Chapter 20 Secrets Never Stay Buried

Chapter 20 Secrets Never Stay Buried

When I first walk into my dorm room, I know something’s wrong.

It’s the kind of wrong you don’t notice right away, the kind that whispers at you before it screams. The air feels off, heavy somehow, like the space remembers someone who shouldn’t have been here. I stop in the doorway, my hand still on the knob, and scan the room.

At first, everything looks normal. My bed is made. My desk is stacked with books, a couple open notebooks, my laptop sitting right where I left it. The tiny pinboard above my desk still holds my schedule and a photo of Noah, the corners curling.

But then I see it.

The window.

It’s open, just a crack.

I never leave it open. Not here. Not when this place feels like a lion’s den and I’m the rabbit pretending to belong.

My pulse starts pounding.

I step inside, closing the door quietly behind me. Every instinct screams at me to leave, to find someone, to not face this alone. But I can’t. I have to know what they touched, what they took.

Slowly, I cross the room, scanning for anything out of place. The blanket on my bed looks rumpled in a way that doesn’t match the neatness I forced on it this morning. My desk drawer is slightly ajar, just enough for me to notice.

I yank it open.

At first, relief—most of my stuff is still there. Pens, my planner, the stupid glittery paperclip I pretend to like because it looks normal. But then the relief curdles into panic.

The envelope is gone.

The one thing I swore I’d keep hidden, locked away.

My real ID.

Ava Carter. Not Eva Sinclair.

My stomach drops so fast I feel dizzy. I slam the drawer shut, then open it again, like maybe I imagined it, like maybe it’s just slipped behind the others. But it’s not there.

It’s gone.

I stumble back, one hand gripping the edge of the desk to steady myself. Whoever came in here knows. Or they will, once they look at what they took.

I turn toward the bed, trying to think, trying to breathe, and that’s when I see the piece of paper lying neatly on my pillow.

I freeze.

It’s folded once, clean and deliberate.

My hand shakes as I pick it up and unfold it.

Four words in sharp black ink:

You’re not the only one with secrets.

My throat closes.

I sit down hard on the edge of the bed, the paper fluttering in my hands. My first instinct is denial—this has to be some kind of prank, another way the Blackridge elite torture the new girl. But no one here should know who I really am. No one here should have my ID.

The note isn’t just a warning. It’s a promise.

Whoever broke in here didn’t just want to scare me. They wanted me to know they’re watching.

My mind races. Who could it be? Jace? No. For all his suspicions, he plays his cards close. If he had my ID, he wouldn’t taunt me. He’d drag me into the spotlight and watch me burn.

Then who? One of his friends? Someone who overheard me slip up? Or… someone who knew Noah?

The thought chills me deeper than the draft from the open window.

I stand quickly, crossing the room to slam it shut, pulling the latch tight. Then I pace, the note still crumpled in my fist.

Think. Think.

Whoever did this had keys, or they’re skilled enough to break into a dorm without anyone noticing. Either way, that narrows it down—and terrifies me even more. Because if they can get in once, they can get in again.

I glance at the photo of Noah on my pinboard. His smile—wide, real, untouched by everything that came after—cuts into me.

“Who else knew, Noah?” I whisper. My voice cracks. “Who else was part of this?”

Of course, the photo doesn’t answer. It never does.

I sit back down on the bed and unfold the note again, staring at the words until they blur. You’re not the only one with secrets.

That means they know mine. But it also means they have their own.

What kind of secret do you leave a message like this to protect?

My chest tightens.

Maybe this isn’t just about me. Maybe this is about Noah, too.

That possibility claws at me, fierce and desperate. If whoever broke in knows what happened to him, if they’re dangling this in front of me like bait, then I can’t afford to back down.

I grab my notebook from the desk, flipping to the page where I’ve been mapping connections, jotting names, dates, everything I’ve pieced together so far. I press the note flat against the page, tape it down, and write beside it: Whoever this is, they’re dangerous.

A knock at the door makes me jump so violently my pen streaks across the page. My heart lodges in my throat.

I stare at the door, every muscle locked.

“Eva?” It’s Harper’s voice, casual, sing-song. “You in there? We’re all heading to dinner.”

Relief surges so fast it almost hurts. I force my voice steady. “Yeah, I’ll catch up later.”

There’s a pause. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I lie.

Another pause, then the sound of her footsteps retreating down the hall.

I sag against the desk, breathing hard.

I can’t tell anyone. Not Harper, not anyone. If I admit what was stolen, what was left, I’m finished. The mask will crack, and everything will spill out.

But the silence of the room presses in again, suffocating, and I realize I can’t stay here tonight. Not after this. Not knowing someone was inside while I wasn’t.

I shove a few essentials into my backpack—laptop, notebook, the photo of Noah. The rest can stay. If they wanted me rattled, congratulations. I’m rattled.

But I’m not quitting.

As I sling the bag over my shoulder, I glance back at the note one more time, still taped to the page.

You’re not the only one with secrets.

My fingers tighten on the strap.

Good. Because secrets are all I have left.

I flick off the light and slip into the hallway, heart pounding.

What I don’t notice until it’s too late is the shadow that moves just at the edge of the stairwell, retreating when I look up.

Someone’s still watching.