“No, you need to stay far away from this. In fact, you should have little to no contact with the other two people in your journal if possible.”
“That’s... not possible,” I say. “I work with Tristan and Wes is my... well, he’s one of my best friends.”
“Find a new job,” Grange says. “And if the other one is really your best friend, then you’ll listen to me when I say to stay away.” He walks me to the front of the station and out the doors. “I’ll be in touch,” he says to me before I walk back to my car.
I call Asher on my way back to campus. He picks up on the first ring.
“Where thefuckare you? I have been freaking the fuck out, Sloane. Where is the gun?”
“I took it to the police,” I say. “I’ve been at the police station.” He’s quiet on the other end. “It’s okay, I’m not in trouble. Well, I probably am for taking the journal pages, but I wasn’t arrested for murder... yet... so that’s a plus.”
“Just get back to campus. I’m at your apartment,” he says before hanging up.
Asher is sitting at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to my and Adrienne’s apartment door when I pull up. He stands when I get out of the car.
“I’m sorry I left this morning,” I say, walking toward him. The falling snow covers his hair and his eyelashes.
“Why the hell would you go to the police without me?” Hebarks the question at me like I’m a kid that needs scolding. I figure sitting out here for two hours and wondering where I was all day must have made him irrationally angry.
“The real question is: Why did I wait so long to do it?” I say back. “This is what I should’ve done from the start, Asher, don’t you see that? If I would’ve just gone to Grange after Marco’s fire, when I knew I was being set up, Bryce might still be here; so would Graham. People died because we tried to play detective and it didn’t work! Their deaths are my fault! All of them are.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is, it is true. And I’ll have to make peace with that, but I won’t let it happen to Tristan and Wes. It’s all in the hands of the police now, like it should’ve been from the start.”
“So, what? That’s it?”
“What else is there? They can do more than we can. I won’t put more people in danger.”
When he doesn’t say anything else, I turn to walk up the stairs.
“And what about this?” Asher says. I look back at him standing there, his hands slack at his sides.
“I don’t even know whatthisis,” I reply, knowing that the “this” is us.
He nods once, and takes a step back, then nods again before walking back to his car. I bite my lip to stop myself from telling him not to go. But the entire drive back to Pembroke gave me time to think and wonder if I would still feel this way about him had this never happened to me at all. It’s like that syndrome where girls fall in love with their captors. He wasn’t holding me captive physically, but mentally. I now feel like I need him. Somewhere along the way he’s become some kind of emotional crutchas well as my psychological tormentor. Every rude remark paired with a smirk, every jab ending in a kiss, and even though it was all for show, it’s the only thing that’s been enough to distract me from the weight of it all. If he’s gone, will it crush me?
Back in my apartment I set my bag in the bedroom and am met with my suspect board. It won’t come off the wall so I take a small blanket and toss it over the board. I don’t want to look at it anymore. It’s someone else’s problem now.
The second thing I notice is my goals taped to my mirror. Grabbing the marker, I cross out one of my last two goals.
You won’t let any boys get to you.
It wasn’t just Asher that got to me; it was all of them. The dead ones and the alive ones. There’s knocking at my door that pulls me from my thoughts. Asher. He came back. I stand in front of the door, hesitant. If I open it will he swoop in, gathering me in his arms to finish what we started in the hotel?
I decide I need to know as I unlock the door, swinging it open to find Miles Holland standing there.
I try to shut the door but he puts his foot in to stop it from closing. “Wait! I just want to talk to you!” he shouts through the crack of the door.
“Well, I don’t want to talk toyou!” I push harder, but he manages to shove the door open. I back up away from the entry as he steps in, with a small briefcase in hand. It probably has a gun in it, or knives, or whatever he uses to kill people. Maybe it’s my journal or its contents. “I told the police everything—they’re probably already at your place,” I say, mustering up some courage.
Miles looks around my place. “That’s what you keep saying.”
I realize my phone is in my bedroom. Maybe I could run for itand lock him out of my bedroom while I call 911. “What do you want? What’s in the briefcase?”
“This is what I’ve wanted to talk to you about,” he says, holding it up. “It’s my next book. I want you to read it. You told me before that you wanted to be the subject of my next one; well, now you are.” He holds the briefcase out to me. I did say that once, in a lame attempt to flirt. I never thought he’d take it seriously.
“Just get out of my apartment and I won’t tell anyone you were here.”
