When she doesn’t—shocker, there—I take a steadying breath and take a right towards the next aisle. “Jenna,” I repeat. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”
I pass the doors to the shower stalls and the toilets, my footsteps echoing in the seemingly empty room. I don’t hear the familiar thrum of the water running in the shower or the softer flow of the sinks in the bathroom.
My pulse speeds even faster.
“Jenna?” I round the corner, trying to prepare myself for anything. I reach into my purse to grab my phone, feeling slightly reassured by its weight in my hand.
I’m not sure why I feel so uneasy. I just do.
I start again, “Jen?—”
But the first splatter of blood steals the rest of my voice.
No. Not splatter. Puddle.
And not just one puddle.
Several of them.
My gaze moves along the floor, cataloging each crimson pool.
I try to speak, but all that escapes is a dry click.
Why is there blood in here?
Why is there so much of it?
Everything feels as if it’s moving in slow motion. My feet. My eyes. My thoughts.
What happened in here?
Then.
My gaze moves to the far end of the lockers.
And I have my answer.
It’s Jenna.
Crumpled in a heap in the corner.
Covered in blood.
Surrounded by it.
Frantic, half-formed thoughts spin through my head.
What?
How?
Why?
When?
I’m frozen in indecision.
Do I run to her? Run away? Call for help?
