SubChapter 4
Three months earlier
"You did WHAT?"Chance's voice rang across her bedroom.
She stood by her desk, holding a printed email in her hands shaking.
"Chance, let me explain…"
"You submitted MY essay. My research, my analysis, my words, under YOUR name." She looked at me like I was a stranger. "For the Whitmore Scholarship. The one we both applied for."
"I borrowed your structure," I said carefully. "I changed…"
"You changed twelve words, Ileh, twelve." She threw the papers onto the floor. "Do you know how I found out? Professor Hendricks mentioned how similar our 'approaches' were. So I looked at the submission portal when you left your laptop open at the library."
I had been careless. I made a mental note to never leave devices unattended, even with friends. Especially with friends. "I was desperate," I said, and let my voice crack just slightly. "My mom is working two jobs. If I didn't get this scholarship, I'd be taking out loans for the rest of my life. You don't understand that pressure…"
"Don't." Her voice went cold. "Don't make this about your mom. This is about you stealing from me."
I paused. Appeals to emotion wouldn't work. Chance valued principle over sentiment, I knew that. Should have led with logic.
"You're right. I'm sorry. What do you want me to do?"
"Tell the truth. Confess to the scholarship committee. Tell them what you did."
If I confess, my scholarship will be revoked, the university acceptance rescinded and my mother's dreams shattered along with probable academic probation. The local newspaper would probably have a headline like: 'Scholarship Winner Caught Cheating.' That is the worst kind of death, a social one. But If I refused, Chance would report me herself. Same outcome, plus the added humiliation of being exposed rather than confessing.
Unless…Unless Chance wasn't around to report it. I pushed that thought away immediately. No. There had to be another option.
"How long?" I asked.
"What?"
"How long do I have to decide?"
She studied me. "Three days. I'm giving you three days to do the right thing yourself. After that…" She shook her head. "After that, I'll do it for you."
Three days. Seventy-two hours to find a solution that didn't end with my life in ruins.
I left her house that day already planning. Already planning contingencies.
I didn't plan for it to end the way it did. But when it happened, some part of me, the impossibly cold part of my mind, wasn't entirely surprised.
SubChapter 5
The week after the funeral, Detective James showed up at my school.
I saw him through the window panes of my English Literature class, talking to Principal Hendricks in the hallway. My stomach dropped.
When the bell rang, I took my time packing my bag, waiting for everyone else to file out first. "Ileh?" Mrs. Chen, my teacher, looked up from her desk. "Detective James would like a word. He's waiting in the counseling office."
Of course he was. I found him sitting in one of the comfortable chairs they kept for crying students, looking distinctly uncomfortable in it. He stood when I entered. "I hope I'm not interrupting your day," he said, gesturing for me to sit. "Just a few follow-up questions."
I sat, arranging my expression into polite attentiveness. "Of course, anything to help."
"I've been reviewing the timeline of Chance's death. The coroner places it between three and five PM on September fourteenth. That was a Monday, correct?"
I pretended to think. "Yea, I'm pretty sure."
"Where were you that afternoon?"
"I was at the library with my friends revising on statistics."
I had texted Mira at 3:47 PM saying I was running late to create a digital timestamp while I actually showed up disheveled from the rain at 6:30.
"Can anyone confirm that you were there?"
"My friend Mira was there together with me. The librarian should also be able to confirm it, I use the same study room every Monday."
He nodded, making notes. "What time did you arrive?"
Here was the gap. The dangerous window. I'd accounted for it. "Around three-thirty. Maybe three forty-five? I lose track of time on Mondays. I have a free period before, so sometimes I grab a snack first."
"And you were there until?"
"Six-thirty, maybe seven. We usually go until the library closes at eight on weeknights."
He looked up from his notebook, and I saw the shift in his expression. "See, that's where I'm having a small problem. Because the bus route from your house to the downtown library doesn't go past Chance's neighborhood. But the CCTV footage from the bus stop across from Chance's house shows someone who looks remarkably like you boarding the number 47 at 5:47 PM that day."
I'd known about the cameras. I had hoped my hood and the rain would obscure it enough. Apparently not. I let confusion flicker across my face, hoping that the expression I practiced was what I was showing right now. "The 47? That's the Riverside route."
"That's right."
"I did take that bus. But earlier, around two PM. I went to Riverside University for their accepted students' campus tour. Then I went to the study group after."
It was a risky lie, but it created deniability for being in that area. The timeline was tight, too tight…but not impossible.
"Do you have any proof you were at Riverside? A photo? A sign-in sheet?"
"I didn't go to the official tour. I just walked around campus. I like to get a feel for places on my own." I paused. "Is that... am I in some kind of trouble?"
"Not at all. But we also have cell tower data that places your phone in Chance's neighborhood around 5:30 PM." Damn. I'd turned off location services, but I hadn't thought about cell tower triangulation. Should have powered down completely.
"That's strange," I said slowly, as if puzzling it out. "Unless... wait, doesn't Riverside Park border that neighborhood? I walked through there on my way back to the bus stop. Is that what it picked up?"
"Possibly." He didn't look convinced. "And a neighbor reported seeing someone 'around your height and build' running from Chance's house in the rain around 5:30. Wearing a dark jacket."
"Half the school owns dark rain jackets, Detective." I let a hint of frustration enter my voice, the appropriate response of an innocent person being repeatedly questioned. "I understand you're investigating Chance's death, but I don't know what else I can tell you. I wasn't there."
"Of course." He smiled thinly. "But you can understand my position. Former best friend. Fingerprints at the scene. Cell phone in the area. Bus footage that contradicts the timeline. And—" He paused. "a neighbor who says she saw you and Chance arguing three weeks before her death. Outside Chance's house. She remembers because, quote, 'it looked heated.'"
My stomach dropped, but I kept my face neutral. "We had a disagreement. About college plans. It wasn't a big deal."
"What kind of disagreement?"
"Personal stuff. Friend drama. You know how it is." I stood up. "Detective James, am I being accused of something? Because if I am, I'd like to know. If not, I have class."
"No, no." He stood too, but his eyes were cold. "Like I said, just routine questions. But Ileh?" He handed me his card. "If you think of anything, anything at all that might help us understand what happened to Chance, you'll let me know, won't you?"
"Of course."
I walked out with my head high, my steps measured and calm. Only when I reached the bathroom and locked myself in a stall did I allow myself to think clearly: He knows. He doesn't have proof, but he knows. The neighbor had seen us, that was a variable I hadn't accounted for. What else had I missed?
I pulled out my phone and opened my encrypted notes app, scrolling through my timeline. The gaps were tightening. I needed to talk to Mira, make sure our stories aligned perfectly. I needed to figure out what was in that diary.
And I needed to decide: if James got too close, what was my next move?