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CHAPTERONE
CELIA
“Remember, your final is on Monday. I’ll be holding additional office hours on Wednesday and Thursday in preparation. If you’re exempt from finals, have a good summer.” The once-quiet lecture hall is now filled with the sounds of backpacks being zipped shut and the snapping of the stadium chairs as everyone rushes to their next destination.
Instead of jumping up like my classmates, I’m rooted to my seat, trying desperately to blend into the background. Without my foster sister, Willa, by my side as a buffer, my anxiety has been getting the best of me. How will the girl sitting next to me react if I ask her to grab a coffee? Will she be disgusted with me? Will she smile and make an excuse? Will she completely ignore me as if I don’t exist? So, instead of speaking to her, I duck my head, hoping she doesn’t say anything to me.
Anxiety is a real pain in the ass, especially when you’re more than half a day’s drive away from the only person who ever made you feel remotely human. I’d be right back living with Willa if it wasn’t for my scholarship.
Willa was the one who pushed me to go to college. She claimed that when I graduate, it’ll be my turn to take care of her with my fancy degree. I tried to protest, but eventually, she talked me into it, as always. Willa has never asked me to do anything she knows I can’t handle, but she is always pushing me out of my comfort zone. My choice to go to college while she moved to Chicago was her way of forcing me out of my shell and helping me learn how to become a functioning member of society. Too bad I’m currently sucking at it.
I’ve been here for almost two years, and although my grades are amazing, setting me up perfectly to graduate with honors, I haven’t made one friend. In the sleepy town we grew up in, Willa was the center of everything. Parties down by the lake, toilet papering the principal’s house and front yard on mischief night, saran wrapping the coach’s car door shut when he gave her an F in PE. Basically, if it was even remotely entertaining, Willa had a hand in it. But she refused to let me be home alone, no matter what anyone said. If she was going, I was too. Her friends never hid their disgust with me, complaining about Willa’s weird younger sister whenever I was around, but those moments were the highlights of my boring life. Without Willa dragging me around and forcing me to interact with others, I only hold conversations when necessary.
Instead of college being a new beginning for me, I’ve retreated into books, wanting to live in a world of fantasy instead of the real one. Books have always been my safe place. A place where I can live the life I always wanted for myself. Inside those pages, I have the freedom to fall in love, travel to faraway lands, and even battle dragons. Every day is a new adventure, where I won’t be hurt.
If all the psychologists my foster parents sent me to are to be believed, the main cause of my anxiety is my fear of abandonment. They believed the trauma from being abandoned at a fire station when I was three made it hard for me to form attachments with others. Who wouldn’t have issues if they were found with only a note and a battered, brown teddy bear? These psychologists could be completely full of shit, but this is one of the main reasons I’m majoring in psychology. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I figured if I could get a better understanding of how my brain works in response to certain situations, I’ll find the answers I’ve been searching for about why my parents left me.
Not wanting to form attachments makes it almost impossible to make friends. Willa tried to bring me out of my shell before she aged out of foster care and moved to Chicago for work. She comes to visit as often as she can, rolling through town like a hurricane and leaving just as quickly. I don’t know much about her life in Chicago, other than what I can find on her Facebook profile. For a while, I’d ask her questions about her life, but she always changed the subject. Each time, she assured me she was safe and that should be enough for me, but if I’m being honest, it bothers the shit out of me. I want her to trust me, but all I can do is hope she’ll tell me if there’s something wrong. Willa can be flakey, but she’s the only person who’s continued to care about me, even after we were no longer “sisters” anymore.
“Last one to leave class, as per usual. Did you have a question about something?” My professor smiles at me as she taps on the edge of my desk to bring me back to the present.
“No, ma’am, just waiting for everyone to clear out. I hate having to fight my way out the door,” I respond with a smile before stuffing my notebook and pens into my backpack and standing.
“It’s always a madhouse at the end of class.”
“It’s nothing personal. They’re all just trying to get to the dining hall.” I giggle softly before tucking a piece of hair behind my ear.
She steps out of the way so I can exit the row. We make it partially out the door before she taps me on the shoulder.
My eyebrow raises in question as I watch her pull an envelope from her bag and thrust it toward me. “I almost forgot. Someone left this for you. Next time, give your admirers your box number at the student center.”
“Sorry, professor,” I whisper, taking the envelope from her hands as a sense of dread settles over me.
This isn’t from someone I want to hear from. It could be an admirer like my professor implied, but since Willa and my professors are the only people I talk to, I doubt it. There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach that this is the next step in a sick game.
“No problem, Celia.” She gives me a gentle smile before breezing past me and heading out of the door.
Stuffing the envelope into my bag, I scurry toward the door. My mind’s been a complete mess over the last few weeks, and now this. There’s nothing unusual about the envelope. Whoever sent it wants to make sure there were no clues to what’s inside, but I’m not taking any chances.
Everything started a few weeks ago when I was leaving my night class in the political science building. It’s on the opposite end of campus from my dorm, but I’ve always felt safe trekking across campus before that night. About halfway back, I felt like someone was watching me. A prickle at the back of the neck, letting me know something was wrong. After looking around, I found no one. I chalked the whole experience up to my imagination, but it kept happening. Ever since that night, an eerie sense of being watched has followed me every time I leave my dorm. I even made a complaint to campus security, but they told me someone was probably playing a practical joke on me and sent me on my way. I can’t blame them, to be honest, but I also can’t shake this feeling that there’s someone watching my every move.
I spent the entire walk from my dorm room to class looking over my shoulder, waiting for someone to jump out of the shadows and snatch me. With this mysterious envelope showing up, I’m convinced this is more than a practical joke.
As I inch closer to my dorm building, my mind goes back to focusing on trying to figure out what the hell is in that envelope. There was nothing unusual on the outside other than my first name, which was written in beautiful calligraphy. It’s about the size of my textbook, but there are no other discerning characteristics.
“I should’ve made sure it wasn’t a bomb,” I mumble to myself as I run my ID through the card reader, take one final look over my shoulder, and slide inside the door.
The entire dorm is quiet during this time of day. Unlike most college students, I’m an early riser. I prefer to have all my classes in the morning, leaving my afternoons free for studying. As I head toward my room at the end of the hall, I freeze. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as a sense of unease overcomes me, putting all my senses on high alert.
My dorm has always been a sanctuary, a sacred space, but that went out the window two days ago. I came home and found the picture of Willa and me turned over on my bedside table. Since moving into this dorm earlier this year, that picture has sat in the same spot.
I know what you’re thinking, but I spend almost all my time in this room or in class. I know exactly where each item in my room sits. And since then, I’ve come home every day to find something else moved, like my notebooks being left open on my desk instead of neatly stacked in the corner. The average person misses these small things, but I pay attention to everything.
“Hello.” My voice comes out barely above a whisper, loud enough for someone lurking in the shadows to hear me but not disturb any of my neighbors.
Every nerve ending in my body is on high alert. My breathing is shallow and short as my body inches closer to my door. The hallway is eerily quiet. No music playing in someone’s room or movement of any kind. It’s the type of silence you’d expect in a horror movie before the bad guy jumps out and kills his unsuspecting victim.
“This shit isn’t funny, you know.”
