CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

HINDSIGHT BIAS

( — the tendency to exaggerate, after learning an outcome, one's ability to have foreseen how something turned out. )

— ♡ —

          RHIANNON CAN'T EVEN SAY SHE'S SHOCKED.

          It's what her parents always do—they threaten and they go to great lengths to get what they want, regardless of what they have to do. The only time they switched their MO was when Rhiannon double-crossed them, even accidentally, but they did what they did to protect the family name and the company. Saying they had voluntarily screwed themselves over was something they'd easily get over when compared to letting the truth get out.

          After all, no one would cut them any slack if they knew their own daughter was responsible for their downfall, regardless of how short-lived it was.

          Therefore, it's no surprise to know they're here and Rhiannon can guess what they want to do and why. If there's anything the Fords are known for, it's for their predictability; in a business like the one they run, in an empire like the one they have built, knowing who you can count on will always put you at an advantage and they pride themselves on being consistent with what they put out on the market.

          There's also the happy coincidence of Rhiannon just so happening to be their daughter.

          They're here for her, obviously, ready to turn the focus of January 14th's events against Crowcrest (and, therefore, against the people who run it for not having been able to properly protect their faculty and, most importantly, their students) and pretend like they've always given a damn. They simply chose the tough love approach as a one-time thing.

          The participants are all staring at her as if she was a crime scene, while all she wants to do is scream and yell at them they're the ones who killed someone and are expecting everyone else to simply obey and follow their meticulous plan. Their meticulous plan, however, has flaws—all it would take for it to crumble would simply be one person.

          Rhiannon could easily be that person. It would mean she'd be doing what's right for the justice system and for all the innocent people who can be spared, but it was Matteo who asked her to lie in the first place.

          She doesn't know what weighs more on the scale—her innocence or her guilt.

          Jude begins to straighten himself, ready to stand up. "I'll—"

          "—stay here," Rhiannon completes, and Jude begrudgingly returns to his seat, arms firmly crossed in front of his chest. He still hands her his knit scarf, which had been swung over the arm of the couch, and she carefully wraps it around her neck, knowing just how prone to falling ill she is. "It shouldn't take long."

          "It's your parents we're talking about here, Rhea," Matteo points out. "You're probably—"

          "I know my parents, thank you."

          She fixes the lapels of her heavy coat before following Isla out of the room, unable to shake off the hurt look Jude threw her moments earlier. It's one she has seen before, but still wishes it had never happened, regardless of how stronger the situation ended up making him.

          She saw that exact look in a seventeen-year-old Jude, jumping from therapist to therapist. She saw that look in him whenever he didn't have the energy to get out of bed. She saw that look in him whenever his parents had to make excuses as to why he wasn't in the greatest state he could be in and had to miss lacrosse practice.

          It wasn't pretty. It wasn't healthy—not just for him, but for everyone involved.

          Rhiannon's limbs are awfully heavy as she staggers out of the dorm, trying to keep up with Isla. Though her legs are shorter, she's also more athletic instead of being a couch potato, and also has the advantage of not having to worry about covering up for the person who killed a professor.

          The bitter taste of envy lingers in Rhiannon's mouth as she swallows her saliva and she forces herself to bite her tongue to prevent any unneeded snarky comments from leaving her mouth. She and Isla have only recently rekindled their friendship, but they're still walking on thin ice and both of their still short fuses can easily burn out with the tiniest spark.

          "Are they really here?" Rhiannon questions, accidentally slipping over the icy pathway.

          Isla briefly looks over her shoulder before turning back around. "Unfortunately. I have no idea why no one has called security yet."

          Must be because they fear it would only make things a lot worse, Rhiannon mentally adds, fixing Jude's scarf around her neck once it begins to slide off. The cold air bites into her uncovered skin like mosquitoes, and the whispering from a group of students nearby echoes in her head, even when they're far away enough to not be heard.

          Rhiannon doesn't dare to open her mouth, not just thanks to the cold weather, but she's certain Isla also heard what the group said. She knows it by the way Isla's posture instantly stiffens and she clenches her hands into fists, stomping her feet against the snow as she walks.

          She doesn't even want to know how word got out or if it's just a theory someone decided to spread around the campus. An evil voice in the back of Rhiannon's brain suggests other people might have been receiving anonymous texts as well, taunting the students with a theory regarding the identity of the people who are indirectly involved in what happened.

          It's vile, disgusting and unnecessary. It's also something only a restricted amount of people knew about.

          Besides, it's totally illogical.

          The only person who knows who killed Frances is the one who actually did it and everyone else in that house is just playing along in their charade, despite not knowing who the puppet master is. For all they know, it might not even have been premeditated—people do stupid things in the heat of the moment and it's no secret to anyone Frances was highly dislikable. Perhaps he screwed up someone in that house enough for them to reach a breaking point, but a well-thought-out plan would never involve getting rid of him in a house full of surveillance cameras and other people.

          "Isla," Rhiannon calls, once they're already inside the building. Isla is still leading the way, but her movements are a lot less confident than they were earlier, with her fingers shaking when she runs them through her hair to brush it away from her face. "Isla, please—"

          "Please tell me you didn't tell anyone," Isla begs, turning around and stopping so abruptly Rhiannon nearly runs into her. "Please."

          "Jude," she hesitantly replies, twisting her hands in each other, and fails to ignore how the corners of Isla's dark eyes instantly flood with tears. "But I told you about it at the hospital, remember? Isla, it's Jude; he would never—"

          "I know. I know. But someone thinks Papa is covering up for whoever killed McCall, and it might be just a matter of time before they start thinking they're putting the pieces together and find out what you know. What Jude knows. What Laura knows." She inhales. "Do you think . . . do you think Laura . . ."

          "No." Rhiannon steps forward, taking Isla's hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. "I know next to nothing about Laura, but I know enough to be sure she wouldn't be running around telling people what she heard; besides, don't you think Beatrice would be all over her if she even suspected she had opened her mouth?" She pauses, lowering her voice even more. "Beatrice is driven by self-preservation. I know that motivational force, because it's what fuels me. Trust me when I tell you Laura had nothing to do with it."

          "With any of it?"

          "I don't think she did," she admits, and it's the full truth. "She worshipped the guy. I mean, just look at her; she struggles with opening doors because they're too heavy. McCall was, like, five foot ten and around two hundred pounds and had tons of muscle. She could have never done that."

          Isla doesn't say anything. Instead, she simply shakes her head and steps forward, arms laced around Rhiannon's neck, and the latter doesn't hesitate before returning the hug. She's not crying anymore, having managed to calm herself down, in typical Isla behavior, and Rhiannon is selfish and self-centered to the point of wishing she had done something bigger to help her. 

          Isla's fingers are tightly clenched around the fabric of Rhiannon's coat, but the tender pressure disappears quickly when she takes a step back, no longer having to stand on her toes. Gabriel Guerreiro's secretary gestures at them from across the room, asking them to join her inside the office, and Rhiannon barely has time to take a deep breath.

          Christopher and Madeleine Ford haven't changed a bit. Madeleine doesn't have a single strand of hair out of place, in spite of the brutal gusts of wind blasting against the windows of the office, and Christopher remains as immobile as a marble statue, emanating an aura of confidence even while sitting down. The look of disdain they both throw her once she walks inside is the exact same they flashed her during Stephanie and Aaron's wedding.

          This is one of the times Rhiannon wishes they'd crack. Just this once.

          Gabriel, however, gives her a much warmer welcome, throwing her a genuine, yet tired smile from behind his desk. The events from the past few months seem to have aged him several years, with the lines on his forehead being more defined than Rhiannon had ever seen them and the purple circles under his eyes bruising his cheekbones. Nevertheless, he does a much better job at being welcoming than her own parents, which shouldn't even come as a surprise by now.

         "Rhiannon," he greets, taking off his glasses and setting them aside. "Sorry to interrupt your evening, but, as you can see . . ." He gestures towards her parents, sitting in front of him. Isla walks around the desk to stand next to him, with a hand on the back of his chair, and he's almost as tall as her while sitting down. "I thought you'd want to talk to your parents. After all, no one can blame you kids for needing parental support after what happened."

          "She could have died," Madeleine points out, leaning forward. "It's your responsibility to keep these students safe—"

          "Mrs. Ford," he chimes in, trying to keep his tone as steady and polite as he possibly can. "Just like I've told you several times already, I was not involved in the experiment, but it got a green light from me because I trust Professor Northrop. Professor McCall was an exceptional member of the faculty and he'll be dearly missed." Rhiannon sharply inhales. "Our priority, especially at a time like this, is the students' safety. I can guarantee no one involved had any idea such a tragedy would happen and have such damaging consequences."

          "These experiments always mess with people's heads," Christopher intervenes. "You saw just how well it worked out in Stanford!"

          "That was in 1971. It's 2019." Christopher huffs. "Things have changed, Mr. Ford. Though I'm certainly not the right person to discuss this subject with you, I'm certain Professor Northrop won't mind scheduling a meeting with the two of you and any concerned parents. All I ask of you is that you let her grieve in peace—"

          "This is all her fault!" Madeleine insists and, while both Rhiannon and Isla jump with a start, Gabriel remains firm. "She knew that experiment was dangerous right from the start; she knew they'd be putting kids through something traumatic and expect them to be fine right after—"

          "We chose to take part in it," Rhiannon mutters, through gritted teeth, and her parents turn to face her. Isla's lips stretch into a smug smile. "Being part of the group of participants was our choice. We all knew exactly what they would be testing and we always had the option to quit."

          "Rhiannon, you're not thinking clearly," Christopher states, entirely dismissing everything she just said. It's what they always do—they invalidate her thoughts and feelings, brushing them off as if it had been a mere whisper from the wind. "They've brainwashed you, you're traumatized—"

          "Don't act like you give a damn about how I feel!" Their eyes widen and Madeleine's mouth drops open. "There were plenty of times when I needed you and you weren't there for me, but, when the situation is minimally beneficial for you, you come back as if nothing had happened! You know nothing about the experiment and you know nothing about what happened that time, so don't try to come here, threaten to sue everyone and patronize me as if I wasn't strong enough!"

          "Rhiannon," Madeleine warns.

          "I'm not trying to come up with excuses for what happened that night, but no one, including Beatrice or Frances himself knew what was going to happen; even though we were always angry at them for barely telling us anything other than what we really needed to know about the experiment, none of us ever thought they'd endanger us, especially not on purpose!"

          "Rhiannon!" Christopher snaps, standing up from his seat so abruptly he knocks his chair aside, and Rhiannon immediately takes a step back with a whimper, eyes firmly shut as she prepares for the impact. That never happens, however, but her teeth are chattering when she allows herself to open her eyes. "We're here because we were concerned about you, since neither you or Stephanie have bothered to tell us anything, and we have to find out through a third party you were almost considered a suspect in a murder investigation!"

          "Well, you have a funny way of showing it!" Scorching hot tears sting the corners of her eyes and she rushes to wipe them away with the back of her hands. "There's evidence . . . there's evidence that proves I didn't do it. You can go home and breathe of relief because there's no way I'm going to stain the family name again." Rhiannon gulps. "I'm in control now. Just like I should have been starting a long time ago."

          Isla lets out a low whistle, visibly impressed.

          No one gets sued. For now.

— ♡ —

          EVERYTHING IS GOING DOWN THE DRAIN. As January slowly fades into February and the weather stabilizes, bringing back more stable weather conditions instead of random sunny periods between blizzards, Rhiannon is pretty sure they've all bitten off more than they can chew.

          Though the anonymous texts have been cutting them some slack and the police haven't made any progress regarding their investigation surrounding the events from January 14, there's everything else in their lives weighing down on their shoulders. Rhiannon has heard about the countless students whose parents have threatened to freeze their admissions and pull them out of college, not to mention how the Taylor Thing has resurfaced.

          For a while, it almost seemed like most people had forgotten about it. After Frances' death and the fire, they found something new to talk about, something that sounded a lot more scandalous due to there being a lot more people involved, but it was quickly dropped due to the lack of evidence and willingness of the participants to open their mouth. Thus, they returned to the second most interesting thing, even though a girl died and no one has any idea of who was responsible.

          Frances took the answer to that question to the grave. Only Beatrice remains, but it's a thousand times more likely the whole campus will catch on fire than having her spill out everything she knows.

          Rhiannon doesn't want to be the one to tell them it will definitely come back to bite them and screw them all over. Deep down, she thinks they all know it and, much like Beatrice, their actions are being fueled by self-preservation instincts and utter fear—fear of being caught, of betraying someone, of going against the group mentality, of being a deviant. They're all scared of something, and it's that exact fear that will make them remain silent or eventually crack under pressure.

          She's just hoping she won't be the one cracking.

          So, on an early February morning, she makes her way inside the café they usually hang out at, having to push the door open with the help of both her hip and shoulder thanks to the heavy weight of her textbooks. The sweet scent of freshly baked goods instantly reaches her and her stomach grumbles, ready to get some breakfast before class starts.

          It's been a calm morning, as far as the circumstances allow, but Rhiannon still just wants it to end as quickly as possible. She's frankly tired, not just physically, and the time she spent away from Crowcrest would have been a lot more helpful if there wasn't anything else going on.

          The fear of having their lie be discovered is constantly present, clinging to them like mold, and Rhiannon feels rotten. The putrid smell of whatever is left from the true story regarding what happened that night follows them around as it decays and, soon enough, other people will be able to feel it too. It will be heard by the wrong ears.

          Speaking of the wrong ears, her phone chooses that exact moment to vibrate in her pocket, just when she only has two people ahead of her on the line to order.

          BLOCKED NUMBER, 07:45 AM: It's best if you stick together. Trust me.

          Rhiannon almost ignores the message, seeing as it has been a rather effective tactic, but, instead, she decides to look around her. It's highly likely the text wasn't directed to her, as most of them are rarely about anything in particular; she also can't accuse anyone who's holding a phone to be the person who has been texting all of them, but some people just don't know how to not look suspicious.

          Unfortunately, everyone sitting in the café is an exception to that. However, Rhiannon finds Laura, sitting at a table by herself, and she picks up her phone just as Rhiannon looks up from hers. Her reaction is a lot more drastic than Rhiannon's, who simply chose to shrug it off; she sets her phone aside, covers her phone with her hands, and Rhiannon is pretty certain her shoulders shake whenever she sobs.

          It's no secret to anyone she has taken it a lot harder than everyone else. Despite his many flaws (including being absolutely insufferable, in spite of the favorable first impression mostly everyone had of him), he was still her favorite professor and Laura is genuinely upset over what happened, not just over having to cover up for who did it.

          Thus, Rhiannon orders two cappuccinos.

          "Hey," she greets, setting one of the cardboard cups in front of Laura. Startled, Laura instantly drops her hands, with rebel strands of black hair freeing themselves from her messy bun, and the light cast by the foggy day gives her brown skin an almost sickly green glow. "Are you okay?"

          "I guess," Laura mutters, accepting the cappuccino. "Thanks for this."

          Rhiannon hums. "Mind if I sit?" Laura nods, sipping her drink, and there's leftover foam on her upper lip once she sets her cup down. "What happened? You look . . . upset."

          "My parents." She sniffles. "They want to pull me out of Crowcrest too."