Ben groans, extricates himself from the sheets, and modestly shimmies into his boxers. I don’t see the point, but it’s cute, nonetheless.

“I’m gonna grab some water and snacks. You okay here?”

I pull up on my elbows, nod, hope my hair is adorably mussed rather than disastrous. My phone is across the room, abandoned on the top of Ben’s bookshelf when the candles were lit. The one nearest me has a one-inch pool of melted wax all around, and I wonder if you can tell time via wax. I know I need to get up, check my phone, but I’m loath to leave the scant warmth of the sheets. I throw my legs over the end of the bed, donning the duvet like a cape.

My knee catches on the bedside table and pain radiates down my calf. I grab it, hissing, and accidentally dislodge the top drawer. Despite being grown-up enough to use condoms, I fight heat in my cheeks, seeing a box of them sitting right at the front. The temptation to snoop overpowers me. I find a beat-up paperback, a lighter, tissue packs. I squint to read the cover of the book, and find it’s a thriller about a small-town detective; it looks good. When I go to put it back, something shiny catches my eye. With two fingers, I extract it from between a mint-flavored ChapStick and a ballpoint pen.

I stare at the key in my hand. I know this key.

I have a copy in my backpack at home. The Seaview High School master key.

The same master key Natalie had a copy of, that she would have used to let herself into the school. That the police never found.

But, no, that’s ridiculous. This isn’t Natalie’s key. She made extras. She must have given Ben one, too. For their secret hookups.

The roil in my stomach calms. That’s it. A reasonable explanation. I put the key back where I found it. Shut the drawer.

Still, my limbs push me up. I groan into my bustier bra, step into my dress, and flex to get the zipper up as far as I can. I’ll need a hand to finish the job. A reminder of how helpless I truly am. Alone, except for Ben.

I grab my phone from the top of the bookshelf while I wait for him to return. Five missed calls. Dozens of texts. All from Bronte and Amber. I ignore the voicemails, stab at the screen to go into my text chain with Bronte. Most recent, right up top, is just my name in all caps.

CECELIA?

I text back hastily.

I’m fine

Then I catch up, starting at the top of the thread. Bronte sent the first text an hour ago. It leaves me cold in a way that goes beyond the chill of this house.