14. Hayley

14

HAYLEY

B oarding school is supposed to be about finding yourself or whatever crap they tell parents to justify the tuition. But all I’ve found is that I hate this place. The halls are too quiet. The rules are suffocating. And the people here? They’re fake. The only thing I’ve figured out is that none of this is where I’m supposed to be.

It’s been a week since the last message. A week since I sat there, frozen, staring at the screen. “Are you looking for the truth?”

I can help you find it.

The words are like poison, and the more I think about them, the harder it is to swallow. Someone knows something. Someone is out there, watching, waiting. They’ve disappeared, gone silent, but the tension in the pit of my stomach hasn’t.

I wish I could forget about it, but the more I try, the more I can feel it—like a trap closing around me. I’m stuck here, far away from Texas, and every minute that ticks by feels like I’m sinking deeper into something I can’t see, can’t understand. And it’s like no one else cares.

Not Mom. Not Sophie .

I glance down at my phone again, then away. I’ve been checking it obsessively, hoping for another message, another hint this isn’t some joke. But nothing. Just that silence. It’s killing me. I’ve tried digging deeper—searched the same articles on Vincent Marano a hundred times, looked at the same photos, the same facts. Nothing new. Every lead feels colder than the last. It’s like trying to dig through ice.

But the texts…they keep nagging at me.

Someone who knows your family’s secrets.

It was like a threat. It didn’t feel like a coincidence, and that’s what haunts me the most. It’s not the only thing.

Texas. I can’t stop thinking about getting back home. That’s where I belong. With Elliot. Not that he cares. Not anymore.

I stare at my phone, my thumb hovering over his Instagram story. It’s stupid, but I’ve been obsessing over it for days, watching every post, every laugh he shares with her. Zoe. That’s her name. She’s not even interesting. A glossy brunette with an over-filtered life. She doesn’t get him like I do. She doesn’t know him. Not the way I do.

It makes me want to scream. To break something. To do something.

I scroll to her profile and stare at her bio. Empathy enthusiast. Cat lover. Caramel latte addict. What does that even mean ? It's like some perfect little list of things she's supposed to care about, just to sound nice. It reads like she took it straight from her mother’s profile. But Elliot likes her posts. Every single one. And she likes his.

I hate her. I hate her for having the life I want. For having him. She probably doesn’t even care about him—not really. Not the way I do. I feel the anger bubbling up in my chest, hot and sharp, and I know I shouldn’t do it. But the idea takes root before I can stop it.

I could scare her.

My fingers move before I can even think about it. I pull up that fake account I made months ago when I was bored and wanted to see what would happen. It feels kind of stupid, but also like I’m actually doing something for once. Something that’s just mine.

The cursor blinks at me like it’s daring me to go through with it.

I start typing.

You don’t know him like I do. You’re not safe, not like you think you are. If you’re smart, you’ll stay the hell away. I hope you listen. Otherwise, I’ll end you.

I feel a strange sense of satisfaction as I reread it. The words are heavy, and perfect. Possibly too much. But I don’t care. Reading them makes me feel dizzy. Almost happy. So, yeah, I don’t care. I don’t care if it’s too far. She deserves it. It’ll save her in the end. I’m protecting her. She’ll thank me one day.

Send.

The rush that comes after tapping that button is intense—a sick thrill, like I’ve finally done something that matters. I have the power now. Not her. Me . Elliot will die when he finds out. In a good way. He’ll love it. He’ll love me for it. He’ll realize what a mistake he’s made.

But then the rush fades, and the fear sets in.

Oh well, it’s done.

Still. What if she figures out it’s me? What if this blows up in my face? What if she reports it? What if Elliot finds out and hates me for it? My palms start to sweat and I toss my phone onto my bed like it’s burned me.

I lie back, trying to ignore the cold sweat creeping up my neck, but it clings to my skin like a warning. The room is too quiet, the silence thick and suffocating. Shadows dance across the walls, twisting into shapes I don’t want to see. I can’t shake the feeling that they’re closing in, just like the weight of what I’ve done. I try to convince myself it’s fine. No one will connect the dots. After all, I never typed his name. Anyone could have sent that message. It could’ve been an accident, a misfire.

But still, the anxiety claws at the edges of my thoughts, gnawing at me with sharp, hungry teeth.

And the worst part? I still don’t feel any closer to getting what I want. I’m thinking about what a disaster this is, what a mess I’ve made. That’s when I hear the knock on the door.