Blythe Tatum expected her freshman year at university to be nerve-wracking, though nothing out of the ordinary. The beginning of her school year starts off as averagely as possible, though Blythe soon finds herself caught up in an unexpected and ine...
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"I need all the articles you've written about Naomi's case."
I burst into Ivy's dorm room unannounced, causing her to flinch from where she's perched in the corner of the small room by her desk out of surprise. She turns to stare at me like I'm crazy, though I'm starting to get used to the look. I don't have time to explain my strange request to Ivy, though it wouldn't matter even if I tried to do so. She wouldn't believe me. Frankly, I don't even believe myself. And yet part of me knows my suspicions are correct all the same. My instincts have never been wrong—not when I feel something so strongly, such as this.
"Blythe?" Ivy asks, furrowing her eyebrows in confusion. "Uh . . . okay. I mean, they've all been published in the school—"
"Do you have copies?" I interrupt. "I need them now."
"Blythe, what is going on?" Ivy asks exasperatedly.
"Look"—I exhale sharply, shaking my head as I try to collect my thoughts—"the police are doing nothing to solve this case. I want to review all of the information we have so far. Maybe I can connect some dots the cops are overlooking."
I'm lying through my teeth, which makes me feel guilty. I've never lied to Ivy before. But I couldn't possibly explain to her what's really going on. Not without her calling someone to give me a psychiatric exam.
"So . . . you want to play detective? That's what this is about?" Ivy's expression reveals that she isn't buying my bullshit. In all honesty, I can't blame her. I'm a little off of my rocker at the moment.
"Sort of, I guess," I mumble lamely. "Anyway, about those copies . . .?"
Ivy stares at me blankly for a few moments longer before rising from her seat, rummaging through her desk drawers and grabbing a stack of papers before extending them out to me. "Good luck. I've reread those at least a million times. Nothing sticks out to me. At least, nothing of any use."
"Thanks." I turn to exit the room, though Ivy calls me back before I can step through the door.
"That's it? You just break into my room and leave with no explanation as to why?"
"I have an afternoon lecture." That's my second lie in minutes. The guilt eating at me continues to rapidly fill my chest. "I just wanted to stop by really quick to grab these articles."
"You've never had an afternoon—"
"Well, I do today. Thanks for the articles! I'll text you later!"
I leave Ivy's dorm before she can have a chance to ask any further questions.
Because how could I possibly tell my best friend that I'm experiencing hallucinations of a dead girl's murder?
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