The same eyes that stared up at me, irises swimming with a mix of regret and sadness as I cradled a knife in my hand.
Even when I tried to convince myself this day would never come, I knew the truth was bound to catch up with me sometime.
Because it was me.
I was the one who killed Phoebe.
2
Phoebe
Then
Sydney sun bleeds through the windows, illuminating the bones of the Hamilton College dorm room that will be my home for the next few nights. Barely bigger than one of the closets at my family’s house back in Atlanta, it fits two matching twin beds, each decorated with a scratchy blue blanket, two desks made of what I can only assume is the cheapest wood available in Australia, and a single wardrobe that looks like it has succumbed to a not-so-insignificant ant infestation.
But it may as well be a castle. I drop onto the bed closest to the door, the mattress sagging under my unsubstantial weight, and deposit my carry-on bag next to me.
A month away from real life. To do nothing but party and meet new people. This is exactly what I need.
A chance to start over. To leave what happened—what I did—behind forever.
I’m luxuriating in my fantasies for the next four weeks when a knock sounds at the door.
“Come in,” I say, sitting up straight and tucking my short hair behind my ears, the new cut still feeling foreign beneath my fingers.
“Sorry to bother you.” The resident advisor who helped me move in no less than twenty minutes ago is back. His lips, nearly lost amid a wave of painful acne across his chin, lift upwards as he sees me. “Your roommate has arrived.”
As he heaves a giant suitcase over the threshold, I work to still the flutters in my abdomen. But they come to a standstill when I take in the lanky girl who follows him into the room, wisps of straw-colored hair matted to her damp forehead.
I feel my expectations lower immediately as I look at her slumped shoulders, her sheepish smile. But I force the grin back onto my face. She isn’t the fabulous international roommate I was expecting, but I can work with this.
“Welcome,” I say, my voice sugary. “Looks like you’re stuck with me. I’m Phoebe.”
Her skin is pale, and dark circles hang below her eyes. A smattering of freckles is just barely visible across her nose as if desperately waiting for their chance to come alive in the sunshine.
I begin to go in for a hug before I realize that the girl has awkwardly held out her hand. I shrug aside the odd formality and take it in mine.
“I’m Claire,” she says in a soft American accent. She wears a weak smile, one that barely touches her eyes, which are so brown they’re nearly black, her pupils unidentifiable in the irises.
The moment our fingers make contact, I pull back sharply. A spark of electricity buzzes between us, radiating up through my wrist.
“Oh,” she says, a small giggle escaping her mouth.
I stare at her, my hand still stinging. Maybe she’s more than I expected, this girl. And suddenly, the flutters erupt back in my gut, my mind spinning, thinking of the possibilities we have ahead of us this month. And just how much our lives could change in the next few weeks.
3
Claire
Now
I hadn’t planned to go to Australia ten years ago. The life I’d built for myself in Humbolt, Illinois, was quiet and simple, but it fit me. I lived with my mom in the house I’d grown up in, commuting four days a week to the campus of my exceedingly average-ranked liberal arts college to complete my bachelor’s degree in nursing within three and a half years. To rush through the “college life” I was supposed to enjoy as quickly as possible. That is, until one day when my mother noticed me throwing away the mail I had crammed into my backpack between classes.
“What’s this?” she’d asked, grabbing a colorful brochure that had slipped from the pile of otherwise drab white envelopes I was attempting to discard in the kitchen wastebasket.
“Just the junk that the school always shoves in our mailboxes. I should have thrown it out on campus, but I was in a rush to get to class—”
“This isn’t from the school,” my mom said, flipping through the pages. “It’s from a different university. Hamilton College. It’s all about different study abroad options.” As I stole a glance at the glossy photos lining the thick expensive-looking pages of the brochure, I realized she was right. Everything from my school’s study abroad office looked like it was created using a version of Photoshop from the early 2000s. This was far more professional.
