"She's making that up, you know," I tell Nolan as he scrolls through the doorbell app. "No one is following her."
"Bullshit. I've seen him. I chased him down an alley outside a bar one night."
"What? Really? You never told me that."
"Didn't think you'd care."
"Are you sure they were following Saige?"
"I don't know what else they would have been doing. They just stood in the window in the dark, staring right at her. Looks like she left about an hour ago. The sun was up, so that's good."
"Nolan, I didn't hurt her. It wasn't like that. It was—"
"I don't want you to finish that sentence. I'm having a really hard fucking time not putting my fist through your face. After I talk to her, I probably will."
He wasn't there. He doesn't get it, but he will. She's mine, and I'm not going to let her go.
I take out my phone to send her a text.
Saige, where are you? Let me come and pick you up…we can go somewhere and talk. I'll take you anywhere you want to go.
There's a music fest in Vancouver tonight. You said I don't know you, but I know you like metalcore and sad playlists. I think you'd really like the setlist.
I don't realize what I've done until after I send the second message. I didn't send her a text—I messaged herfrom my text app. Both messages sit under a string of threatening texts and photos I've sent to her over the past month.
No.
I scramble to unsend them, but I'm too late—they're already marked as read.
"Found it," Dax says. "She's in her room, so at least there's that."
No. No, no, no, no. Fuck, I fucked up.
I stand up and start pacing the fucking room, tearing at my hair. I'm so fucked.
"Elias, did you hear what I said?"
I sigh. "Yeah, I heard you. I'm, uh, I'm going to go upstairs. Let me know if either of you hears from her."
I'm fucking panicking, and I need to get away from them before they notice.
I grab a bottle of whiskey on my way up and spend the rest of the day in my room, blaring music and drinking, pacing and feeling sorry for myself. I text her a few more times—for real this time—apologizing, begging her to talk to me.
I check my phone every five fucking minutes, but there's nothing—not until later that night.
That's when I finally get a text, but it isn't from Saige, Nolan or Dax.
It's a video from the university's emergency alert system. I press play on the black screen, and a two-minute clip of me and Saige in my bed last night plays.
Oh, fuck.
How the hell could this happen? Who the fuck could have done this?
But I do have a night vision camera—a small one on my desk, pointing at the bed. It would have captured this exact angle. An angle where you can make out Saige in the video clearly, but you can barely see me.
Surely, this didn't go out to everybody.
I convince myself it didn't—that this is some sort of prank—but only seconds later, Dax and Nolan barge into my room.
