“You’re fine,” he tells me as he clicks a few keys. “I’ve skimmed through it a bit too, but it definitely needs to be examined more thoroughly. Just let me know if you read anything that could be a clue to what really happened to her.”
Nodding, I pick up the diary and sit back down. Then I begin reading from where I left off. Like before, the sullen mood of her words is heavy to bear. Still, I push forward, turning another page. Over and over again, I read about my friend’s struggle that I wasn’t aware existed. I had suspected it on occasion, but I never did anything about it. Per typical Ava, I remained silent.
Afraid.
No, more., Ava. Be brave.
The words whisper through my mind in Clover’s voice, as if she’s reaching out to me from the grave, pleading with me to solve what happened to her, to find a clue to her truth. Maybethat’s why I thought I saw her tonight, because she’s haunting me until I find the answers, not just for us, but for her.
And I do find one as I turn the next page of the diary.
I think he might be drugging me. Every time I go to a party and pass out, I wake up with no recollection of what happened the night before. Not that that’s totally out of the norm. I do sometimes get blacked out drunk. But on certain occasions, it feels different. My body feels heavier, and I have these bruises on my arms that look like injection sites. And yeah, I’ve put a few of them on there myself, but these are in odd spots, like on the side of my arm where a doctor would inject or something.
Thump. Thump.
Thump. Thump.
Thump. Thump.
My heart is pounding as I reread the words. Then my fingers travel to the bruise on my arm, the one I woke up with after that night in the bar where I got blackout drunk.
This isn’t the first time I’ve had bruises like this. There was a period in my life when I frequently woke up with them. Jason accused me of being a junkie. My mother insisted I was anemic, although I was never tested for that.
What if I was being drugged? But by who? The same person who carvedslutinto my flesh and on my locker? But how would this person continuously be able to drug me? I’d have to be around them a lot.
My thoughts drift to my mother. I loathe that I have to question if she’s the one who’s done this to me. She’s cruel, but this is so much more than cruelty. These are wounds that will never heal, scars that will never fade away.
I trace my finger along the current bruise on my arm. It aches, but I barely flinch.
Could this bruise be from being drugged?
It’s such a ridiculous idea, especially considering it’d mean that the “he” Clover is referring to in her diary is someone I know and have crossed paths with recently. I can’t think of a connection, but that doesn’t mean one doesn’t exist. After all, my mind is a maze that I haven’t figured out a way out of yet.
“I think… I think I may have found something,” I say, glancing up at Ellis.
He looks at me, his fingers pausing on the keys. “What is it?”
I stand up, walk over to the bed, and sit down on the edge. Then I hand him the diary. “Read that entry.”
As he does, I stare at the bluish-purple splotches on my arm. I need to tell him about these.
But what if I do and he thinks I’m crazy?
What if he thinks I did it to myself?
“No one will believe you,” my mother tells me. “You’re just a girl, Ava. It’s your word against theirs.”
I remind myself to breathe—that my mother lies and that Ellis wouldn’t do that to me. He believed me last night. He has to believe me now.
“Shit,” he mumbles under his breath. “If this is true, then what I thought about the autopsy reports has to be.”
I pause for a beat. “There’s something else.” I skim my finger along the bruise on my arm one more time to feel the sting of pain before showing him my arm. “The other night at the bar, when I blacked out, I woke up the next day with this on my arm.”
He drops the diary as he sees the bruise on my arm. He makes no effort to pick it up as he gently takes my arm to examine it. My instinct is to pull away, but this time I fight the compulsion, knowing he needs to look at it.
“Jesus Christ, Aves.” His gaze collides with mine. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”
I shrug, a lump welling in my throat. “Because I’m not used to talking about stuff.” I pause at the feel of his hands on my arm.“Also, this isn’t the first time these kinds of bruises appeared on my arms. It happened when I was younger, too.”
