I can’t shake the notes Riley’s been leaving. They’re burned into my head, “Did you really think you could win?” and “Alex is mine now,” sharp, mean, like she’s laughing at me. I carry them in my bag, crumpled but heavy, and every step I take feels watched. I’ve been out all morning, wandering the town, trying to clear my mind after Casey’s find, the email times, proof something’s off. It’s not enough yet, but it’s something, and I cling to it. By afternoon, I’m worn out, my legs sore, and I head back to Sam’s place. I just want to crash, hide from everything for a while.
The house looks the same when I get there, small, beat-up, Sam’s truck gone. He’s at the garage, like always, leaving me alone. I unlock the door, step inside, and drop my bag by the couch. The air’s cold, quiet, but something feels wrong. I can’t place it at first, just an itch in my gut, like I’m not alone. I shake it off, head down the hall to my room, and push the door open. That’s when I see it, my desk drawer’s open, just a little, papers sticking out.
I freeze, my heart jumping. I didn’t leave it like that, I’m sure. I’m messy, yeah, but I keep that drawer shut, stuffed with old sketches and junk I don’t want Sam seeing. I step closer, slow, my shoes quiet on the wood floor. The papers inside are tilted, like someone rifled through them, and my pencil case is off to the side, not where I left it. My stomach twists, someone’s been here, touched my stuff. I spin around, checking the room, bed’s the same, blanket bunched up, but my shoes by the wall are crooked, one tipped over. It’s small, but it’s wrong. Somebody moved them.
I back up, my breath fast, and look at the window. It’s cracked open, just an inch, but I locked it this morning, I know I did. I rush over, push it up, and check the latch. It’s loose, undone, like someone flipped it from outside. My hands shake as I slam it shut, lock it tight, and press my forehead to the glass. The yard’s empty, grass, fence, nothing, but someone climbed in, stood here, messed with my room. Riley, she’s got to be doing this. The notes, now this, it’s her, taunting me, getting closer.
I turn back to the desk, my chest tight, and start digging through the drawer. Old drawings, receipts, a broken pen, nothing’s missing, but it’s all shifted, like someone looked and didn’t care to hide it. My sketches are there, rough ones of the town, a few of Alex from before everything fell apart. I pull them out, hands sweaty, checking each one. They’re fine, untouched, but the feeling won’t quit, someone’s been in here, breathing my air, poking through my life. I drop the papers, step back, and rub my face, trying to think. How’d she get in? Sam’s gone all day, but the lock’s solid, window’s the only way, and it’s not hard to jimmy if you know how.
My head’s spinning, fear creeping up my spine. Riley’s not just leaving notes, she’s breaking in, getting bold. I picture her here, smirking, her hands on my stuff, and it makes me sick. She’s got my notebook, knew that already, but this is worse. She’s close, too close, and I’m stuck at Sam’s with nowhere else to go. I check the room again, slow, looking for anything else, under the bed, behind the door. Nothing jumps out, but the air feels heavy, like she left something behind I can’t see.
I’m about to grab my phone, call Casey, when I turn to the mirror above the dresser. My blood stops. Taped there, right in the middle, is a note, small, white, with a sketch on it. I step closer, legs shaky, and stare. It’s Alex, his face, rough but clear, like the ones I used to draw. But it’s not mine, the lines are copied, traced over in red ink, thick and messy, like blood. No words, just the sketch, staring back at me. My knees buckle, and I grab the dresser to stay up, my breath loud in the quiet.
Riley did this, she had to. She’s got my notebook, took my sketch, made this to mess with me. The red ink, it’s creepy, wrong, like a threat. My hands go cold, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. She was here, in my room, taping this up, knowing I’d find it. I rip it off the mirror, the tape tearing, and hold it, staring at Alex’s face, my Alex, marked up by her. My blood runs cold, fear turning sharp. Who else knows what she’s done? She’s not just winning, she’s losing it, and I’m caught in her game.