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“I hope you got everything you need, dear,” she says before walking back to the main desk where the other librarian, Mr. Bernard, is waiting for her.
Feeling like I’m going to set off alarms as I leave the library, I walk as quickly as possible, not stopping until I get into my room. Only after locking the door do I let out a breath of relief. I’m acting like I’ve walked out of Tiffany’s with a ten-thousand-dollar tennis bracelet still on my wrist, but for the first time, I feel like I’ve got something important in my possession.
And if that’s the case, that information is priceless.
XXX
Tori
Turning around, I take two steps towards my desk before I stop.
Something feels… off.
Unsure what has the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, I carefully scan the room, trying to look for anything out of place or missing, but nothing looks different.
Which was exactly how everything seemed the night someone tried to turn me into a Smurf…
After placing my bag on my desk, I walk straight into the small shower room and flick on the light. And it actually does turn on this time. Not satisfied, I turn both the sink faucet on and the shower, waiting for a while before I safely conclude there’s no dye lurking.
Nothing seems out of place in my bathroom, but I grab every bottle and tube, quickly opening, sniffing, and pouring a little bit of everything.
It all seems so… normal.
Frowning, I wipe my hands and walk back into the bedroom, scanning the room from a different angle. Just as I’m almost certain I’m being paranoid, I pull open the drawers and closet.
Yet nothing seems different in there either.
“There is nothing wrong with being cautious,” I tell myself. I’m probably nervous because of the newspaper I took.
After one final glance around the room, I move back to the desk and sit down. It takes a few more minutes before I’m able to take the newspaper from my bag, then I lay it on the desk in front of me.
Above the fold, aside from the lack of edition on the top right-hand corner, there’s no noticeable difference. But when I unfold it to see the full spread, and start reading the text, it’s clear the main article is completely different.
Tragedy has struck James Keyingham University with the Keyingham police confirming the name of the victim as that of James Patrick Keyingham. Keyingham, direct descendent of our eponymously named university, was a freshman member of the Elite, studying pre-law.
Keyingham was found dead near the campus gates, by campus security, at 5:03 a.m., with Keyingham police arriving on the scene at 5:15 a.m. A witness described how he saw freshman, Cole Reynolds present himself to the police. “We’d left the Elite’s Inaugural Ceremony party when we saw the flashing lights, so we went over. The police were blocking off the area around JP’s body, but we could see blood on his head. A little while later, Cole walked straight up to the cops right beside us. He seemed eerily calm, and then he just admitted to being responsible.”
Police confirmed that Keyingham had obtained a headwound but refused to confirm if that was the suspected cause of death. At present, no further information has been provided.
Speaking to this reporter, Dean Welcroft said, “An official statement by the university will be provided later this morning, however I wish to reassure students that this was an isolated incident, and a suspect has been taken into custody. This is a tremendous shock and loss to our community, and we will have counseling available for anyone who wants or needs it. In addition, all classes will be cancelled today.”
I stare at the words, rereading them over and over. Convinced I’m hallucinating, making things up, I pull my laptop out and turn it on. Quickly, I navigate to the Keyingham Ledger’s online article—the same one that appeared in the second edition—and compare the two texts.
The second paragraph is completely missing online.
This is the first time I’ve ever seen it, and despite it being only five sentences long, it’s still more information about the murder than I’ve ever read.
There was an Elite party that night? Was Cole there?
Whether he was or wasn’t, what were he and JP doing at the campus gates?
As many answers as I got, twice as many were replacing them.
James Keyingham University is small. Ridiculously small. With only about five-hundred students, it’s more like a boarding school. I’ve been here nearly half a semester, and I can probably name at least half of the students, say what their parents do for a living, and I certainly know the rest by face.
The idea of Cole knowing JP, especially since they were both freshmen majoring in pre-law, isn’t a stretch for me. But he never mentioned JP, and I’d never seen him in any of Cole’s Instagram pictures.
I reach for my phone about to redownload the Instagram app when I realize my battery is almost dead. Naturally. After putting it on charge, I finally redownload the app and log in.
