8

Sunday

February 4

The next morning, I have to get out of the house. I’ve been given extra time to finish my media project, but throwing myself into work is a welcome distraction. I keep thinking about Sonny’s body slumped on the floor, covered in blood. I need to think of anything else.

Chace has agreed to accompany me. Whether he needs a distraction too or he doesn’t want to let me go alone, I don’t know. Since the editing suites are still taped off, we head to the library. Even though the library is in another section of campus and nowhere near the editing suites, I still don’t want to go alone. I may have used a little bribery, suggesting we stop by the dining hall to pick up some coffee and snacks.

“You holding up okay after last night?” he asks, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye as we walk.

I hid in my room for the rest of the day. Between anxiety, grief, and guilt, I couldn’t bear the thought of facing my friends. I cried and tried to distract myself with social media. And when articles and rumors about what happened kept popping into my feeds, I shoved my phone under my pillow and binged movies on my laptop until I fell asleep—a heavy, dreamless sleep. I’m so grateful I never remember my dreams, if I even have any.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. It’s all so upsetting. Isaac’s take on the Jake thing on top of finding Sonny kind of rattled me.”

“No one was saying it’s your fault,” Chace says pointedly. “But we called Detective Lina to tell her about Isaac’s suspicions. She is going to look into it and contact Jake, even if it’s just to eliminate him.”

“Oh.” I blink. I didn’t know they’d called without me. “Okay. What did she say specifically?”

“She just said she’d look into it, so I guess she’ll contact him and ask him to go to the station. I don’t know, we’ll see.” Chace frowns, distracted by something in the distance.

There is a large mass of people gathered around the noticeboard outside the main dining hall. We fall in behind the crowd, Chace stepping closer to me.

“What’s going on?” I push up on my tiptoes to try to see what has everyone’s attention.

The people around us elbow one another, nodding in our direction and staring. It’s like Chace and I are the center of some joke or gossip.

My heart plummets into my stomach.

Chace senses the shift too and wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me closer to him. I’m not complaining, but I wish it was because he had feelings for me, not because I’m sensing we need to stick together for safety.

Something is really wrong.

“What is everyone looking at?” I ask a girl I vaguely recognize from around campus.

She rolls her pale eyes. “There’s something pinned up on the noticeboard with a knife. Something gross, like an body part or a piece of meat. There’s blood everywhere. People are freaking, thinking it’s a real heart—obviously it’s not.”

My knees go weak as the crowd parts and suddenly the board becomes visible. The large cork board is littered with random fliers, open party invitations, study groups, and takeout menus. Right in the centre though, is an organ. An organ from a body. A red and brown lump with bits dripping. It looks a bit like a chunk of beef. But it isn’t. Blood has dripped down on to the fliers below it, leaving a red trail on the board and a puddle on the ground.

It’s a heart. Sonny’s heart. It must be.

“Chace,” I whisper, tugging on his arm.

He guides me away from the crowd. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Lylah. I’m sure it’s not real. I’m sure it’s just a Valentine’s Day prank.”

It’s not though. Knifing a heart to a bulletin board is not a prank.

“Be serious. We both know what that is,” I say, pointing toward the organ. “The killer put it there on display like some trophy or threat, and—”

“Lylah, stop.” Chace presses his forehead against mine. “Calm down before you hyperventilate. I’m going to call Detective Lina.”

Before he can pull out his phone, two campus security officers come running. “The police are probably already on their way. Do we stay? I just want to go home.”

“Detective Lina knows where we live if she wants us.”

I shudder. “He was here again. On campus. Right near us.”

“Don’t think about that now,” Chace tries to reassure me.

How can I not? The person who killed Sonny is still leaving threats. First the notes, now his…his heart. This can’t just be about Sonny. The killer is threatening us.

Sinking into Chace’s arms, I bury my head against his neck.

“It’s going to be okay, Lylah. They’ll find whoever is doing this,” he murmurs.

“Clear the area,” an authoritative voice shouts from behind Chace. “Back up! Now!”

The small crowd disburses, but they don’t really go anywhere. They only move a safe distance away so they can still watch the action. Chace and I shuffle back with them.

“Let’s go,” he says. “We’ll call Detective Lina later to let her know we were passing by and find out what’s going on.”

I nod in agreement, but my eyes don’t leave the scene. I watch the police, who have arrived, and security officers examining the heart. It’s quite clearly a heart. One is talking into a radio, no doubt calling for further help.

“Lylah?” Chace runs his thumb along my jaw to get my attention. “Come on. Let me get you home and take care of you.”

His words are so soft and filled with promise that for a brief moment, there is so much I want to tell him about how I’m feeling, about my parents, about how I was after their death, about how I feel that anxiety creeping back now, but I keep my lips pressed together.

I can trust Chace, but I don’t want to unload all of my crap on him. He’s going through this too.

We walk along the path toward our house, the canopy of trees half sheltering us from a drizzle that dampens the ground. The rain has only just started, but I wonder if it poses a problem for forensics if Sonny’s heart is still on the noticeboard.

God, there was so much blood.

My legs are freezing in my damp jeans by the time we get to our gate. On the doorstep is a bouquet of red roses.

Chace glances at me. “Maybe they’re for Sienna from Nathan? Or a sympathy bouquet?” The words hold no weight. He doesn’t believe them himself. Neither do I.

Pushing the gate open, Chace approaches the flowers like they are going to explode, and he crouches down.

“A dozen red roses,” he mutters, turning them to see if there is a note.

“No…there are only eleven,” I say, flicking my gaze over them again, taking a second count.

Chace frowns. “Why are there only eleven?”

My heart skips as I realize the answer. “Because the twelfth is in my bedroom,” I whisper.

He lifts his eyebrow and straightens his back. “What?”

“The night before Sonny went missing, I found a rose in my bed. I assumed it was him pulling a prank. Remember last year? He left fake spiders in the beds of the girls in my hall?”

“You don’t think it was Sonny?”

With my heart in my stomach, I shake my head slowly. “No, I don’t think it was Sonny.”

Chace lets out a long breath. “Whoever left these…whoever killed Sonny was in your room?”

My spine stiffens. It makes sense. “Yes, I think so.”

Chace looks scared—like he did after overhearing those gruesome details from the police. He digs in his pocket. “I’m calling Detective Lina now. We should get inside in case we’re being watched. But don’t act suspicious. Bring the flowers inside?”

I let us into the house and carry the flowers into the living room while Chace dials the detective’s phone. A red string holds the stems in place. I sit down on the sofa put the roses down, not wanting to handle them in case the police can lift fingerprints.

Chace hangs up the phone. “Detective Lina’s coming over after she deals with the new crime scene, but she’s sending a cop to sit outside our house until she gets here.”

“She thinks the killer’s coming for us? For me?” Why else would I have the final rose from the bouquet?

Chace sinks to his knees in front of me. “Nothing is going to happen to you, Lylah. The cops will find this guy, life will slide back to normal, and you can get back your plans for meeting Tom Hardy.”

He always knows how to cheer me up. Giving him a sly grin, I take a calming breath. “I would enjoy that.”

He rolls his eyes. “Of course you would. If you want to be a film editor though, you might not meet him.”

“Ha. After working on this assignment, I think it’s safe to say I don’t want to do that professionally. I like being behind the camera. I will like it even more when I’m behind the camera shooting a shirtless Tom Hardy in a scene.”

Chace tilts his head to the side. “So what does he have that I don’t? Besides a shitload of money.”

“Hmm… Yeah, just the money. Otherwise your qualities surpass his.” My comment slips out before I can think about it. He doesn’t look surprised or taken aback by what I’ve said, though I’ve never been quite so obvious before.

Chace smiles. “Glad to hear it.”

• • •

Detective Lina took our statements and the flowers three hours ago. We’ve heard nothing since, not that I’d expect to. She’d asked us if Jake participated in pranks the previous year. He had. He never sent notes or flowers, but he’d egged buildings and had thrown water and flour on cars. She also let us know that cops were investigating the heart found on campus, but that it wasn’t a human heart—it was a pig’s heart.

There could be a lot of coincidences here. Valentine’s Day pranks are rife, and someone could simply be trying to be funny. Or maybe someone’s parents sent flowers, and the florist forgot to include a card. Or maybe they are meant for condolences, to honor Sonny.

It all seems unlikely though. I hate the idea of someone planning Sonny’s death. If it was premeditated, which it seems to be since someone is sending notes and flowers, then the killer is even sicker than I originally thought. And maybe more dangerous.

Chace, Sienna, and Charlotte are at the store with two cops. I was going to go too, but I needed a few minutes alone. Well, as alone as I’m allowed to be. Isaac is in his room, talking to his family on the phone, and there are two cops outside—one patrolling the road at the front, and the other out the back. But I’m by myself in the living room, and that’s when my phone rings. My brother’s name flashes on the screen. Crap, I haven’t called to tell him. By now he’s probably heard about Sonny on the news.

“Hey, Riley,” I say, accepting his call.

“What is wrong with you, Lylah? Your housemate was murdered and you don’t call to let me know you are okay?” His deep voice sounds even deeper when he’s angry.

“Riley, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to scare you. Things have been…hectic. I’ve barely had time to process what’s happened.”

“What did happen?”

Like he doesn’t know the details. Riley has a way of finding out everything about my life—even when it’s not splashed across the news. When our parents died, he closed in tight. At first it was what I needed. I was free falling, and Riley held me together. But as I healed, and my sessions with my therapist started to pay off, having Riley as my shadow started to feel suffocating. He was all for me getting better, but he couldn’t let go, let our relationship go back to the way it had been.

We’d gotten stuck in some unhealthy situations where he was constantly trying to save me. He made excuses for why I missed so much school, telling them I was unwell or had appointments, and completed assignments for me so I didn’t fall behind. His life became all about making sure I was okay. He even lost a job because he took off so much time when I was at my worst, and that wasn’t fair to him. College was the escape we both needed.

I was supposed to go home for a few days over Valentine’s Day, but this year, I can’t face it. Riley sounded so hurt when I told him a couple of weeks ago, but he said he ultimately understood that I’m where I need to be right now. I need to take care of myself.

“Lylah, what happened?” he repeats.

“Sonny was murdered. Stabbed. Chace and I found him in—”

“You found him?!” he roars. “Jesus, Lylah, are you okay? You should have called. I can be there in four hours. I’ll leave now.”

“No, Riley! I’m safe. I’m fine. You don’t need to come.”

“Like hell you don’t need me! There’s a killer on your campus!”

“I don’t need you to come. Honestly, it’s hard enough to keep myself together. It’ll be worse if you’re here.”

He snorts. “Tell it like it is, sis.”

“That’s not how I meant it. But you know how you’ll be, all overprotective and trying to fix the situation. I love you for it, Riley, I really do, but it’s not what I need right now. I need space. Chace and my friends have been great. And there are resources, like therapy, if I need them.”

“But they’re not your family. They don’t know you the way I do. We’re all each other has, Lylah, so if you need someone to talk to, I’m it.”

Rolling my eyes, I reply, “I’ve got this. I promise I’m a lot stronger than I was.”

“You need to check in with me more. I’ve barely heard from you this semester.”

“Sorry, I’ve been busy. I have a lot of work for my classes. I’ll try to call more.”

He blows out a long breath and changes the subject back to Sonny. “Where do I even start with these questions?”

I let out a dry laugh. “That’s how I feel too. The cops are working tirelessly to find the killer.”

Riley would be in his car immediately if I told him about the notes and flowers that came to the house we live in—the house I live in. The rose in my bed! So I don’t tell him. His intentions are good, but he’s assertive to the point of it being a flaw. I can’t have him here pestering the cops and telling me what I should be doing every minute of every day.

Even the thought of it makes my heart sink.

“I don’t feel right staying here when you’re dealing with this.”

“I’m not a kid, Riley. You don’t have to play parent anymore. Just be supportive. Be my brother.”

Though I can’t see him, I know he’s frowning. Riley was twenty-one and I was seventeen when our parents died. We’ve always been close, but I like that I’ve become independent.

“You call me the second you need me. I’ll be there. Promise me, Lylah.”

“I promise. Thank you for not going overboard.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies sarcastically. “And Lylah?”

“Yeah?”

“Think about that therapy. Seriously, think about it. Don’t let your anxiety take over.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate. When Mom and Dad died, I tried to get better alone. I felt so many emotions at once, and I started having panic attacks. After three months, I broke down and found a professional to see.

It was a dark time, but I managed to claw it together enough to start school as I’d planned. I’m not going to let Sonny’s death take me off my path. I’ve worked too hard to get where I am now.

“I will. Love you,” I say.

“Love you too.”

I hang up, and my phone slides out of my hand. Some conversations with Riley are exhausting. I lean back on the couch and close my eyes.

Every time my parents come up in conversation, a stabbing pain shoots through my stomach. It’s been nearly two years, and I’d hoped it would get easier, but I still miss them so much.

I breathe in deep through my nose and out through my mouth—an exercise my therapist taught me when I started to feel like I was going to fall apart. I can slowly feel myself start to relax when the doorbell rings.

Sighing, I get up. My housemates must’ve forgotten their keys or be carrying too many bags to unlock the door.

I glance through the window, but no one is there.

Another doorbell ditch?

My blood runs cold as I open the door.

An envelope is sitting on our mat. The world turns mute as the blood rushes to my ears. Bending down, I scoop up the envelope. It’s addressed to Isaac. And it looks like exactly the one that came for Sonny.

No…

I turn it over and pull out the note. My hands are shaking as I read:

“Isaac!” rips from my throat.

“What?” he calls from his room down the hall. My voice is trapped in my throat as I look up and down the street. There are still a few folks leaving flowers, looking at the makeshift memorial in front of our house. Did one of them do this? Did one of them see who left the note? I feel so exposed. Vulnerable.

I draw back inside and shut the door, trembling.

Isaac’s footsteps thud from his bedroom into the foyer. “Lylah, what?” His face falls and his eyes widen as he sees what’s in my hand. “Is that another note?”

Nodding, I hand it to him.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “Who was it addressed to?”

I look up at him, my vision blurring with tears. “You.”