A few days later
I sift through the pages of the diary, wondering if I missed something about those boys. There must be. Why else would she hide this one page?
I don’t understand why Dylan, Ali, and Felix would say it was a joint decision.
Her words looked like she was desperate and distraught. Who would write these words and then still want to break up? It doesn’t make any sense.
I swallow as I come across the same text.
At the bottom is a number. 303.
Why would she put this here?
Was it a mistake?
I saw it before, but I didn’t think it mattered.
What if it did?
I sift through more of the pages until I get to page 303, but there doesn’t appear to be anything significant on it besides a picture of her and the guys taped on top of the page, adorned with hearts and smileys.
What does it mean?
She wouldn’t just put those numbers there for no reason, right?
This book wasn’t just a diary. She hid that page on purpose so the guys wouldn’t find it, which means it contains a message. A message she wanted me to find.
“What are you trying to tell me, Eve?” I mutter in the bathroom stall.
“Penelope?”
I hold my breath.
“Pen? It’s me. Kayla.” She knocks on my door.
I sigh and get up, closing the diary before I turn the lock.
“Hey,” she says, peeking through. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head and walk out of the stall to take a much-needed drink at the sink by sticking my head under the faucet. After I’ve swallowed my sip, I say, “You were right about those guys. I should’ve stayed away, and I didn’t.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to be. I just didn’t want you to get hurt.” She rubs my back.
“They never told me they fucked around with my sister and then broke up with her right before the bonfire.”
She rubs her lips together. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know they were an item too. Her death bothers you a lot, doesn’t it?”
I nod at her through the mirror. “I can’t stop looking through the diary, wondering what I missed. If I could …” I rub my forehead. “If I could just talk to her and ask.”
She pulls me in for a hug.
“I’m sorry, girl. I know it’s been rough on you,” she says. “Those guys play with everyone’s heads. It’s what they do. They destroy everything in their path, starting with your sister and ending with you.”
I suck in a heavy breath. “I was there when she jumped.”
“You couldn’t have stopped her. She’d made up her mind already,” she says.
“How do you know?” I ask.
She pulls me back and looks me in the eyes. “Tilda told me she heard Eve crying in the bathroom before the bonfire.”
I frown. “Tilda? Tilda was there that night?”
She nods. “Not at the bonfire, but at the sorority. From what Tilda told me, it sounded like Eve just had a huge argument in the dean’s office.”
My pupils dilate. “Wait … the dean’s office? You’re sure?”
“Tilda doesn’t lie about those things. It broke her to realize she might’ve been one of the last ones to talk to Eve.” She averts her eyes. “Before she …”
I swallow and turn toward the mirror again, staring at myself.
At the image of my own sister’s face reflecting right back at me.
303.
The numbers.
My eyes widen.
I slam the diary onto the sink and open the first page, where I placed the torn paper.
303.
“What’s that?” Kayla mutters as she peeks over my shoulder. “Is that … Eve’s?”
I flip through the diary until I find the warning written on the pages. The warning I thought was meant for me.
Don’t stop.
Don’t look back.
Don’t fall.
Run.
303.
It wasn’t just a warning.
It’s the fucking key.
I turn and grab Kayla’s arm. “What room is the dean’s office? What’s the number?”
She looks distressed. “I don’t know. Uh … three? Maybe?”
“What floor?”
“Third,” she says.
And it’s all I need to know.
I peck Kayla on the cheek. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“You’re welcome, I guess?” she mutters, confused.
I shut the diary and stuff it into my bag, then run off.
“Penelope!” Kayla yells as she follows me out of the bathroom. “Where are you going?”
“I need to know something. I’ll talk to you later,” I holler over my shoulder. “Thank you!”
I run through the hallways of the main building, pushing past people who obviously seem pissed off that I’m butting in. But I can’t wait any longer now that I know my sister left these clues in there on purpose. She wanted me to find out about her being in the dean’s office that night.
But what happened in there?
What did he say to her?
Or did something else occur?
The thought of him hurting her sets me off as I rush up the stairs as fast as possible. First floor. Second floor. Third floor.
My heart is racing in my throat, and I take a moment to catch my breath before I walk toward his office. The number 303 sits on a plaque on top of the wood, drawing me in like a moth to a flame as my hand curls around the door handle.
To my surprise, it’s not locked.
Maybe Dylan’s father forgot the last time he was here.
I open the door and step inside. The musty air invades my nostrils as I close the door behind me and look around. Dust covers the shelves of his bookcase, and I look through them to see if I can find any reports on my sister. So far, none match her name.
I go over to his desk and sit down behind it, turning on the computer. Sweat beads roll down my back as I wait for it to start. When the home button appears, I immediately open his mailbox and search for my sister’s name to see if he’s had any contact with her.
But to my surprise, there are none.
Zero emails carrying her name.
This doesn’t make any sense because I can see he definitely emails about his other students.
Did he delete them so no one would find any evidence?
My eyes momentarily skitter away to the notes on his desk, but they fixate on a particular small stack of papers inside a box. Because it’s yellow, same color as the paper tucked underneath my door.
I grab one and feel it.
Same texture too.
On the corner of the desk lies a book with personal notes, and curiosity forces me to open it. His handwriting is all over each date, outlining all of his business for the rest of the year.
But what strikes me the most is the letters and the way they’re written. The loop on the E and the curl at the bottom of the letter F …
I fish out my phone and find the photo I took of the note shoved under my door, and my hand begins to quake.
It’s the same.
The same handwriting.
The same paper. The same color. The same texture.
My heart skips a beat.
It came from here.
Did Dylan’s father threaten me?
But that doesn’t make any sense. He’s the dean. Why would he stoop so low as to get multiple students to shove notes underneath one girl’s door when he could just call her into his office and talk to her? He has all the power. He could kick me out of this school any time he wanted. I don’t understand.
Suddenly, the door slams open, and I stare right into the eyes of the man whose office I’ve raided.
“You,” he asks, his voice accusatory. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you,” I reply.
It’s part lie, part truth. Even though I hate to even look at this man, I need to know the truth.
He puts his briefcase on the table next to the door. “You broke into my office?”
“Your door was open,” I retort as I get up from his seat.
“Impossible,” he scoffs.
I shrug.
“You realize it’s illegal to barge into my office, right?” He narrows his eyes as he takes off his coat like he’s about to get busy with work. “I could expel you just for the audacity.”
I cross my arms. “Is that what you threatened my sister with?”
He pauses while hanging his coat and stares me in the eyes.
“Yeah, I know about your little ‘talk’ right before the bonfire.” I make air quotes with my fingers.
His nostrils twitch as he approaches the desk, but I’m not afraid of him or the consequences of being here. Because if even an inch of it is true, he’s in deeper shit than I am.
“Tell me, what do you think it is you know?” he mutters, approaching the desk.
I grab one of the yellow papers off his desk and hold it up. “Someone pushed a note underneath my door. The same paper.”
He snorts. “What does that have to do with anything? There’s a ton of this kind of paper on the market.”
“Your handwriting was on it.”
His pupils dilate, and he leans in. “Listen here, I don’t know what you’ve got into your head, but—”
I hold up my phone and show him the picture of the note.
He can’t deny it now.
“You sent some fucking students to send me a threat.”
He snorts. “Ridiculous.”
“No wonder he wouldn’t tell us,” I snarl. “Why?”
The dean suddenly slams his fist onto the desk. “This is my office. Do you hear me? Get. Out.”
I stare right back at him, determined not to budge even an inch. “No. What did you tell my sister?” I interject. “I have a right to know.”
A wicked smirk forms on his face, and it’s the first time I see Dylan in him. But this smile … it’s far more sinister than Dylan could ever be.
“You’re just as meddlesome as she was. Always up in everyone’s business where you don’t belong,” he seethes.
“So you admit you made Nathan put that note under my door,” I growl.
“I told my son he shouldn’t involve himself with the likes of you, and now look at what you’ve done—breaking into my office like you own the fucking place,” he retorts.
“Answer me,” I say.
“Or what? You gonna threaten me with that little knife of yours?”
My eyes flicker.
How? When? Where?
“Yeah, I’ve seen you toy around with that thing,” he scoffs. “You’re a child. You have no clue how dangerous that is.”
“What are you talking about?” I mutter.
His eyes darken in a terrifying manner. “My son is not your fucking plaything,” he grates, slamming both hands onto the desk now. “You are a threat to him. Just like your fucking sister.”
My face tightens as I lean in, almost crushing my phone in my hand. “Is that why you sent that note?”
“Stay. Away. From. Him,” he reiterates.
I stand up straight, unable to keep my emotions from taking over. “She jumped because of you.”
His face contorts. “How dare you?”
My nostrils flare. “You made her break up with those boys, didn’t you?”
He snorts. “I don’t care what you call it. I told my boy he needed to quit before it got out of hand, and he didn’t take my advice until it was too late.”
Wait … the dean made the boys break up with her too?
His jaw barely opens up as he grits, “I gave that girl a choice, and she didn’t take it.”
My eyes widen.
What?
A choice? As if dying was a fucking choice?
“You threatened her just like you threatened me,” I growl. “You wanted her gone.”
“She was toying with my son, messing with his heart and his head,” he growls, leaning over the desk like he intends to grab me. “I allowed her to leave the school. Quietly.” He pauses. “But she decided to make a fuss.”
A fuss.
A fucking fuss.
That’s what he reduces her suicide to.
“And if you do not stop engaging with my son, I will require you to leave as well,” he warns. “Unless you want your parents to have zero children left.”
My eyes widen as I step away from his desk, my heart palpitating, and I run out the door, not even once looking over my shoulder.
