Chapters (95)
- Front Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Contents
- Video #1
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Video #2
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Video #3
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- Seventy-Three
- Seventy-Four
- Seventy-Five
- Seventy-Six
- Seventy-Seven
- Seventy-Eight
- Seventy-Nine
- Eighty
- Eighty-One
- Eighty-Two
- Eighty-Three
- The Final Video
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Back Cover
Dad always says no one under the age of forty follows the news anyway. Maybe they don’t know I’m a suspect. Maybe they don’t know anything.
The voices around me hum, a dull murmur punctuated by the occasional shout. The odor of disinfectant reminds me of my nights in the hospital, some toxic liquid the maintenance crew smears all over the floors to make them shine. My pulse slows to a normal rate.
I take the stairs, two at a time, to my locker on the second floor. There are fewer kids there, less noise pollution. I’m a week behind. I tried to keep up while I was home but didn’t do nearly enough. That’s another reason to come back. I need to get back to work, to have something to throw myself into. I can’t control much of what is going on around me, but I can control how hard I work in school.
College applications loom. My grades cannot slip. Maybe I can even write something again.
I want to feel normal, even as my healing mind tells me I can’t.
A couple of faces I don’t know turn to gawk at me as I head to my locker. I’m still wearing the bandage. It’s smaller but it’s there. When I feel their eyes on me, I unconsciously reach up and touch it. I consider going to the bathroom and ripping it off. If I want to blend in, why did I wear an ugly sign on my head?
Because the doctor told you to…
Maybe they weren’t looking at me because of the accident. Maybe they were just looking.
A couple more kids turn and stare, and my skin itches the way it does when someone wants to take my picture. Like ants crawling right below the surface.
I quicken my pace. I just want to get to the locker, lean inside, shuffle my books around, and pretend to have something to do. Then I’ll go off to class when the crowd thins.
But the door of my locker—number 209—has something on it.
It takes me a minute to figure it out. It looks like a Halloween decoration. Did Olivia put it there to welcome me back?
It’s a dangling rubber skeleton, tied to the locker with a length of string.
Somebody lets out a loud laugh behind me. But I don’t get the joke.
A piece of paper is pinned to the skeleton. A note, printed in a creepy, Gothic font.
Only two words: CHLOE KILLER.
Six
More laughter behind me. More and more.
My hand swings like an axe, grabbing the skeleton, yanking with all my might to pull the string loose. It breaks off in my hand, and I stumble back.
And then someone says, “Damn.”