Skylar's POV
I didn't sleep at all last night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that photograph—James arguing with the mysterious blonde girl. And those words written on the back: YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED IN SEATTLE.
Riley wanted to call campus security, but I said no. What would I tell them? Someone broke into my locked room without leaving any trace and left me a creepy photo? They'd think I was paranoid. Crazy. Just like everyone else does.
But I'm not crazy. That photo is real. The threat is real.
And now I'm sitting in Investigative Journalism 301, my first class at Ashwood University, trying not to fall apart.
The classroom is packed with students. I chose a seat in the middle—not too close to the front where I'd stand out, not too far back where I couldn't see. Riley's in a different building taking Computer Science. I'm completely alone, surrounded by strangers who all seem to know each other.
Nobody knows who I am yet. Nobody knows I'm the dead boy's girlfriend.
I want to keep it that way.
Professor Williams walks in carrying a stack of papers. He's older, maybe sixty, with gray hair and intense eyes that scan the room like he's looking for something. When his gaze passes over me, I feel like he can see right through me.
"Good morning," he says, his voice strong and clear. "Welcome to Investigative Journalism. This class isn't for the faint of heart. If you want easy grades and simple assignments, leave now."
Nobody moves.
"Good." He smiles, but it's not a friendly smile. "Investigative journalism is about one thing: finding the truth. Not the easy truth. Not the comfortable truth. The actual truth, even when people don't want you to find it. Even when it's dangerous. Even when it costs you everything."
My hands grip the edge of my desk. He's describing exactly what I'm trying to do.
"The truth matters," Professor Williams continues, walking between the rows of desks. "Without it, we're just telling stories. Pretty lies. Comfortable fiction." He stops and looks directly at me. "Who can tell me why the truth matters?"
Everyone turns to stare at me. My face burns. Why did he pick me?
"Because..." I swallow hard. "Because people deserve to know what really happened. Even if it hurts."
"Especially if it hurts," Professor Williams corrects. "The truth that's easy to find isn't the truth that changes the world." He moves to the front of the class. "Let me give you an example. Last year, a student at this university died. The newspapers all reported it the same way: suicide. Tragic. A young man jumps from a building. Case closed."
My heart stops beating.
No. He's not going to—
"But what if the newspapers were wrong?" Professor Williams continues. "What if it wasn't suicide? As journalists, our job isn't to accept what we're told. Our job is to ask questions. To dig deeper. To find—"
BANG!
The door at the back of the classroom slams open so hard it hits the wall. Everyone jumps. A tall guy with dark messy hair stands there, his gray eyes blazing with anger.
"Don't," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "Don't you dare talk about him like he's just a story for your class."
Professor Williams doesn't look surprised. "Mr. Cross, please sit down."
"No." The guy—Mr. Cross—walks down the aisle, and I can feel the rage coming off him in waves. "James was a person. He was my friend. You don't get to use his death as a teaching moment."
James. He said James.
This is Damon Cross. James's roommate. His best friend.
"The truth matters, Mr. Cross," Professor Williams says calmly. "I thought you of all people would understand that."
"The truth?" Damon laughs, but it sounds bitter and broken. "The truth is that James is dead, and nothing I do will bring him back. The truth is that everyone needs to leave him alone and let him rest in peace."
He turns and stares directly at me. Our eyes meet, and I feel like I've been electrocuted. His eyes are gray like storm clouds, and they're filled with so much pain it takes my breath away.
For a second, something flickers across his face. Recognition? Confusion?
Then he turns and walks out, slamming the door behind him.
The classroom is completely silent.
Professor Williams sighs. "That was Damon Cross. James Chen's roommate and best friend. As you can see, the truth isn't always easy to face."
But I'm not listening anymore. My mind is racing.
Damon Cross was James's best friend. He lived with James. He was probably one of the last people to see James alive. He might know something—something important—and not even realize it.
I need to talk to him.
The rest of class passes in a blur. Professor Williams talks about ethics and sources and fact-checking, but I don't hear any of it. All I can think about is Damon's face, the pain in his eyes, the way he defended James's memory.
He cared about James. Really cared.
Which means he'll either help me find the truth... or he'll try to stop me.
The second class ends, I grab my bag and run.
I burst out of the building and look around frantically. Where would he go? The library? The student center? Back to his dorm?
Then I see him. He's walking fast across the quad, his hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulders hunched like he's trying to make himself smaller.
"Wait!" I yell, running after him. "Damon Cross, wait!"
He doesn't stop. If anything, he walks faster.
I run harder, my bag bouncing against my side. "Please! I need to talk to you!"
Finally, he stops and spins around. Up close, he's even taller than I thought—at least six foot three. And angry. So angry.
"What?" he snaps.
Now that I'm here, I don't know what to say. Hi, I'm your dead friend's girlfriend, and I think someone murdered him?
"I'm Skylar," I manage. "Skylar Bennett. I was—"
"I know who you are." His voice is cold. "James talked about you."
My heart squeezes. "He did?"
"He said you were smart. Determined. Stubborn as hell." Damon's jaw clenches. "He loved you."
Past tense. Loved. Not loves.
"I loved him too," I whisper.
"Then why are you here?" Damon demands. "Why aren't you home grieving like a normal person? Why did you transfer to the place where he died?"
"Because I don't think he killed himself."
The words hang in the air between us.
Damon stares at me. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything. Then: "Go home, Skylar."
"What?"
"Go home. Get therapy. Move on with your life." He starts to walk away. "James is gone. Accept it."
"I can't!" I grab his arm, and he freezes. "Damon, please. James was terrified of heights. You lived with him. You know that's true."
Something flickers in his eyes. Doubt? Agreement?
"And he texted me three hours before he died," I continue. "He said he was standing up to someone who wouldn't take no for an answer. Who was he talking about?"
Damon pulls his arm away. "I don't know."
"But he told you things, right? You were his best friend. Did he mention anyone bothering him? Anyone acting strange?"
"I said I don't know!" Damon's voice rises. "You think I haven't asked myself these questions every single day for six months? You think I haven't torn myself apart wondering if I missed something?"
His pain is so raw it makes my chest ache.
"Then help me," I say quietly. "Help me find out what really happened."
"There's nothing to find." But his voice wavers. "The police investigated. They said—"
"The police were wrong." I step closer. "Deep down, you know they were wrong. I can see it in your eyes. You don't believe it was suicide either."
Damon's face goes pale. His hands clench into fists.
"Leave. It. Alone." Each word is carefully controlled, but I can hear the emotion underneath. "James is dead, and digging into his death won't bring him back. It'll only destroy you."
"I'm already destroyed!" The words burst out of me. "I lost the person I loved most in the world, and everyone tells me to just accept it and move on. But I can't, Damon. I won't. Not until I know the truth."
We stare at each other, two people drowning in grief and guilt.
"I can't help you," Damon finally says, but his voice is softer now. Tired. "I can't go through this again. I'm sorry."
He walks away, and this time I let him go.
I'm walking back to my dorm when my phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number:
Stop asking questions about James Chen.
My hands shake as I stare at the screen. Another text comes through:
Damon Cross can't protect you. Nobody can.
Then a third message. This one is a photo.
It's a picture of me from five minutes ago, standing in the quad talking to Damon. Someone took this photo. Someone was watching us.
The final text comes through:
Last warning. Leave Ashwood. Or you'll end up just like James.
I spin around, scanning the quad. Students everywhere. Any one of them could be watching me right now. Any one of them could be the killer.
My phone buzzes again. Another photo.
This time it's taken from much closer. I'm standing in front of my dorm building. Last night. Right before I went inside.
Someone has been following me since I arrived.
Someone knows everything I'm doing.
And someone is promising that if I don't stop investigating, I'll be the next one to die.