It was 3:27 a.m.
The digital clock blinked in quiet defiance from the kitchen stove, casting its sterile green light into the dark room. Amber stood motionless near the window, phone clenched tight in her hand. The last text from Alison was hours ago.
omw soon
Sent at 12:42 p.m.
Nothing since.
She'd called. Six times. Straight to voicemail. No read receipts. No headlights in the driveway.
Something was wrong. Amber could feel it in her bones — a cold, creeping certainty that had settled in her chest like ice.
Finally, desperate for distraction or confirmation — anything — she picked up the TV remote and flicked the screen on. The blue light illuminated the room just as a red banner flashed across the bottom of the screen:
BREAKING NEWS: CAMPSTON UNIVERSITY TO SHUT DOWN INDEFINITELY AFTER FOURTH STUDENT DEATH
Amber's breath caught in her throat.
The news anchor's voice was tense but composed, betraying the horror behind the script.
"We have just received confirmation that a fourth Campston University student has been found dead, prompting the indefinite closure of the campus. The victim has been identified as 22-year-old Alison Thorne."
Amber's legs buckled.
No. No, no, no—
But it was the image on the screen that shattered her: aerial footage from a news helicopter, zooming in on a car — or what was left of it — mangled at the base of a rocky valley off Route 9. The vehicle had been torn apart. Roof crushed flat. Doors twisted like torn paper. No lights. No signs of movement.
But Amber knew that car. The dent in the left rear bumper. The purple ribbon tied to the side mirror. Alison always kept it there. For luck.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
It was Alison's car.
And no one — no human body — could survive that kind of hit.
"Authorities are still investigating the crash site, but early statements suggest the damage was extensive. Investigators have not ruled out foul play, particularly given the recent pattern of student deaths. Alison's body was recovered from the wreckage approximately an hour ago."
Amber's knees gave way and she collapsed onto the couch, staring blankly at the screen as Alison's smiling photo replaced the wreckage. The contrast was unbearable. Warmth to cold. Life to... that.
Micha. Zade. James. Now Alison.
Four names. Four silences.
Four murders.
The anchor continued, almost drowned out by the static buzz growing in Amber's ears:
"Campston University officials have released a brief statement confirming the indefinite closure of the institution. Students are expected to evacuate by the end of the week. The investigation remains ongoing, though several sources have confirmed that the deaths may be connected. Authorities have refused to comment further."
Amber didn't need their comment.
Alison hadn't just crashed. She had been eliminated.
She remembered what Alison had said a few days ago — frantic, paranoid, pacing Amber's kitchen with wild eyes:
"I think I've found something. If I'm right, they're not just covering up the murders. They're erasing the whole damn place."
Amber looked back at the screen — at the broken car, the valley, the twisted metal.
Whatever Alison had discovered... someone didn't want it getting out.
And now she was gone.
But Amber wasn't.
Not yet.
She stood slowly, jaw clenched, her fists shaking. If they thought the story was over, they were wrong.
Because now, Amber was the last thread left uncut.
And she was going to find out why.
***
By morning, their faces were everywhere.
News channels looped their photos with clinical detachment: smiling yearbook shots, campus ID headshots, old social media clips clipped from happier days. Micha. Zade. James. Alison.
Amber sat on the floor of her living room, knees pulled to her chest, as the television flickered with a fresh wave of coverage.
"...and we return now to the developing story out of Campston University, where four students have now died in what authorities suspect may be connected, intentional attacks."
The screen split into four squares — the victims' faces side by side like some grotesque hall of fame.
"The victims — Micha, 21; Zade Khalid, 22; James Kamau, 22; and most recently Alison Thorne, 21 — were all active students at the university. Each death has occurred within the last seven weeks."
Amber's stomach twisted as they aired an interview with Micha's mother, her voice cracking beneath the weight of disbelief.
"She was supposed to graduate this spring," the woman said, clutching a photo frame in her lap. "She called me two days before it happened. Said she felt like someone was watching her... but I thought she was just stressed."
Zade's father appeared next — stone-faced and furious.
"They said it was an accident, he was bitten by dogs. Then they said it wasn't. Now they say it's murder. And my son's dead. All we get are statements. We want answers."
James's sister, barely older than a teenager, sobbed on a news couch while her parents sat beside her like ghosts. They'd buried their son a week ago. Now, his name was being mentioned again — not as a person, but as part of a pattern.
Then came Alison.
Amber flinched when they showed her photo — not the sanitized school picture, but a candid one. The one Amber took on their last beach trip. Alison laughing with her head thrown back, sun in her curls, wind tugging at her hoodie.
"Friends close to Alison Thorne report she had expressed concerns about her safety in the days leading up to her death," the anchor said. "A source who wished to remain anonymous stated she had been researching something connected to the earlier deaths. That detail is now being investigated."
Amber's phone buzzed for the hundredth time that morning. Voicemails. Missed calls. Reporters. Family members. Friends she hadn't spoken to in years.
Everyone wanted the same thing — information. Closure. A story they could make sense of.
But there was no sense here. Only fear.
Campston's name was being dragged across headlines like a crime scene banner. "Elite University Turned Hunting Ground." "Dark Secrets Behind Ivy Walls." "A Serial Killer on Campus?"
Parents were showing up to campus with tear-streaked faces and shaking hands, dragging their kids out of dorms before they even finished packing. Amber had seen the footage online. The parking lots were swarming. Students crying. Police everywhere.
But none of them knew what Alison knew.
What Amber now carried alone.
And as the nation watched, dissecting the lives and deaths of four students like it was entertainment, the people who truly mattered — the families — were unraveling.
Four families shattered. Four futures stolen.
And a fifth life — Amber's — now tied to a question no one wanted to ask:
What did they die for?
And who would be next?