Perhaps this is how it was written. Perhaps, from the beginning, things were fated to end this way, in fear and death. And I already know the next step: End it all. Put an end once and for all to the insidious pain that for too long has been like a second skin. I throw open the window of Vinca’s room. The bitter cold pulls at me, claws at me, devours me. I climb onto the window ledge to jump, but I cannot see it through. As though night, having scented me, has decided it does not want me. As though death itself did not have time to waste on someone as insignificant as me.

*  *  *

Completely distraught, I stumble across the campus like a zombie, past the lake, the place des Marronniers, the administration buildings. Everything is dark, drab, lifeless. Everything except your mother’s office, and she is the person I’m looking for. I see her through the window, and as I come closer, I realize she is talking to Francis Biancardini. The moment she spots me, she can tell that something terrible has happened. She and Francis run toward me. My legs are barely holding me up. I collapse into their arms and blurt out the whole story in garbled sentences punctuated by sobs. Before calling the emergency services, they hurry over to Vinca’s room. It is Francis who goes over to inspect the body. When they come back, with a shake of his head, Francis confirms that it is too late to call an ambulance.

It is at this point that I pass out.

*  *  *

When I come to, I am lying on the couch in your mother’s office with a blanket draped over me.

Annabelle is sitting next to me. I’m surprised but reassured by how calm she is. I like your mother. She has always been kind and generous to me. She has always helped me when I needed it. It was thanks to her that I got a room on campus. She was the one who gave me the confidence to study medicine, and she was the one who consoled me when you became distant.

She asks whether I’m feeling better, then insists that I tell her exactly what happened. “Don’t leave out a single detail.”

As I tell her, I am forced to relive the terrible sequence of events that led to Vinca’s death. My jealousy, the moment of madness, the Rohypnol. When I try to justify what I did, she presses a finger to my lips.

“All the regrets in the world won’t bring her back. Has anyone other than you seen Vinca’s body?”

“Maybe Thomas, but I don’t think so. Vinca and I were the only students in the building who didn’t go home for Christmas.”