I'm walking away from Sam's, my boots dragging on the wet pavement, Alex's words, "Maybe I should've never trusted you," stabbing me over and over. The rain's cold, soaking my jacket, dripping off my hood, but I don't feel it, just the hurt, raw and heavy, like a rock in my chest. I whisper, "I won't make that mistake again," my voice lost in the wind, and keep moving, the streetlights blurry through my tears. Alex is gone, three years of him being my home, shattered in one cruel moment. The town hates me, cops keep coming, Riley's winning, and now this, him turning his back. I'm alone, my legs shaky, and I want to collapse, give up right there in the dark.
But something flares, hot, angry, deep under the pain. I stop, my boots splashing in a puddle by the old gas station, its neon sign flickering. Riley did this, her lies, her tricks, stealing Alex from me, framing me for everything. My hands clench, nails digging into my palms, and my breath catches, fast and sharp. She's taken my sketches, my place with him, my whole life, and I'm sick of it. I wipe my face, the rain mixing with tears, and force myself to stand taller. I'm not done, not yet. She's not winning this. Casey's still with me, only one left, and I need her, need a plan, need proof to shove in Riley's face.
I turn, heading to Casey's, my steps heavier but surer, the cold biting my fingers. Her place is a small apartment above the hardware store, lights glowing yellow through the curtains. I bang on the door, loud, my fist shaking, till she opens it, hair messy, wearing an old sweatshirt, her eyes sharp but soft when she sees me. "Jamie?" she says, stepping back, and I stumble in, dripping wet, the warmth hitting me hard. I slump on her couch, lumpy, covered in a faded blanket, and my hands tremble as I pull my hood down. "He's done with me," I mutter, my voice rough, cracked. "Said he shouldn't have trusted me, Riley's got him twisted."
Casey's face hardens, mad, and she sits close, the couch creaking. "She's a liar," she says, firm, her voice cutting through my fog. "We're not done, Morgan's slipping, and she will too." I nod, slow, my head heavy, the ache still there but shifting. "I'm fighting back," I say, low, forcing the words out like they're stuck. "No more running, I want proof, real proof she did this." Casey grins, quick, her eyes sparking like she's been waiting for this. "Good," she says, leaning in, her hands clasped. "She's paranoid, messing up, we get something solid, she's finished."
I wipe my nose, my sleeve damp, and sit up, my chest loosening just a bit. "She's got stuff," I say, my voice steadier now. "My notebook, she stole it, used it against me. She's hiding more, proof she framed me, maybe Morgan's orders too." Casey nods, tapping her knee, thinking fast. "Her dorm," she says, sharp, her eyes narrowing. "She's there alone, sloppy sometimes, we search it, find what she's got, emails, notes, anything." My stomach twists, breaking in, risky, but I'm past caring, past fear. "Yeah," I say, firm, holding my hands together. "She's at the coffee shop some nights, or the bookstore, we go when she's out, dig through it."
Casey pulls her laptop onto her lap, the screen glowing blue in the dim room. "Her shift's tonight, I've watched her, closing up late," she says, typing quick, checking something, maybe the shop schedule she hacked once. "We move fast, she's gone till ten." I nod, my heart thumping, the plan taking shape, rough, desperate, but real. We grab jackets, hers green, mine still wet, and head out, the stairs creaking under us. The night's cold, streets quiet, and we stick to shadows, my boots splashing through puddles as we near her dorm, a brick building by the campus edge.
Her room's on the first floor, end of the hall, blinds cracked. Casey picks the lock, pin in hand, her fingers steady, while I watch the parking lot, my breath fogging. The lock clicks, loud in the silence, and we slip in, the door shutting soft behind us. Inside is odd, it's dark, smells like coffee, old socks, and I flick on my phone's light, my hands shaky. "You check the desk," Casey whispers, moving there, and I head to the bed, my knees brushing the frame. I squat as I dig, drawers stuffed with shirts, a textbook, junk, my fingers fumbling, needing something fast. Under the bed, I find a box, wood, scratched, and pry it open, my breath catching. Inside, my sketches, torn, and an old journal, worn, labeled "ALEX" in her messy scrawl.