Chapter 3

Sarah's parents were much quieter, more timid. They hung back, wiping their tears and whispering, "Sarah… my Sarah…"

The dorm, already small, spiraled into total chaos.

Giselle's mother was screaming and crying, her eyes sweeping the room until they locked onto me like a hawk.

"You! It's you, isn't it?"

She thrust out a finger—a massive diamond ring catching the light—and pointed straight at me.

"You're Elena? Giselle's broke roommate?"

Her shrill voice cut through the air like a knife.

I didn't say a word. I just met her glare with a cold, steady look.

"Answer me! Is it you? Did you get so jealous of Giselle that you tricked her and put her in danger?"

She lunged at me like she wanted to tear me apart with her bare hands.

"Mrs. Murdoch! Please calm down!"

Professor Mann and another administrator rushed over to hold her back.

"I can't calm down! You said it yourself—the ticket was booked under her name! She booked it, didn't go, and my daughter and the other two disappeared! There's no way that's a coincidence! It has to be you! You vicious, heartless monster!"

She thrashed and screamed, spewing the ugliest words imaginable.

"Honey, stop!"

Giselle's father finally showed a flicker of reason, pulling his wife back—but his eyes were just as cold and suspicious when they landed on me.

"Mrs. Murdoch, I'll say it one more time. I didn't book those tickets."

I looked her straight in the eye and said.

"If I did—five hundred per ticket, three tickets, that's fifteen hundred dollars. Do you really think a student who can barely afford tuition could magically come up with fifteen hundred dollars just to take your daughter to a light show… out of jealousy?"

The question hung in the air. The room went quiet.

Of course it didn't make sense.

A broke student selling everything she owns, spending fifteen hundred dollars to frame her roommate? What would she even gain from it?

"What if someone paid you to do it? Kids like you—poor, desperate—you'd do anything for a little cash." Kathryn's mother cut in sharply.

I trembled—half furious, half wanting to laugh.

In their eyes, being poor was a crime.

Poor meant you'd sell your soul for money. Poor meant you had no morals. Poor meant your heart was as poisonous as a snake's.

"Mrs. Tyson, you have quite the imagination," I said. "But maybe you should focus on figuring out where your daughter actually went, instead of making baseless attacks on my character."