“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 shutmy laptop but not before I get an email notification from a familiar address. [email protected] 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 bookShadows Over Stone Hollowis 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Must be an outdated biography, because he no longer has a wife.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 looksas 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.
