I lean in as she shifts on the bed and turns the laptop so that we can both see it.
“I think I’ve found something.” She points, her eyes following as I pick up the device to get a closer look.
A web page stares back at me. It doesn’t belong to the school, but instead to the local newspaper. My brows pinch tight almost instantly, the curiosity mounting now. I skim the page until one headline stands out from the rest. The letters aren’t bolded, there’re no graphic details—only a subtle caption buried at the bottom of the page.
Student-led society disbands following a psych ward admittance.
I click the hyperlink, and the article loads painfully slowly. When it finally loads, we huddle together. The language is vague, almost sterile. But then there’s a string of specific sentences that cause us to pause.
A student suffered a psychotic break.
Another student died.
A tragic episode of mental instability.
Silence sweeps over us, the kind that’s bone-deep and can drown out even the loudest of noises.
“Does it say what happened?” I whisper.
Gracie’s shoulders brush against mine as she points again. “Right there.”
I scroll and highlight the block of text, as Gracie reads it aloud.
“‘Sources confirm that during an off-campus event for members of Sovereign King’s Aurelian Circle social club, a female student, age twenty-two, attacked another student in what officials are calling a “disassociated episode.” Witnesses described the student as “vacant” and “not herself” in the moments leading up to the incident. She allegedly came to only after the other student had succumbed to injuries sustained during the attack. The motive remains unclear, and no substances were reported in her system at the time of the incident.’”
My eyes skate over the next line, and something clenches in my chest.
The student was admitted to the Wyndmoor Psychiatric Facility.
“Wyndmoor,” I mutter, grabbing Gracie’s attention. “My mom was a patient there before she killed herself.”
Gracie gasps, and it dawns on me that I said that last part out loud. Not that it was some kind of secret. I’ve shared with her that I lost my mom years ago, but how I lost her isn’t something I willingly divulge. People get weird when they know the full story, that sympathy turning into what feels more like pity.
“O-oh,” she stammers. “Sam, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say, hoping to shift the conversation.
“It’s not. And finding out all of this right now, all the questions it’s stirred up… that can’t be easy.”
Tears prick the back of my eyes, but I blink them away and adjust myself so that I’m sitting upright. “Yeah, well, there’s not much I can do about that. She’s gone, and I miss her, but it is what it is.”
“Sam.”
“Gracie. Seriously. Thank you, but I don’t want to talk about that.”
“All right.” Reluctantly she nods, and sucks air into her lungs. “Do you think your mom was the student?”
All I can do is blink, my thoughts spinning on overdrive. Truth is, I don’t know what I think anymore. Nothing makes sense, and with each new piece of information, something bigger is uncovered. Just bits and pieces, a blanket of words, and occasional images that somehow say everything and nothing all at once.
“I don’t know,” I mutter.
“We’ll keep looking,” she adds with a soft smile.
Gracie continues reading.
“‘Authorities do not believe she poses an ongoing threat to the community. However, due to the sensitive nature of the occurrence, the student-led society involved is being disbanded immediately while investigators complete their case.’”
I snap my gaze to hers. “Did you ask your mom about the picture? What did she say? Does she remember my mom?”
