Chapter 3: Not My Responsibility

Delaney

By four that afternoon, I was seriously considering dropping out of college, changing my name, and becoming a stripper.

At least strippers got paid to deal with bullshit. I was paying thousands of dollars for the privilege.

I sat in the library with my laptop glowing in front of me, trying to decide which overdue assignment deserved my attention first. Psychology. English composition. Introduction to Sociology. Apparently, losing two days of your life was enough to completely fuck up your academic schedule.

Who knew?

I rubbed my temples. My head still ached, though the nausea had finally given up after I'd forced down a sandwich and roughly three bottles of water.

Strangely, I was still hungry. Really hungry. I'd eaten breakfast before my psychology lecture and lunch two hours later, which should have held me until dinner. Instead, my stomach felt like it was trying to digest itself from the inside.

I ignored it. Food could wait. My grades couldn't.

I checked my email for the fifth time. Professor Whitmore had agreed to reopen my quiz until midnight, though he'd made it abundantly clear that further absences without documentation would cost me. My English professor hadn't answered. And my sociology professor wanted to see me during office hours.

Wonderful. Nothing made my day better than having to explain why I'd missed class when I didn't know the answer myself.

I leaned back until my chair creaked. Two days. Forty eight fucking hours, gone like water down a drain. I couldn't remember eating, drinking, showering, or even going to the bathroom. Surely someone would have noticed me sleeping for two straight days. Someone would have checked on me.

Right?

I pulled out my phone. The strange messages were still there, patient as ever.

She's back in bed.

Then keep watching her.

And the warning about walking home alone. I'd read them so many times I practically had them memorized. Both numbers were unfamiliar.

I'd tried calling the one that had texted me during class, and it had gone straight to voicemail, no greeting, just a cold automated voice telling me the person was unavailable.

Helpful.

I'd thought about going to campus security, but what was I supposed to tell them? That I'd gotten drunk, possibly hallucinated a giant wolf, and somehow ended up back in my dorm room? They'd assume I was still intoxicated. Or worse, they'd call my parents.

That was absolutely not happening.

I stared at the messages a while longer. Whoever had sent them knew something, and I was going to find out what.

Eventually.

Right now, I needed to talk to Sloane.

My roommate was sitting at her desk when I got back to our dorm a little after five. Naturally, she was doing her makeup.

God forbid the princess go anywhere without looking like she'd stepped out of a perfume ad. Her long blonde hair fell perfectly straight, her nails were freshly done, and an expensive candle burned beside her laptop, filling the room with the smell of vanilla and money.

Pretty sure candles weren't allowed in the dorms. Funny how rules only mattered when I was the one breaking them.

"Hey, Sloane."

She didn't turn around. "What?"

Lovely. Always such a pleasure.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

I closed my eyes. Patience, Delaney. Patience.

"About this weekend."

She sighed like I'd asked her to carry a piano up the stairs and kept applying her mascara. "What about it?"

I set my backpack on my bed. "Do you remember when I came home Saturday morning?"

"No."

I waited. She said nothing else.

"Okay. Did you see me at all on Saturday?"

"Obviously."

My stomach tightened. "You did?"

"Yeah."

"When?"

She finally met my eyes through the mirror. "I don't know, Delaney. Saturday?"

This girl was going to give me a fucking aneurysm.

"Could you be a little more specific?"

"Why?"

"Because I don't remember coming home."

She shrugged one perfect shoulder. "Sounds like a personal problem."

I clenched my jaw. "Look, I know we aren't exactly best friends, but I'm trying to figure something out."

"Clearly."

I took a slow breath. "Did you see anyone bring me back?"

"No."

"Did I say anything?"

"No."

"Was I hurt?"

That finally earned me her full attention. Sloane swiveled in her chair and looked me up and down. "Are you seriously still drunk?"

"What? No!"

"Because you're asking some really stupid questions."

I folded my arms. "I blacked out, Sloane. I can't remember anything after leaving the party."

"Then maybe you shouldn't drink so much."

Oh, wow. Brilliant advice. Absolutely groundbreaking. Why hadn't I thought of that?

"I realize that now," I said tightly. "I'm asking what happened afterward."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. I got up Saturday morning, and you were sleeping."

"In my bed?"

"No, Delaney. On the ceiling."

I stared at her. She stared back.

"Yes, in your fucking bed."

I dug the torn shirt out of my laundry basket and held it up. "Was I wearing this?"

Sloane wrinkled her nose. "Ew. What happened to it?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out."

"I don't know."

"Did you see blood?"

"No."

"What about Sunday?"

"What about it?"

"Was I still sleeping?"

She looked irritated now, like I'd made her late for something. "Yeah, pretty much."

I blinked. "Pretty much?"

"I went out with some friends. When I came back, you were in bed. Same thing this morning."

My stomach dropped. "You watched me sleep for two days and didn't think that was weird?"

Sloane gave me an incredulous look. "Why would I?"

"Because people don't normally sleep for forty eight hours!"

"Well, apparently you do."

"I missed all my classes."

"Okay?"

"And several assignments."

"Again, not my problem."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Sloane, I could have been seriously sick."

"Then you should have gone to the hospital."

"I was unconscious!"

She flung her mascara onto the desk. "Oh my God. What do you want from me?"

I flinched at the sudden clatter. It was automatic, a reflex I'd spent years trying to train out of myself. Sloane didn't notice.

"Seriously, Delaney. It's not my job to babysit you. I'm your roommate, not your mother. If you want someone to make sure you get to class, set an alarm like everyone else."

I swallowed. "I would have checked on you."

"Good for you."

"No, really. If you'd been sleeping for two days, I would have made sure you were okay."

"Well, I didn't ask you to."

Something in my chest pulled tight, like a knot being tugged. I looked away.

It wasn't that I expected her to like me. We'd barely spoken since move in day, and most of our conversations ended with her criticizing something I'd done. But checking whether another person was alive seemed like basic human decency.

Apparently, I was asking too much.

"Whatever," I muttered.

Sloane scoffed. "You know, maybe if your parents had done a better job raising you, you'd understand something about personal responsibility."

Everything stopped.

For a moment, I couldn't hear anything except the blood rushing in my ears.

My parents. Of course. It always came back to them. I hated that two people living hundreds of miles away could still make me feel small enough to fit in a shoebox.

Sloane didn't know anything about my childhood. She didn't know what happened behind our front door. She didn't know about the nights I'd slept with my bedroom door locked, or how carefully I'd learned to read footsteps in a hallway. She certainly didn't know how hard I'd fought to get away.

But there she stood, judging me, just like everyone back home.

Anger climbed up through my chest. Hot. Uncomfortable. Almost painful. My fingers curled into my palms.

Don't react.

That was the rule. It always had been. Reacting only made things worse.

I forced my shoulders to loosen.

Then something above us buzzed.

Bzzzt.

The overhead light flickered. Once. Twice.

Sloane glanced up. "What the hell?"

The bulb stuttered, and our side of the room fell into darkness for a heartbeat. An odd pressure built behind my eyes, like a thumb pressing on them from the inside. I pushed my tongue against the roof of my mouth.

Calm down. Just calm down.

The buzzing grew louder.

Sloane stood. "Are you kidding me? These stupid dorms are falling apart."

She marched toward the switch. Before she reached it, the flickering stopped. The pressure behind my eyes faded, and silence settled over the room.

I blinked. Well. That was weird.

Probably faulty wiring. The building was old enough that half the outlets barely worked.

I unclenched my hands. "You know what, Sloane?"

She turned. "What?"

I smiled. Not because I was happy, and not because anything about our conversation had been remotely funny. I smiled because I'd spent most of my life learning how to keep my feelings off my face.

"Have a good day."

She frowned. "Seriously?"

"Yep." I pulled my laptop from my backpack. "Enjoy your evening."

"You're so fucking weird."

I didn't answer. There was no point. Arguing wouldn't change anything, and I had bigger problems, like the fact that I was failing three assignments because I'd apparently decided to hibernate for the weekend.

I climbed onto my bed, opened my laptop, and pulled up the course website.

Behind me, Sloane went back to her makeup. Within minutes she'd put on music and gotten on the phone, complaining to someone about how annoying her roommate was.

I ignored her. Or tried to.

My sociology professor had posted two new readings. Forty six pages. Of course. Textbooks were clearly written by people who hated happiness.

I opened the first document, then the second. My stomach growled, loud enough to echo.

Sloane glanced over. "Jesus, are you starving?"

"Apparently."

"Then go eat."

"Busy."

She rolled her eyes, and I turned back to the screen.

Something else was bothering me, something I couldn't quite name. When the lights had flickered, I'd felt strange. Like a wave of heat had rushed through me and vanished just as quickly. Maybe I was getting sick. Maybe whatever had happened Saturday had messed with my body more than I realized.

I rubbed my forehead. Another problem for another day.

I opened a blank document and started typing.

By eight thirty, I'd finished one discussion post, submitted my psychology quiz, and drafted half my sociology assignment. Progress. Finally. Sloane had gone out sometime earlier, leaving the room blessedly quiet.

My stomach growled again.

I sighed. "Fine. Food."

I checked the dining hall hours on my phone. Still open. Thank God.

As I stood, something caught my attention. A faint conversation. Two girls laughing. A guy complaining about parking. Someone mentioning a party. I glanced toward the door. The voices sounded unusually clear, almost as if the people were standing right outside.

I crossed the room and opened it.

The hallway was empty. Completely. The laughter carried on, faint, from somewhere much farther away.

I frowned. Maybe the sound was traveling through the vents. Old buildings did weird things.

I shut the door and grabbed my student ID. Then I paused beside the mirror.

My hair looked different. Not dramatically. Just fuller, thicker at the roots, the waves more pronounced than usual despite my rushed shower that morning. I ran my fingers through it.

Huh. Maybe that expensive conditioner sample was actually worth buying.

My stomach gave another furious growl. "Okay, okay. I'm going."

I grabbed my jacket and stepped into the hallway, and my phone vibrated.

An unfamiliar number. Again.

My heartbeat quickened. I unlocked the screen. One message.

Are you feeling better?

I stopped walking. Slowly, I typed a reply.

Who is this?

Three dots appeared almost immediately, then disappeared. A moment later, another message arrived.

You should really get some rest, Delaney.

I looked up. The hallway stretched away in both directions. A few doors stood open. Someone's television played nearby. Everything looked perfectly normal.

But suddenly I had the sickening sense that someone was watching me.

I backed toward my room. My phone vibrated again.

And try not to get so angry.

I stared at the message.

The lights above my head flickered. Just once.

Then everything went still.