𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐀 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

XXI

     Janes pov
Sometimes, I'm never where I am—not truly, because I'm only inside my head.  It's both a coping mechanism and a curse, a constant taunt. Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of my own thoughts. Times like this.

I thank the years of debate for my research skills, even if right now, I feel like I'd rather live in constant bliss than click on the next page. The Vitiello line, dated back decades ago, is a traditional family of old money. The Apple brand has dated back to 1976, but the family owns many early electric brands, the first of many in Russia and the US. According to the newspapers, the family has a history of attending Hendrix Academy. Before Henry, his father; Maxim Vitiello. Before him, Aleksander Vitiello, and so on. Searching Henry's father, I've realized he had an older brother that never took over the company, which is unusual because of their history of firstborns being the first heirs. I try to research more about this brother, but all that comes up is an outdated new york times paper; VITIELLO HEIR FOUND DEAD AT BIRCH PSYCHIATRIC WARD, JUNE 3RD, 1995.

My heart stops at the mention of Birch, the same psychiatric ward I've been to, and the same one Dr. Martinez works for. I try to click on the document, but it's deleted, the only media coverage being the digital footprint before it was bought back and destroyed. I research the day, but no events come up. I expand it to the year, and a couple of thousand searches come up. HENDRIX ACADEMY SERIAL KILLING, MORE STUDENTS AND HEIRS DEAD.

The headmaster had mentioned a serial killer on the loose during his time here, but he never mentioned anything more. I try to click on the files, but they're all locked behind security, and the only person I know who can crack them, well, I can't really call. Fuck.

I swarm the waters of my mind, drowning in the thoughts as I try to retrace every step I've taken. I'm missing something, I know it. You can do better, I hear my father's voice. You can always do better. I've researched hundreds of other cases more complex than this, I've won awards for it, and yet, none have been this personal. I put my head in my hands, the weight of all my thoughts becoming unbearable.

And then, it hits me. The heiress Adeline Meadows was found dead in my dorm. Murdered. If I could just find the article again... and there you go. 1995. Senior year for my parents, and for Adeline. Only a few months before Henry's uncle had killed himself.

Aleksander Vitiello, I type and hit search. The firstborn, heir and founder of the newest brand of Apple. Millions of searches pop up at his name, but I search for his graduate degree to see where he finished school... and bingo. Hendrix Academy. I'm almost stumped. almost. I can't find anything on Aleksanders father, but something else goes off in the dark mind of mine. 1973 was his senior year at Hendrix academy, so I type in crime in the area during that time period.

THE GRIM REAPER OF HENDRIX ACADEMY KILLS AGAIN.
The New York Times
April 18th, 1973.

It's as if everything was organized. As if everything is planned out. As if it's written in stone, a pattern, a sick family tradition. All in the name of money and power. And I realize, I've been used like a pawn in a game board of chess.

What they don't realize is the pawn can be used and sacrificed, but never captured. What they don't realize is this pawn is tired of playing the same game over and over again—tired of being underestimated, tired of being hurt. It's my turn to play. My turn to hurt. And for once, instead of being afraid of myself, I can give them something to fear. They've deemed me as dangerous before I could ever mutter a word. They've tortured, lied, hurt, and ruined me and still, I tried to prove them wrong. I'm tired of trying.

Henry was the last straw. He was my only reason to stay sane, I wanted to be normal for him. Because he deserved that. He deserved to love someone whose heart didn't cost him his life.  But now, to realize the same boy who made the voices in my head quiet was also the cause of the things my brain blamed me for... I hoped I was wrong. For their sake, and for the remaining pieces of my humanity, I prayed to whoever was willing to listen that I was wrong. That somehow, against the odds, he wasn't the killer. Because somewhere deep down, I love him. I don't want to love a boy who watched me turn insane over the murders he committed. I wouldn't let myself love him.