CHAPTER NINETEEN

DIFFUSION OF RESPONSIBILITY

( — the lessening of responsibility by individuals in a group situation or social collective. )

— ♡ —

          RHIANNON LASTS HALF A FINALS WEEK WITHOUT BREAKING DOWN. Thus, when it happens, it's mortifying enough to make her feel like dropping out of college altogether, forgetting all about the experiment; it happens during her Calculus final, with everything vanishing from her head—everything minimally relevant to the solving of said exam, mind you.

          As she stares down at her exam booklet, her eyes scanning questions she doesn't (or can't) understand over the incessant buzzing in her ears, there's something else going on in the background. Above the usual sounds of pens scribbling the booklets, dramatic sighing and occasional whispers of 'I'm too dumb for this', Rhiannon distinguishes something not so ordinary.

          This type of whispering will never fail to raise goose bumps all over her skin, even the parts covered by her clothing, which is saying a lot considering she's wearing jeans and a turtleneck sweater. It's also something she wishes she had already gotten used to instead of being caught off-guard by it every single time, but she supposes part of her keeps hoping it will stop eventually.

          Except it never does.

          The students have been sorted in alphabetical order according to their last names and, though Rhiannon is a Ford and definitely wouldn't be sitting this closed to the Bs during any other exams, she's awfully close to Gabriella, Dimitri and Zelda—Brighton, Bonheur and Berry, respectively. She applauds them for having the courage to chat during a final exam, especially Calculus, but it gets sort of annoying when it manages to distract her this much.

          The whispering is almost constant. Quite frankly, it has become quite disturbing and Rhiannon tries to associate these feelings to knowing they're all falling into Beatrice and Frances' trap by doing exactly what they want and creating strong bonds, even if said bonds are fueled by their hatred towards an experiment no one wants to quit.

          She really doesn't want to admit it's also partially due to her feeling left out. They rarely include her in their conversations, but it's not like she puts an effort into trying to be a part of them.

          It's one of the rare times she's glad Jude isn't sitting anywhere close to her, feeling like she's definitely not in the mood to feel his eyes glued to the back of her head. She knows they desperately need to talk and figure things out, as this is the most awkward their relationship has ever been in all twenty-one years of its existence, but she doesn't even know how she'll approach the subject.

          Hey, Jude, mind telling me if you have gotten involved in anything shady besides Project Oxygen? Also, do you have anything to do with what happened to Taylor?

          "Miss Ford," her professor whispers, bending forward over her seat, and she jumps in startle, pushing her pen off the table. It rolls across the floor and away from her. "Is everything alright?"

          "Low blood sugar," she replies, lying through her teeth, "I think. I'm okay."

          "Do you need some sugared water, then? You're looking a little pale." Rhiannon doesn't reply, as she's already attracting too much attention towards herself and would much rather go back to being unnoticed by her classmates, but the man insists on curling his fingers around the twig that is her arm and pull her up. "Come on."

          "I haven't finished my exam yet," she protests, and he sighs, looking up at the rows of students trying to do what she was trying to do (Gabriella, Zelda and Dimitri are no longer talking to each other, as it would be incredibly risky to do so right now, not to mention stupid). "Sir, I—"

          "Has anyone finished the exam yet?" A few hands hesitantly rise up, and Rhiannon wishes there was a way of digging a hole and burying herself in it right where she is. It's humiliating and even Jude is staring at her with concern, having set down his pen even though his hand isn't up in the air. "Can any of you check to see if there are any professors outside so your classmate can avoid passing out?"

          "I heard that if someone dies during an exam, the rest of us all pass," someone says, earning some chuckles from other people. Jude tells them to shut up and, even with all their missteps, Rhiannon will never not be thankful for him.

          "Except no one is going to die," the professor retorts. "Now, go be a team player and do what I asked you to do."

          Said student reluctantly stands up from their seat, somewhere in the middle row, and Rhiannon tries to return to hers, to no avail. Even though most people have already stopped caring because it doesn't look like she'll die anytime soon, the same can't be said about everyone.

          It's Jude. It's always Jude. Even when the professor tells him to focus back on his exam because she's fine and the color is returning to her cheeks (which Rhiannon doubts, seeing as she should be sitting down), he seems reluctant to do so, jaw tightly clenched. There's no doubt in the world he cares deeply about her and that's something Rhiannon never dared to question, but, God, there are times she hopes he cared and trusted her enough to open up more often.

          "Sir," Mean Guy calls, standing by the door. "Professor McCall is here."

          Rhiannon groans, and is pretty sure the other participants sitting in the room mimic her. She supposes that, if they had to choose a favorite researcher out of the two of them, they'd choose Beatrice, as she's somewhat nicer and the concern she shows might be genuine.

          Emphasis on might.

          She thinks they both know the participants don't care much about them, not even Laura, but it's a price they'll have to pay if they want this experiment to keep going. Sure, they can restart it with a brand new group of participants and hope they'll get along better, but it would probably be a big waste of time.

         Nevertheless, she doesn't have a choice in the matter. She's also not sure of which one of them stiffens the most when they lock eyes with one another in the hallway, and immediately regrets having used the blood sugar excuse; she even jumps when the door leading to the auditorium closes behind her and Frances steps forward, with the lighting in the hallway enhancing the speckles of gold in his dark eyes. They're so dark she can't distinguish the iris from the pupil, similar to black holes.

         "Come on," Frances finally says, shattering the frigid silence between them. "You should hurry."

          "I'm," she blabbers, and her voice comes out like a weak quack, "I'm fine. I should go back inside and finish my exam."

          "Miss Ford"—Frances steps forward and she steps backward—"I know it's none of my business, but your classmate there mentioned you weren't feeling too well. You really do look a bit pale." She grits her teeth. "If you pass out, I'm afraid you won't be able to finish your exam."

          "I'm sure that won't—"

          "Though that might teach you a lesson regarding eavesdropping on other people's conversations." Rhiannon's stomach drops as the air around them gets heavier. In spite of her height, she feels minuscule, child-like, even, and sweat runs down the nape of her neck, getting woven into her hair. "If you think I didn't notice, if you think I didn't see you running to the other side of the hallway—"

          "I was looking for my professor," Rhiannon pathetically tries to argue. She has never been a good liar and her Calculus professor was just gullible enough to fall for her excuse, meaning she won't get away with anything she tries to tell Frances—not even the truth. There has always been something about him that messed with her senses, something that almost terrified her, and she has never felt more alone than she does at the moment. "I really wasn't trying to—"

          "One thing you'll find is that I don't like being lied to." Considerably lowering his voice, he curls his fingers around her arm when she tries to back away and she's certain he could easily break her humerus if he wanted to. Her breath gets hitched in her throat when he pulls her forward, so abruptly she nearly stumbles against his chest. "I most certainly don't like having people listening to my private conversations, especially students; if I ever suspect you've done it again, there will be consequences. I guarantee you won't be pleased with them."

          Rhiannon's heart is seconds away from jumping out of her rib-cage or from being thrown up. Bile burns the inside of her throat, wildfires and clouds of thick smoke ravaging through her airways, but she forces herself to stay quiet, to not utter a word. Men like Frances McCall—men like Christopher Ford—much like sharks, can smell fear.

          She can't stay quiet. Not after what she heard, not while knowing Jude might have gotten himself involved in something dangerous, something much bigger than all of them.

          "Were you telling the truth?" she questions, through clenched teeth, and he never eases the pressure. His actions are fueled by pure cowardice, as he wouldn't dare to do anything remotely similar to this if there was anyone around. "Did you tell Laura the truth or did you tell her what you thought she wanted to hear?"

          For a split second, hesitation crosses Frances' eyes, but he quickly regains control of himself and his emotions. "Wouldn't make much sense if I spent my days lying while preaching about how much I hate liars, would it?"

         "And you had no reason to lie, according to what you said. Laura seems to blindly believe that, doesn't she?"

          Frances' eyes narrow, nearly turning into mere slits, and he throws her away from him with a jerk, causing her to lose her balance and stagger backward. The friction of her boots against the floor is strong enough to allow her to remain upright on her feet.

          "The only crime we're guilty of is trying to protect those who might be unable to protect themselves in this situation," he reveals, while her heartbeat refuses to slow down, with norepinephrine being released at alarming rates. "Don't demonize us for that."

          "They need to pay," Rhiannon croaks out. "Taylor's dead. Doesn't that bother you?"

          "I'm doing my job, Miss Ford. I suggest you keep doing yours."

          The following moments pass by in a blur. Rhiannon lets him leave, taking some time to catch her breath and to get her hands to stop shaking before she returns to the auditorium, knowing she'll be lucky if she gets a C on the exam. She breathes in, breathes out, prays she won't black out, and runs out of the door after turning in the exam.

         No one tries to stop her. At least that's what she convinces herself of.

         The gelid air of the campus feels like a slap in the face, freezing her into place. It even turns the tear rolling down her cheek into a microscopic snowflake, falling to one of the lapels of her coat, and she feels her boots slowly sinking into the snow.

          Her lips expel an involuntary whimper and her feet slip backward when Rowan Underwood's hand briefly brushes against her elbow. He immediately drops his hand, as if she had burnt him, and a flock of birds nearby takes flight, startled.

          "I'm sorry," he begins, with snowflakes getting caught between the rebel strands of his hair, the ones that have failed to be pinned back by a bobby pin. Her fingers tremble, not just thanks to the cold. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

          "Yeah, I've been a bit . . . jumpy lately," she replies, finding a silhouette in the distance that eerily resembles Connor's, and her chest tightens. The only way this morning could get any worse would be if her parents had decided to pay her a visit to ensure she's still wrapped around their finger, even if the Sargents are the ones in charge of her education now. "Listen, I . . . I really can't stay. There's something I need to—"

          "It's quick, I promise." Rhiannon switches her weight from one leg to the other, still seeing him from her peripheral vision. For someone who nearly drowned mere weeks ago, he looks unbelievably lean and healthy, with the golden glow having returned to his light-brown skin, but he's still neglecting the growing stubble along his jaw. There's still something off about him, but Rhiannon can't place her finger on what it is. "What should I . . . get Isla for Christmas?"

          Looking back at him, she knits her brows together. "What?"

          "What should I get her for Christmas? I don't . . . I mean, it would seem sketchy if I didn't get her anything, right? I know what she likes, but you're her best friend, so I thought you'd know—"

          With a huff, she slightly throws her head back in exasperation. "If you know so much, then you should know Isla is currently not speaking to me and things have been this way ever since I accused her father of covering for whoever killed Taylor." It's the first time she has ever seen Rowan be caught off-guard, mouth agape, but it's not like she's lying. Though Isla agreed with her theory, she still thought of it as some kind of betrayal coming from Rhiannon, and has officially declared they're no longer on speaking terms. "My researchers are also covering for who did it, meaning the chancellor is covering for them because they work for him. If there's nothing I can help you with, I have to go."

          "Hey, wait—"

          Rhiannon tries to walk past him, feeling like her limbs will soon be locked into place if she doesn't move, but he pulls her back by an arm, similarly to how Frances did it. Though Rowan's grip is not nearly as strong as his was, and she knows he means no harm, it still burns.

          It's also a lot easier to break free from him, even if the neurophysiological effects both gestures had on her were the exact same—the sweating, the rising of the blood pressure, the quickening of the pulse.

          "You and I have nothing else to say to each other," she declares, praying her voice is minimally steady so as to not raise any suspicions, and Rowan chews down on his bottom lip. "If you don't mind."

          Rowan doesn't try to stop her, like her classmates also didn't—like Jude didn't. She bumps into several people on her way out, never bothering to mutter an apology under her breath, and knows she won't be able to keep anything inside as soon as she opens her mouth. Maybe Connor sees her, maybe he calls her, but she has no way of knowing.

          She wishes she also had no way of caring.

          The place where Frances grabbed her feels about to catch on fire when she steps through the doors of the experiment house. Matteo is in the living room, laughing at something Sutton says; while Rhiannon would be ecstatic to see him under any other circumstances, right now it just leaves her sick to her stomach, even when he stands up from the couch, smile instantly dropping.

         She barely makes it to one of the bathrooms upstairs, collapsed in front of a toilet as her stomach empties all its contents—a croissant with jam and a cappuccino, because she can treat herself to fancier drinks now. But at what cost?

         "Rhea," Matteo quietly calls, standing behind her. She doesn't find the energy to move, gripping the porcelain seat with shaky, weak fingers, and lets out a choked sob when he pulls back her hair and tightens it into a ponytail. "It's okay. You're okay."

          The only gesture Rhiannon is capable of is a simple nod, but her body is assaulted by repeated sobbing. Sighing softly, but still full of patience, Matteo sits down next to her and flushes the toilet, closing the seat when she backs away. He never asks her to talk about what happened, knowing it must have been pretty serious, whatever it was, to have left her in such a miserable state; it's not something a flunked course or a hard exam can cause, and he knows it perfectly.

          So, when Rhiannon weakly leans her head against his chest and he surrounds her torso with his arm, he knows. He knows the experiment is ruining all of them.

          No one is willing to do anything about it, which only ends up proving Beatrice and Frances' point. They're all waiting for someone else to do something, for someone else to speak up, and they get caught in a vicious cycle.

— ♡ —

          THEY ARGUE ON CHRISTMAS EVE.

          Rhiannon wishes it was a simple argument over Christmas pudding or the stain of applesauce on Ringo Starr's fur, but it's a lot worse than that. Seeing as it's one of the few days they're allowed to leave the campus and, by extension, the experiment house, and Jude didn't want to leave her alone on Christmas, she followed him to the Sargents' house, as per usual.

          It happens when he sees the bruise on her arm, right where Frances' fingers had marked her. There's no way of coming up with a minimally plausible excuse for it, as anyone can easily the shape of human fingers, so she doesn't bother to do so; she tells him the full truth, even the exact circumstances under which it all happened, and watches his face go from its usual color to shades of red, green and even purple.

          "Rhea," he whispers, carefully setting Sir Paul McCartney over his bed. The navy-blue duvet matches the color of the curtains, contrasting with the white walls and the dark wood floors. "What did you hear?"

          "I didn't do it on purpose," she remarks, crossing the folds of her cardigan in front of her stomach. "I needed to talk to our Brain and Cognition professor over our test grades, and . . . I didn't expect Laura to be there. Our Laura. They were talking about how Hailey keeps accusing everyone of having had something to do with what happened to Taylor, even Northrop and McCall, and . . . and Laura said Hailey thinks Taylor died because she knew too much. I don't know what she was talking about. McCall agreed and said Taylor was a chatty gossip, as if he was trying to justify—"

          "God." Jude runs his fingers through his curls, pacing around the room. "God."

          "They didn't do it. Northrop and McCall, I mean." Rhiannon sniffles. "What they did do, however, was decide to cover up for whoever did it, and Isla's father is covering for them." His eyes discreetly widen, meaning this is brand new information to him. "I don't know why Laura was there or why they chose to tell her that, but maybe she knows a lot more than she says she does. I don't know. Look, Jude, I didn't mean to eavesdrop, and I certainly didn't mean to be seen. But, considering you've been acting all shady with the rest of them, I think it's fair for me to be part of—"

          "That doesn't mean you should go and stupidly endanger yourself, Rhiannon!" She raises her chin, both at the rising of his voice and the usage of her full name. "That doesn't—Hailey just wants to find out the truth, okay? That's not a crime."

          "Neither is trying to find out what the hell you've been doing!" Rhiannon argues back, and his eyes glisten. Even with the distance between them, she finds the green in his hazel eyes, the same color as the pine trees in the distant mountains, under the layers of snow they're covered by. "Don't think I haven't noticed it, Jude, because I"—she swallows—"just want you to be safe, but I also need you to be honest with me considering a girl died and you're all wandering into dangerous territory by trying to figure this out! It's not a puzzle, it's not a game of Clue—it's the real deal, and Northrop and McCall are dangerous!"

          "And don't you think I don't know that? Don't you think that's exactly why I didn't want you to get involved?"

          "I can take care of myself, Jude!"

          "So can I!"

          The argument is cut short, as Sir Paul McCartney threateningly meows at them, followed by one of his characteristic glares, requiring immediate attention. Rhiannon picks him up, in spite of her clear preference for dogs, and cuddles him close to her chest, running her fingers through the black fur.

          She sighs. Jude sighs. Sir Paul McCartney purrs against the crook of her neck.

          "I'm not trying to argue with you," she murmurs. "I'm sorry for yelling. I just don't think it's fair to blame me for what he did to me; maybe I shouldn't have eavesdropped, but he didn't have to hurt me. That's on him."

          Jude falls to the bed, fingers intertwined between his knees. "Are you talking to me or to the cat?" She throws him a deadpan look. "Yeah, I know. I'm not either, and I'm sorry too, but . . ." He shakes his head, turning to face the massive windows covering the entirety of the back wall of the room. They can see the woods from high up here, seeing as the mansion has been built on a hill. "I wasn't trying to blame you for McCall's actions, Rhea, at all. I don't want to come up with excuses for being a douche, but I'm sure you feel it too. The experiment. It finds a way of bringing out the worst in us."

          Rhiannon sadly nods. "Matteo said it would happen."

          "Yeah," Jude groans. "Maybe he has been the true prophet all along."

— ♡ —

this is 3.6k words long in honor of me being absolutely terrible with updates during finals season. i'm so sorry.

also: do you prefer this length for chapters or would you rather have me stick to the same length they had been until now?