Taking a seat at the desk, I open the laptop, using my fingerprint to get in again. A notification greets me immediately. It’s an email from a clothing brand, inviting me to shop with them again at a discounted price. The message is inconsequential, but I hadn’t thought to look at my email until now. Most of the messages in my inbox are similar to the one I just received, and the others are often me emailing myself documents for school.

I look through my sent folder and junk mail before clicking on my drafts. There aren’t as many in this folder, and the one at the top catches my attention.

It’s addressed to McGill University with the subject line Zoe Harris.

A hollow feeling settles in my gut as I open it. The text in the email starts with a Dropbox link. Another click shows me that I’ve uploaded the entirety of Jacob’s folder, including the telltale video.

The text in the email is short and to the point: Is this really the kind of student you want to represent you?

Nausea burns in my chest. If Zoe knew I had this in my arsenal, it would be enough for her to want to do something about it. You’d think I would send the evidence to the police instead, but this email proves it had less to do with justice and more to do with power. How did things even get to this point? How does a friendship with someone become so toxic and vile? It seems like all we ever wanted to do was destroy each other.

Maybe she knew I was about to ruin her life, so she took it upon herself to ruin mine instead.

I close the laptop abruptly, placing my head in my hands. I’d convinced myself that Zoe was the evil one. But I’ve been shown time and time again that there’s evil in me too.

17 | Gravitate

By the time the weekend rolls around, I feel as though I haven’t slept.

My mind is constantly buzzing, intoxicated by the hope that I’m getting close to piecing together the entire puzzle of my accident and paralyzed by the fear that I won’t have enough time. It won’t be long before Zoe is onto me. A wedge has been placed between us, and day by day, her trust slowly slips out of my grasp.

Audrey bursts into my room unceremoniously on Saturday night, flopping onto the empty space next to me on the bed, causing the mattress to bounce. She stretches out her limbs with a disgruntled look, wearing a white blouse and pencil skirt, eerily reminiscent of Sofia.

“Job hunting is going great, thanks for asking,” she grumbles.

I crinkle my nose. “I’m sorry.”