Page 54 of On Your Life

He would have just told me if he thought his life was in danger. I think. I drag a hand through my hair and stare at the screen.

During my mental replay of those last few weeks, one thing keeps coming back to me.

His phone. He had been on it constantly. His usual happy demeanor would shift every time he looked at it. His smile would disappear for a moment. Then he’d shove it back in his pocket and pretend nothing happened. I’d noticed it. I just hadn’t thought it mattered.

Where the fuck is his phone?

I assumed his weird behavior was because of his mom being problematic again. He was used to that shit though. Hell, we both were.

But now she is suddenly the poster child for the perfect mother and a homemaker? It doesn’t make any fucking sense.

How is Kira involved in this? I went to the trial. I remember the details. She was the last person seen with him, and they were in an obvious disagreement. Her tire marks were at the scene and on his fucking body.

At the time, it all seemed so damn obvious. But, the more I think about it, the more the thread starts to unravel. I can’t sleep. I can’t think straight. This is eating me alive.

My fingers hover over the keyboard.

R-E-A-P-E-R

*INVALID CREDENTIALS*

Conner’s birthday…

09-23-1990

*INVALID CREDENTIALS*

His mom’s birthday…

03-19-1972

*INVALID CREDENTIALS*

I stare at the password box. The blinking cursor taunting me. My fingers move before I second guess myself.

05-17-1991

The home screen comes to life and I freeze. My birthday. The password was my birthday. That can’t be a coincidence. I stare at the screen in shock.

There are two icons on the desktop. One is an email application, the other is a folder.

IN CASE I DIE

I slowly run my hand over my face and stand, pacing back and forth in front of the bright screen. My heart pounds violently in my chest, hard enough that I swear I can feel each beat in my throat. There’s no way this shit is real.

The mouse hovers over the folder. My finger rests on the button but I can’t bring myself to click it yet. Cutting wires on a bomb would probably be less stressful right now. I have to open it.

But do I really want to know the answers?

What will I do if they convicted the wrong person?

What if they didn’t and she really did kill him and I’ve spent all this time using her as my own personal plaything?

“Fuuuck,” I mutter, my voice scratching against my throat.

I sit back down on the couch and double click before I change my mind. A window pops up, full of files. Dozens of them—photos, videos, screenshots, documents.

I click the first file, my pulse kicking up a notch. It’s a screenshot of a text thread.