"I can't remember what happened that night. I'm not talking slippery details or fuzzy-edged visions; I mean a complete and utter blackout. Like I wasn't even there. Except... I know I was."
Since the death of her boyfriend six months ago, Morgan Cai...
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The rain batters my dorm room window like it's trying to shatter the glass. Every so often, the sky cracks apart with a rumble of thunder, which manages to stay audible no matter how many notches I crank up the volume on my earphones. And I do that every time.
It's not that I'm scared of storms, but something about them puts me on edge. The unrelenting noise, the sudden desertion—when I look out my window, a place that's usually teeming with life is like a wasteland. No life. No soul. No witnesses. Out there, anything could happen and nobody would notice.
I almost don't catch the vibration of my phone on the bedside table.
As I pull an earphone out, my white noise playlist fades into the other ear, and I lift my head from the pillow for a better look at the screen. It's not even eleven, so I tell myself I've not yet actually gone to bed, but being tucked up under the covers and staring blankly at the ceiling is pretty close.
It makes Elliot's name—and the two words that come after—all the more unexpected.
We're outside.
MORGAN: What?
For a first thought, it's all I have. Because for starters I live on the fourth floor—and unless they've slipped in behind someone else who typed the passcode for both the front door and the elevator, there's no way they can be standing outside my room. But before Elliot's three jumping dots have a chance to turn into a second message, I realize what else he could be getting at.
By the time his message—Look out the window—comes through, I'm already at the glass.
My room is at the front of the building, which means it overlooks the main entrance. Unlike my dorm last year, it doesn't have a full-sized parking lot; instead there's a square of concrete with a few disabled spaces, lined by a pathetic strip of trampled grass. The spaces are usually empty—probably because with six floors and an elevator that spends half its time out of use, Marshall Hall can hardly be considered accessible—but right now that's not the case.
My gaze lands on a beat-up silver Nissan, although the front bumper is a different color completely: bright, fire-truck red. The rest of the car looks like it's survived a war; there are dents all over and I'm not convinced some of them aren't bullet holes. Fazia's hanging out of the driver's side window, Adam in the back, and Elliot is standing under the porch looking right up at me.
It's kind of a weird sight.
I open the window the couple of inches health and safety regulations will allow, pushing hard when it gets stuck halfway. When I finally break the seal, three voices sail up to me through the rain.
It's impossible to make out words over the pounding of pavement and splitting cracks of thunder. Elliot's calling to me, but his voice gets swept away by the wind, reaching me only in splintered fragments that make no sense alone. Eventually, he notices my confusion. Then points to the phone in his hand.
