Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 123575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
“Lee, hey,” I manage, hoping my voice sounds casual.
Lee frowns, pushing off the doorframe to approach me. “Hey. I wanted to ask you if you saw Aries yet? Housing office is on my ass about clearing out his room—new students coming next week. I’ve been trying to reach him, but he’s not answering his phone.”
A cold feeling settles in my stomach. “Oh, yes I actually just spoke to him,” I lie smoothly. “He asked me to grab a few things from his room. Said he’d finish clearing it out tomorrow.”
Lee studies me for a moment, then shrugs. “Cool. Glad to hear he’s alive, at least.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key. “Use the key. It’ll save you the trouble of picking the lock. If you steal something, make sure it’s the booze and the drugs, then come back down here and share them with me.”
I give a forced laugh, but he doesn’t seem to notice. I take the key, hoping he doesn’t notice my hand trembling. “Thanks. I won’t be long.”
“No rush,” Lee says, already turning back toward the common room. “I’m about to head out anyway. Stay as long as you like. Hell, burn the place down if you want.”
I don’t comment on the last bit, hoping he’s merely joking, but from the look on his face I don’t think so. I climb the stairs quickly, heart thundering against my ribs.
At Aries’s door, I pause, key in hand. This is the point of no return. I insert the key, turn it, and slip inside, closing the door quietly behind me.
The room is exactly as I remember from my last visit years ago—meticulously organized, everything in its perfect place. Unlike most college students, Aries keeps his space like a military barracks, a habit instilled by his father from an early age.
I don’t waste another second peering around the room. Moving to his desk, I begin opening drawers, searching for anything that might shed light on…what, exactly?
What am I hunting for?
I don’t really know. Anything that feels weird or looks out of place.
The first two drawers yield nothing but school supplies and neatly organized papers. The third is locked. I pull a bobby pin from my hair, bending it into shape the way Aries himself taught me just after our parents married. It takes longer than expected since I haven’t done this in years, but eventually, I hear the satisfying click of the lock disengaging.
I pull the drawer open, and my pulse spikes when I see a leather-bound journal worn from frequent handling. Beside it is a small USB drive. This is it. I don’t know how I know, but my gut tells me so. I grab both items and climb up onto his bed with them.
Opening the journal, I scour the pages.
The first pages contain mundane details—class notes, schedules, to-do lists. As I flip further, the content changes. Sketches appear between entries, careful pencil drawings made with a skilled hand. A street scene. The campus quad. And then—me.
My breath catches in my throat. It’s unmistakably me, sitting by the fountain outside the Hayes mansion, head bent over a book. The attention to detail is astonishing—the shaping of my face, the curve of my neck, the concentration in my expression. With a newfound eagerness, I skim the pages to reveal more sketches of me, all in various settings—at family dinners, in the garden, walking across campus.
He’s been watching me all this time. Drawing me. Preserving moments I never knew he noticed. Between the sketches are journal entries, his neat handwriting filling page after page. I shouldn’t read them. It’s an invasion of privacy that crosses even the boundaries I’ve already broken by being here, but curiosity has a choke hold on me.
I need to understand, need to know if there are answers here.
I read over the words quickly but find nothing but mundane details and observations. Then I remember the black leather book he used to carry around.
This isn’t the same one. This is the fake one he used to write in for therapy.
The ones the parents might read or the therapist.
Where the heck is the real one?
I dig around the desk a bit more, then I think about all his hiding spots when we were kids. He wrote in a journal religiously. One time he hid it under his pillow, another time under a floorboard. I drop to my knees on the rug by the bed and run my hands along the frame, then pause when I find the familiar edge of a notebook. Jackpot. I smile to myself, my constant observation of him finally paying off. This journal is smaller than his other one.
Which makes it easier to hide. I drag it out and sit on the edge of the bed again to read. I open it to a random entry.