes. I prevent myself from blinking, not wanting to capture her like this forever, before she takes off to the stairwell.
sixty-nine
Cleo—Present
I’m your worst nightmare. Send.
I bang my head against the palm of my hand, defeated. Texting the group chat was only supposed to lure out the liar, but now I’m terrified it did much more than that.
It’s a fact that each of them has concealed parts of the truth from me, but only one person took the bait. This is the person who has withheld the most. They’re guilty.
To think that for months since Sarah’s disappearance and death, I’ve been hanging out with the person who did this to her. There’s no worst detective than me.
The responses stop coming. To pass the time, I start on one of my assignments. It isn’t until an hour later that the second tab on my browser lights up.
You’re nothing, no one. I’m not worried.
They’re doing an awful job of convincing me of this. It sounds a lot like they’re trying to persuade themselves.
I have proof. I’ll take it to the police.
I put it all on the line, exposing the cards that were held close to my chest. Doesn’t matter if it’s real or not, the only thing that matters is that they believe it.
They type but erase it. They go back and forth with this notion for the next five minutes. I give up waiting and switch tabs back to my assignment, but as soon as I do, the previous tab alerts me. The timing of these raises the hairs on the back of my neck.
My eyes sweep the room, taking in every detail.
What do you want?
I never considered what I’d say to them once we made contact. What do I want? A confession? An explanation? All the above?
I want you to meet up with me. I only want to know why.
This statement will no doubt give me away. This is all I have been preaching for months, chasing a why. Whether they suspect me of being behind these messages or not, that doesn’t change the fact that they think I have leverage. This’ll get me a meeting, to the truth.
Fine. Meet me at the diner off campus, Churros.
The diner makes me question if I know this person personally or not. I’ve never heard of or been to Churros, and I’d say the same for the rest of the group.
Perhaps someone from the group chat knows the killer and tipped them off. This could explain the private message. The only person I can think of is Gino.
Though I’m skeptical, I love the idea of meeting somewhere public. The only downside is that it’s a place where no one would notice us. If anything happens to me, they’ll have a hard time knowing that Cleo was with this person.
I hesitate to let someone like Milton know where I’ll be, to say my goodbyes if it comes to that, but there’s no trust there. Even if he told me everything in the end once I asked. For all I know, I could go to shake hands with the boy I’ve known my entire life, yet for no time at all.
I’ll be there. 20 min.
The epinephrine that rushes through my veins has me packing my backpack in a hurry, wanting to spill out of those library doors sooner than physically possible. After using my phone to research where to find the diner, I take off through the bikes and the puffy coats that brush past me.
I’m sprinting like there’s someone chasing me, and with my luck lately, that isn’t completely out of the realm of plausibility. A few of the students I bumped into on the way were very vocal about my rudeness, but since I’ve gone to this school, I’ve taken the hits without complaint. It’s my time to do the bruising.
On the corner of the road, I see a big brown and yellow sign: Churros. I look both ways before crossing the street, not wanting to work so hard to get to this point only to get run over by a truck.
The bells on the door upon my entrance startle me, and I freeze. I cling to the door with bug eyes, afraid of the announcement that my arrival made, and for whom.
“You can seat yourself. Someone will be right with you,” a waitress says to me as she dashes by.
I inch further inside, still not trusting my surroundings, but I don’t recognize anyone. They haven’t arrived yet. For the sake of not being in the middle of the diner, I find a booth in the back corner. I won’t get the truth if this conversation isn’t as private as it can be.
I sit facing the door, so I know who I’m dealing with as soon as they enter. My feet tap against the tile as I linger. My fingers chase the circumference of my wrist.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” a woman asks, stopping in my view of the door to ask me. The bell sounds and my stomach churns to the sound of their footsteps. I could puke right here, right now.
I take this nauseating phenomenon as intuition that this isn’t another customer, but who I’m here to meet. They fill the diner with a familiar smell.
I shake my head, hoping the waitress will back off. Even if she walks in the opposite direction and doubles back, all I need is a split second.
“Okay, I’ll come back around,” she says, leaving a menu and excusing herself. As soon as she crosses to another table, the person I’ve been texting is revealed and approaching fast.
“Cleo?” he’s confused somehow, taking the booth opposing me.
“Max?” I breathe.
seventy
Sarah—The Day Of
Today is the day it all goes down.
I’ve checked most of the items off my to-do list prior to my departure. I’ve mailed the letter to Milton’s parents’ house, made amends to even those who don’t matter, and cemented the last moments with the people I love.
Amanda came back this morning to tell me they’ve approved her to move dorms. She wasn’t too ecstatic about how ours looked. The huge argument we got into was our goodbye. Amanda said some hurtful half-truths, but she’s moving.
I wish she didn’t see the room until after I’d left.
Did everyone see the email the dean sent out? Mika asks in the group chat. Before replying, I check for myself, considering that I suspect it’s about me.
The email is a long and drawn-out warning against cyberbullying and the consequences the university has put in place for those who don’t adhere to these policies. The passage must be two to three pages long, going into depth about how students could lose their scholarships, face suspension, or get expelled for these offenses. My skin tingles at the lengths the university will go to, to keep their name clean, and not to mention all this without my complaint.
They want me to talk, to point them toward who was responsible, but I won’t do that. They’re insane. The university is pressing this whole chest picture thing.
It’s wild. This again? Mika replies.
That wasn’t bullying. Aubrey has the nerve to defend herself when she’s the one in the wrong.
Sure, I sent the picture, but that doesn’t give her the right to distribute the image. She’s lucky I’m not too bothered by having half the student body know what my cleavage looks like. Attention was kind of my thing, no matter how I got it.
Now that I’ll be gone, the image means even less to me.
We know, Aubrey. Mika sucks up to Aubrey or is afraid of what she’d do if she disagreed. We all know Mika is Switzerland, but that’s who she pretends to be. With every word Mika says, she proves whose side she’s on.
