“You’re still spinning that story? That I was sleeping with your brother and not you?”
“Depends, do you still like to air out people’s business on Instagram?” He crosses his arms, standing his ground.
“Do you think you didn’t deserve it? You were cheating on your girlfriend with me, then called me— What was it again? An always wasted bitch?”
He steps toward me, raising his voice. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have posted that I was a cheater all over the internet!”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have cheated!”
“I didn’t cheat! You weren’t hooking up with me, remember? Oh wait, you probably don’t! Don’t think I haven’t heard about you lately—you’re still not very reliable. Or sober. You’re just a sad little party girl with a shitty memory,” he adds.
My face burns hot with rage. “You know what, I was going to come over here to make amends, but fuck you, Ryan.” I turn to walk away but face him again, because I just need him to know. “For the record, I really liked you back then. You hurt me too.”
“And you hurt Olivia, so I guess we’re even.” He pushes past me into the crowd, and I can feel my blood thrumming in my cheeks. Olivia, his girlfriend at the time, was a beautiful blonde on the Ivy Gate soccer team who I tracked down to tell her he was cheating. Sure, it was immature of me to post the screenshots, and yes, I regret that, but I was hurt. He was my first relationship after Jonah, and maybe I didn’t love Ryan, but I loved the idea of him. I just didn’t know the difference at the time.
I eye the bottle of vodka for a long moment before filling my cup halfway with it. Without any soda water or lime to cut the taste, I top it off with ice. It goes down like fire and settles in my stomach with a burn. I let the words and the feelings and the world spin by. Just for tonight.
Just for tonight.
There’s a loud banging noise coming from somewhere that makes me stir in my sleep. I open my heavy eyelids and don’t recognize the room I’m in. I blink a few times, letting the spinning ceiling settle in my vision. I’m at the foot of a large bed. I groan and turn my head to see Annica, Ty, and Austin sprawled out onthe bed with me, all in our clothes from last night. The light coming through the navy curtains tells me it’s morning.
More banging comes from the other side of the door. “Open up this door—it’s the police,” a deep male voice says from the other side.
All of our heads pop up from the bed and we look at each other with one silent question. What the fuck are the police doing here? They usually come to break up a party while it’s still going on, not the morning after. Ty gets up to unlock the door and two police officers are standing on the other side.
“Everyone downstairs, please.”
When we’re gathered at the bottom of the staircase, Ty is the one to speak up first. “What’s going on?”
“We need to ask you all a few questions about last night before you leave. Officer Smith and I will speak with you each individually. Who wants to go first?”
None of us say anything, still unsure about what this is.
“We’ll go right down the line, then.” He points to Annica. “You first.” She hesitantly follows the female officer to another part of the house for the supposed questioning, looking back at us with worried eyes.
“Can someone just tell us what is happening?” Ty tries again.
“There was a body found outside the building early this morning, identified as Ryan Austi. It seems he either fell or was pushed off the third-floor balcony.”
When it’s my turn to be questioned, I’m shaking like a leaf. I vaguely remember walking back to my friends after pouring myself a vodka on the rocks. We played flip cup. We went up to thethird-floor balcony that overlooks the backyard... but what were we doing there?
Detective Grange is a tall man, handsome, and looks to be around forty years old. His brown eyes somehow match his skin tone perfectly. Focusing on his features is how I’m distracting myself from throwing up.
Detective Grange sits across from me and takes out a small notepad and pen. “So, Miss...?”
“Sloane Sawyer.”
“Sloane Sawyer.” He pronounces every syllable as he writes it down. “Why don’t you walk me through last night? What time did you get to the party?” His voice is deep, and slightly comforting. Like the people that narrate Animal Planet documentaries.
“Okay,” I start. “Um, we got here around like ten p.m. We had some drinks, played drinking games...” I trail off because the rest is foggy.
“Did you see or speak to Ryan at all?”
“I said hi to him in the kitchen at one point.” The kind of hi that sounds more like “fuck you,” but he doesn’t need to know that. Or does he?
“What did you do after you spoke to Ryan?”
“We played drinking games like I said, and at some point, we went up to the balcony—”
