T.M.I.

Prologue

Everyone should know this. You can't prove a negative fact.

"You didn't do it?" Rosie Geld snarled. "Prove it!"

You can only prove positives that provide you with an alibi for the negative. I was not there because I was somewhere else. Use a positive to prove a negative.

"You did it, you fat slut. The entire school knows you did it."

But without an alibi, without a positive to dismiss the negative... You can't prove shit.

"Let me go, Rosie!" Audrey Hart tried to yank her hair out of the vice-like grip of the queen bee. "I told you I didn't do it. Those are just stupid high school rumors. You should know that better than anyone."

Rosie's grip only tightened. "Martin saw you. He was there, in their lockers, when you went in, you disgusting whore!"

Audrey tried to escape, but she'd already put up a fight and had been pushed around by Rosie's clique.

Miranda, Donna, Lexi, Ava.

Martin, Davey, Lucas, Antoine.

It's funny how some moments in life stay ingrained in your memory forever. Little details that don't matter stick with you and, as much as you try, you can't forget them.

What certain people wore, exactly what they said, how it smelled, how it made you feel.

Rosie's pink dress was just one shade darker than her highlights. She had a golden necklace on, the sapphire the exact color of her eyes. And with her bared teeth and upturned nose, she looked like a vicious pig. Her pupils were dilated, her breathing heavy. Her words poison.

"You sucked his dick!" Her holler was joined by a sharp thrust of her hand.

Audrey's head hit the bathroom tiles again. Her vision blurred and the smell of industrial sanitizer filled her nostrils. Her eyes, her throat, her soul... Everything burned.

"I didn't do it," she choked out.

"Yes. You. Did." Every word was another thrust against the tiles, another kick in the stomach from Lexi, another slap across the face from Miranda.

"Slut!"

"Whore!"

"Traitor!"

"How dare you?" Rosie raged. "He's my boyfriend!"

Was, Rosie. The past tense would've been obvious to any self-respecting woman. But not to you. Not to someone stupid enough to request the proof of a negative.

But at this point, Audrey had lost any and all abilities to reason. She hadn't heard the rumor before being cornered, after class, in the second floor bathroom of Petraka Academy by queen bee Rosie Geld and her posse. She didn't know she'd need an alibi, so she didn't have one.

Whether she'd really gone into the boys' locker room and provided oral services to the entire football team, like the rumor claimed, was irrelevant. Why Rosie wasn't screeching like hell's bells at her boyfriend was also irrelevant.

What did matter was that her weakness, the surprise, her desire to escape the pain, made her stupid. It made her bargain with terrorists.

We never bargain with terrorists.