A text.
UNKNOWN:Tick tock. Panic looks a lot like guilt from the outside. And you’re running out of places to hide.
My blood goes cold. I read it again. And again.
My pulse pounds in my ears, my fingers tightening around the phone like it might bite me if I let go. This isn’t coincidence. This isn’t random. Someone knows exactly where to press.
I swallow hard and shove the phone into my pocket like that will make it stop existing.
Driving into the city is out of the question—I can barely keep my thoughts straight, let alone fight traffic and parking. An Uber straight to the precinct feels like walking in with a sign over my head.
So I do the thing I hate doing.
I text Cami.
ME:I need a ride from the ferry into the city. Are you free?
The typing dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
CAMI:Fine. I’ll be there when youdock.
It’s not warm. It’s not kind. But it’s enough.
I text Ella that I’m meeting Cami and might be home late. It’s a half-truth I cling to because I don’t know how to say the rest without terrifying her.
The ferry ride feels longer than it ever has. Normally I love this part—the water, the air, and the space to breathe. Today, it feels like everyone is looking at me. Like there’s a glowing sign above my head announcing exactly what I’m afraid of.
Suspect. Guilty.Waiting to be caught.
I curl deeper into my jacket and stare at the water until the city comes into view.
The black town car waits at the curb when I step off the ferry. Cami’s driver steps out, opening the door for me. I slide into the plush interior, my pulse still uneven.
Cami sits on the other side, her arms crossed as she watches me. “You could say thank you,” she mutters finally, eyes locked on the window.
I let out a slow breath. “Thank you.”
Her fingers tighten. “For what?”
I glance at her, frowning. “For the ride?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
And there it is. The thing neither of us has wanted to talk about since the party. Since the drugs. Since the whispered blame we both hurled at each other, convinced the other had brought them.
Wehavetalked about this once already. Both of us swearing we weren’t responsible. But neither of us had reallyheardeach other, too scared and too angry to listen.
My jaw tenses. “Cami—”
“I didn’t bring that shit, Vi.” Her voice is sharp, but there’s something beneath it—hurt, maybe. “I thought you did.”
I exhale, pressing my fingers to my temples. “I thoughtyoudid.”
A bitter laugh escapes her. “Great. So we both thought the worst of each other.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Because she’s right. And it stings more than I want to admit.
I hesitate, then shake my head. “That’s not who we are, Cami. We’ve been through too much to let this break us.”
