Skylar's POV
My hands won't stop shaking.
I stand in front of Whitmore Hall, staring up at the seventh floor where James died six months ago. The building looks normal—just red brick and windows like any other college building. But I know the truth. Someone murdered my boyfriend here, and everyone thinks I'm crazy for believing it.
"Sky, we can leave," Riley says beside me, her voice worried. "We can get back in the car right now and go home."
I shake my head. My best friend drove twelve hours with me from Seattle to Ashwood University. She gave up her semester to transfer here with me. She's the only person in the world who believes me when I say James didn't kill himself.
"I can't leave," I whisper. "Not until I know what really happened."
The memorial plaque gleams in the afternoon sun. Someone attached it to the wall near the entrance. I walk closer and read the words I've seen a hundred times in photos online:
James Chen
Beloved Student
Gone Too Soon
Gone too soon. Like he just disappeared. Like he chose to leave.
"You didn't choose this," I say quietly, touching the cold metal. "I know you didn't."
My fingers trace his name, and suddenly I'm back in that horrible phone call six months ago. James's roommate Damon calling to tell me James was dead. His voice was flat, emotionless, like he was reading a grocery list. "There's been an accident. James fell from the roof. He's gone."
An accident. That's what they called it at first. Then the police decided it was suicide. They said James jumped. They said he was stressed about school. They said sometimes people hide their sadness.
But James wasn't sad. He was excited. Three hours before he died, he called me laughing about the journalism scholarship he'd just won. He was making plans for our future. He was happy.
And James was terrified of heights. Absolutely terrified. When we visited the Space Needle in Seattle, he couldn't even go up to the observation deck. He got dizzy just thinking about it. So how does someone who's afraid of heights suddenly decide to jump off a seven-story building?
They don't.
"Come on," Riley says gently. "Let's get you moved into the dorm before you change your mind."
I follow her to her car, but I can't stop looking back at Whitmore Hall. Somewhere in that building are answers. Somewhere in this university is the person who killed James. And I'm going to find them.
The dorm room is small and smells like cleaning products. Two beds, two desks, two tiny closets. Riley immediately starts unpacking, trying to make the space feel less depressing. She hangs up fairy lights and puts photos on her desk—pictures of us at concerts, at the beach, being normal teenagers before everything went wrong.
I open my suitcase but don't unpack. Instead, I pull out the folder I've been carrying for six months. The folder the police told me to throw away. The folder my parents begged me to burn.
Inside are printouts of the police report, articles about James's death, and my own notes. Timelines. Questions. Inconsistencies.
"You brought the murder board?" Riley asks, trying to sound light but I hear the concern.
"It's not a murder board. It's research."
"Sky, maybe the therapist was right. Maybe this obsession isn't healthy—"
"It's not an obsession!" I snap, then immediately feel bad. Riley doesn't deserve my anger. She's the only one who didn't abandon me when I started asking questions. My parents thought I was having a breakdown. James's parents told me to stop disrespecting their son's memory. My other friends slowly stopped calling.
Only Riley stayed.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "I just... I know everyone thinks I'm crazy. But Riley, I know James. He wouldn't kill himself. Something happened that night, and someone covered it up."
Riley sits on her bed and looks at me seriously. "Okay. Let's say you're right. Let's say someone did hurt James. Sky, that means there's a murderer on this campus. A murderer who got away with it. What happens when they figure out you're here asking questions?"
A chill runs down my spine, but I lift my chin. "Then they'll know I'm not giving up. They'll know James mattered."
"You matter too," Riley says softly. "Promise me you'll be careful."
"I promise."
But even as I say it, I know careful went out the window the moment I decided to come here. Careful would mean staying home, accepting the lie, moving on with my life.
I can't do that. I won't.
That evening, Riley goes to the dining hall to get us food. I stay in the room, spreading my research across my desk. I've read these documents so many times I've memorized them, but I read them again anyway.
The police report says James's body was found at 3:15 AM by a security guard. He fell from the roof of Whitmore Hall. There were no witnesses. No suicide note. No signs of struggle.
The toxicology report showed traces of sedatives in his blood. The police said it was probably recreational drug use. But James didn't do drugs. He barely drank alcohol. He was training for a marathon. He was obsessed with being healthy.
Nobody questioned it. Nobody cared.
I pull out my phone and scroll to the last text message James sent me. It came at 11:52 PM the night he died:
Finally standing up to someone who won't take no for an answer. Wish me luck. Love you.
Standing up to someone. Who? Why didn't I ask him? Why didn't I call him back?
I was studying for an exam. I texted back "good luck, love you too" and went to sleep. Three hours later, he was dead.
The guilt crushes me every single day.
I'm staring at the message when I hear footsteps in the hallway. They stop right outside my door. I wait for a knock, but it doesn't come.
The footsteps walk away.
Weird.
I turn back to my research, but something feels wrong. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. That feeling you get when someone's watching you.
I look at my desk and freeze.
My papers aren't how I left them. The police report is on top now, but I know I put the timeline there. And the photo of James—the one I always keep in the center—has been moved to the side.
Someone was in this room. Someone touched my things.
My heart pounds as I stand up and check the door. It's locked. The window is closed. But I know someone was here. I can feel it.
Then I see it.
On top of the police report, someone has placed a single photograph. It's a picture I've never seen before. The image makes my blood run cold.
It shows James standing outside a building at night, and he's arguing with someone. A girl with blonde hair. She's reaching for his arm, and he's pulling away. His face looks angry. Scared.
I flip the photo over. On the back, written in black marker:
YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED IN SEATTLE
The photograph slips from my shaking fingers.
Someone knows I'm here. Someone knows why I'm here.
And someone is warning me to leave.