CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

DEINDIVIDUATION

( — loss of self-awareness and evaluation apprehension; occurs in group situations that foster responsiveness to group norms, good or bad. )

— ♡ —

          "RHEA, YOU NEED TO SIT DOWN."

          "No," Rhiannon replies, even if she fails to recognize the voice that speaks as her own. Her lips move and she can hear every word that comes out of her mouth, but she's having some trouble acknowledging that on a fully conscious level. Her phone is shaking between her hands, but it's not vibrating anymore and the screen is completely black; it's almost as if that phone call didn't even exist. "No. I'm okay."

          "You can't possibly be okay after—"

          "Isla, I said I'm fine!" Isla doesn't shudder when Rhiannon raises her voice, but still clenches her jaw, as if there was a piece of chewing gum in her mouth. Rhiannon's usual tone of voice is what most people would consider low, so she's not exactly screaming right now, but it was a considerable change from the norm.

          Norm. There's that word again.

          Then, there's utter silence in the room. Rhiannon throws her phone to her bed, where it falls with a soft thud, and walks towards her vanity in search of her toothbrush and toothpaste, as she has been here for long enough.

          She wants to apologize to Isla, seeing as snapping at her was completely unnecessary, but she has already done and said plenty of terrible things, not just to her, and it will come a time when she won't be forgiven anymore. People get tired of apologies at some point, as they expect you to learn from your mistakes instead of collecting them in tiny jars to show off to visitors.

          "Where are you going?" Isla questions, keeping her voice soft and calm as if she was talking to a child.

          "I need to brush my teeth," Rhiannon mutters, opening the bedroom door and pushing it with her hip. The hallways are flooding with people who seem to have had the same idea as her and others who are leaving for breakfast. These people either stay up late, studying the night away, or get up stupidly early, so it's no surprise to see so many people. "Do you want to be my study buddy?"

          "Rhea . . ." Isla's voice now drips with hesitation, and Rhiannon almost gives in. "I don't know. Maybe you should rest for a bit; that phone call would leave anyone feeling really uncomfortable."

          "I could use some quality time with my best friend. Come on," she insists, when Isla pouts. "When was the last time we did something together? I know it's just studying, but . . ."

          "Just studying?" Her voice goes up several notches and Rhiannon knows she convinced her. Nothing stands in the way between Isla and academics, especially not a phone call from a blocked number who's determined to make other people's lives a living hell. "There's no such thing as 'just studying'. It's not a hobby, it's a lifestyle. But you go on ahead. I'll set up the room." Isla eagerly jumps from her seat, pulling her hair back up into the bun, securing it with the same pencil, and begins sorting out her textbooks. "Listen, I'm not trying to be invasive, but are you sure you're okay?"

          "Yeah." Rhiannon takes a deep breath and her ribs begin to crack. "Yeah, I'm fine. My guess is it was just someone trying to mess with my head, or something. It was just a prank."

          "Yeah, it could have been just a prank, but . . . you've all been getting those texts, right? Like Taylor was?" Rhiannon reluctantly nods. Even if she hadn't selfishly dragged Isla to the middle of this mess because she can't keep her damn mouth shut, Isla would have found a way of finding out about it—at least about Taylor. Isla always gets what she wants, constantly searching for ways to reach her goals. "What if they got that call as well? What if the person who called is the one who has been texting you?"

          "What if they are? We can take them."

          "Uh"—Isla knits her brows together, briefly turning around to face her—"last time I checked, that person apparently knows you're all lying about what really happened that night. Shouldn't you guys, like . . . try not to piss this person off, whoever they are? They have the power to—"

          "—hide behind what most likely is a burner phone instead of facing a group of people who has come up with a believable enough lie to keep us out of jail?" Isla says nothing. "This person has as much power as we choose to give them; if you ask me, I think we need to stick together to prevent any outside interferences from screwing us over. Look . . . I'm not a fan of this. I don't agree with it, not even a bit, and I just want things to get sorted out before anyone else gets hurt, but, if anyone backs out, the rest of the group will pin it all on them for deviating from the group mentality."

          "Just be careful." Rhiannon's heart sinks when Isla echoes almost the exact words she had said moments earlier. "I'm not the only one who's buried neck deep in danger."

          "I am being careful."

          Isla simply nods, and finally lets her go. Rhiannon doesn't know which of them she was trying to convince with those four words.

          Rhiannon doesn't go to the bathroom to brush her teeth. It's one of the reasons why she steps inside the room, even though she could use some privacy and this is one of the places shared by the entire dorm, but it's not her first priority. The first is to lock herself up in a cubicle, followed by pulling her hair into a messy ponytail.

          Then, she throws up whatever is left from last night's dinner, even though most of it has been turned into liquid. It burns more than ever as it scratches its way up her throat, almost as scorching as alcohol after a whole night of drinking too much, and Rhiannon wonders how in the world she lasted as long as she did back in her dorm.

          The phone call completely messed up her system. She was lucky enough that most of the alterations weren't external, but she certainly felt them hit her like a train; the quickening of the heart rate, the droplets of sweat oozing down her neck, the shaky hands, the aching stomach . . . it was a miracle she didn't throw up right there.

          Frances' girlfriend's voice is echoing in her ears as she flushes the toilet, wishing she could dump all her involvement in this case along with her stomach's contents. Of course she knows the truth will come out eventually, and that woman is just one of the people fighting for it to happen, but she also wants to believe the group still has some control—she wants to believe she has some control.

          She doesn't approve of the mean—it's the end she's looking forward to. Nevertheless, maybe they're all biting off more than they can chew, even if it's likely they'll get away with what happened that night thanks to the power of friendship.

          Cooperating with the group doesn't mean she trusts all of them—after all, Rhiannon can count on one hand the people she trusts there—and she knows they definitely won't stay in touch after all of this is over. A person died and one of them was responsible for it, depending on technicalities, loopholes and the rest of the group to cover it up because they're the only person who knows what really happened that night.

          Maybe Frances just tripped and fell. Maybe.

          Hopefully.

          Those damn candles. Rhiannon was right when she decided to never try to light one of them back when she had the chance to do so.

          Even after brushing her teeth and splashing ice-cold water on her face doesn't make her look more presentable in the slightest. Rebel strands of dark hair are glued to her face wherever there's sweat, like her cheekbones and right above her elbows, and her cheeks are swollen like a hamster's, not to mention her bloodshot eyes, staring right back at her through her reflection.

          "Rhiannon?"

          Rhiannon freezes, hands gripping the sides of the porcelain sink in front of her. There are many people she wouldn't have minded to run into in the bathroom, but the odds aren't in her side today, it seems.

          "Hey," Sutton continues, her platinum hair being almost blinding whenever the fluorescent lights hit it. It fits perfectly against the golden tone of her skin, however. "Are you . . . okay? You like hell, and that's me being nice."

          Rhiannon lets out a weak laugh. "Yeah. I noticed." She accepts the paper tissues Sutton hands her and gently pats them against her cheeks, trying to dry them without irritating her sensitive skin even more. "Did you get the call too?"

          Sutton sighs, turning around to lean the small of her back against the edge of the sink next to Rhiannon's. "Yep. Scared the crap out of me when I heard her voice." She pauses, crossing her arms, and exhales. "Do you think . . . do you think she could be the one who's been texting us? I mean, it would make sense; the woman absolutely hates us."

          "Maybe."

          To Rhiannon, the idea sounds awfully far-fetched and reminds her of the time when Hailey was accusing everyone of having had anything to do with Taylor's death. While it could make sense for Frances' girlfriend to be behind it all, it wouldn't explain the texts Rhiannon was getting prior to that night . . . unless there are, in fact, different people being responsible for the texts and, now, the calls.

          "You don't sound too convinced," Sutton somberly states.

          "I'm not," Rhiannon confesses, throwing away the damp paper tissues. "It's . . . complicated. It would make sense, but, at the same time, it would make too much sense and there are just too many holes in that theory. For starters, where would she have gotten our numbers? Through the experiment files, which are supposed to be confidential?"

          Sutton tilts her head to the side, lost in thought. "Just because it was supposed to be that way, it doesn't mean it was; I mean, both Northrop and McCall must have broken a hundred ethical principles throughout the experiment and she's still breaking them now, not to mention how she's lying to the cops for us."

          Luckily for them, they're alone in the bathroom. Luck, luck, luck—that's what it all has come down to.

          "I don't know," Rhiannon adds. "We didn't know McCall. We didn't know his motives to do anything whatsoever, and, even if his girlfriend had gotten involved . . . there's something else, too." Sutton doesn't say anything and even holds her breath. "Look, I . . . I had been getting texts before that night. It started, like, a week after New Year's Eve. I don't know if you knew this, but Taylor was getting anonymous threats via text before she died, which was why she left Vofield. I overhead Laura in McCall's office, talking to Northrop, and Laura says people think Taylor knew too much about . . . I don't know what." Sutton narrows her eyes almost imperceptibly. "Then, I found out Gabriella was there too, but she just wanted to know who participant zero was. Whatever Taylor knew, it was enough to make someone threaten her, drive her out of Vofield and kill her. She was dragged by the currents, so she might not even have died here."

          "And you think the person who was texting you was . . ."

          "The same person who texted Taylor? Probably. I even thought this blocked number who's been annoying us was the same person as well, but I don't know what to think right now. It could be various people."

          Sutton exhales. "If you want to know my opinion, I think whoever got your number must have been involved with the experiment because I doubt you've been posting your number on the notice boards, or something. We also don't run around giving other people each other's numbers." Rhiannon lowers her head and Sutton's fingers give her wrist a gentle squeeze. "Hey. I don't know what's going to happen next, but we're going to find a way of fixing it, okay? We're going to find out who this person is, but we're not giving them what they want."

          "Is it that inhuman, though? Whoever it is . . . they just want the truth. Wouldn't you do the same?"

           Sutton purses her lips together, dropping her hand. "Yeah. Not like this, though. Anyway, I'll see what I can find out about . . . Soraya, or whatever her name is. I think it's Soraya." She steps forward. "If you need anything, you know where to find me. Next time they call us, we won't pick up, right? Right?" she insists, when no sounds come out of Rhiannon's mouth.

          "Right," she echoes, and Sutton walks towards the door. "Sutton?"

          "Yes?"

          "Did you do it?"

          "What?"

          "Did you push him?"

          Sutton scowls, before breaking into laughter. "Rhiannon. I'm five foot four." She opens the door. "And, since you're probably going to ask me about Taylor, I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Matteo countless times. We think Taylor got caught in something much, much bigger than her, but, regardless of how scared she was, she couldn't care less about what we had to say, and this was way after we went our separate ways." Her smile drops. "We know we could have done a lot more to help her, me especially. I knew about the texts." Rhiannon's heart jumps. "I told her to go see Mr. Guerreiro and tell him about it, because he's the one person who can actually protect us."

          "What happened?"

          "I wouldn't know. She went missing the week after talking to him, so I can only assume it did not go well."

— ♡ —

          RHIANNON'S TWENTY-SECOND BIRTHDAY IS OFFICIALLY ONE OF HER WORST SO FAR. She can count on two hands the amount of decent birthdays she's had during the past twenty-two years and it doesn't even include half of them; the good ones fill one of her hands, which is starting to become worrisome. She should be counting good birthdays with more than just two hands; instead, she can only count the opposite.

          For starters, she has come down with a nasty case of stomach flu, one that made her miss two days of classes since she was too weak to get out of bed. When it got better and she resorted to pulling all-nighters to make up for everything she missed, the nausea got stronger and more intense, but she's been able to keep most things in her stomach.

          Secondly, Jude himself has fallen ill, but his stomach seems to be safe. He tried to attend his lectures, but, between nearly coughing his lungs out ("maybe you should stop smoking," Zelda whispered to him) and nearly falling asleep countless times thanks to a heavy head, he gave up on Wednesday, the same day Rhiannon went back. He lasted to the end of the day before officially announcing his retirement.

          She still has Isla and Matteo. Isla, however, is always so busy all plans involving her must be scheduled a month in advance, at the very least, and even then, it's not guaranteed she'll be able to show up. With Matteo, on the other hand, the situation is somewhat more . . . complicated.

          The events of January 14 have created a rift between them, which is exactly what Rhiannon feared would happen as soon as they signed up for the experiment. Granted, no one ever saw it coming, no one would have guessed this is how it would end, but it did and there's no way of running from it and not dealing with the consequences.

          But he's so tall. He's so strong. Motive, means, opportunity—out of all three, Rhiannon can only identify two, and motive certainly isn't one of them. It should be more than enough, not to mention she has his word on how he didn't do it, but the road ahead of her is so hazy she no longer knows what to believe in.

          So, on February 22, her age matches the day of the month and she couldn't possibly be feeling any worse, slumped on a bench with snowflakes getting woven into her hair. She supposes it could be pleasant if she wasn't feeling as awful as she currently does, with a revolving stomach and a runny nose that definitely should not be sitting outside in the cold.

          The worst part is that there's actually a reason why she's sitting outside, looking like the Michelin man under all the layers of clothes she's wearing.

          Connor is still here. She really wishes he wasn't, as she has dealt with him more than enough to last her for an entire lifetime during the past three years, and is hoping she won't have to run into him as often after graduation. Crowcrest used to be her safe place, where she was almost certain she wouldn't see him, but the experiment turned her whole world upside down and brought him back.

          She saw him earlier this morning, as she stared out of dorm room window. It's so big it almost covers an entire wall, giving little to no room for privacy during the days when the fog isn't as heavy, so she and Isla try to remember to keep the curtains half-closed as often as they possibly can while still getting some natural light from outside. Connor was crossing the quad, headed towards the offices, and Rhiannon just knew it couldn't be good.

          It's smart to always be wary of Connor's actions. He rarely reveals his true intentions.

          "Where the hell are you going?" Isla questioned, filling up an entire page of her notebook with numbers and symbols. "It's snowing."

          "Amazing," Rhiannon muttered, through gritted teeth, while putting on a heavy sweatshirt on top of her cotton one. A heavy coat quickly followed suit. "I'll be right back."

          "What if you feel sick?"

          "I'll call you."

          Isla groaned. "And I'll get you a doctor. Honestly, Rhea; it's been a week. You're dehydrated. You're exhausted. You look minutes away from passing out."

          "I'm fine. It's just a bug."

          "Bugs can shut down even the most sophisticated computer system!" Isla raised her voice after Rhiannon exited the room, leaving the door ajar. "Don't say I didn't warn you!"

          Isla had a point, but Rhiannon didn't want to bring herself to worry about it. She could have also chosen to wait for Connor in the waiting room of the offices building, but feared that would raise suspicions from anyone who saw her sit there for so long; it would probably make them think she had gotten into trouble and she can't lie to save her life.

          Fortunately, she wasn't the one to come up with the cover story. If she had been the one responsible for it, things would have started to fall apart a long time ago, and she's just glad she's depending on the decisions made by people who are a lot better at it.

          They know what they're doing. The best thing to do is to follow and support their decisions.

          Moving on to Connor and his shenanigans. Rhiannon has no idea what he's doing here, but finding out he's involved in covering up what happened in that house—which used to belong to his parents—has made her decide she can't let him out of her sight whenever he's at Crowcrest.

          She knows she sounds paranoid, but that's not what this is—at all. She's just following her family's mantra, focusing on constant vigilance, but, then again, Project Oxygen focused on constant vigilance and so did the prison experiment at Stanford. Everyone saw how those two experiments ended.

          Connor's involvement in the lie is just to protect himself and his family's name. He doesn't care about anything else other than power and finding new ways of constantly moving forward; it's not necessarily a bad thing, not at all, and a bit of ambition can take you places, but Connor has always had a penchant for drama and for spiraling out of control.

          She doesn't have to wait for long. The bench she chose is close enough to the offices to let her see who comes in and out of the building, but it still leaves a safe distance between her and the front door, just so no one will think she's there on purpose (which she is, but that's exactly the point).

          The door swings open, pulling her out of a cold-induced haze, and her muscles hiss in pain when she stands up. Isla was right, as always, and she feels weak enough to lose her balance, stumbling over her own feet and having to support her weight on the wooden bench. Nevertheless, she still sees him—and he's not alone.

          With dark hair cascading down her back in soft waves, tanned skin and toned legs, Soraya Madani easily looks like she could hold her own in a fight. That's why Rhiannon's heart jumps when their eyes meet, even with the considerable distance behind them.

          She wants to run away and return to her dorm room, where she'll be safe and sound, but she forces herself to remember why she's here. Even if she feels like she's seconds away from throwing up and can barely stand upright on her feet for more than five minutes straight, she's determined to prove to those two she's not as much of a weakling as everyone thinks she is.

          Including Connor.

          "Rhiannon," he greets, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, even though the sun isn't shining from behind the heavy clouds. His hair is shorter, no longer being able to be pulled back into a bun, and his stubble has grown. "Happy birthday."

          She doesn't answer, but he still takes her wrists to pull her forward and press a quick kiss to her cheek. Her knees buckle and a tiny voice in the back of her head (which suspiciously sounds like Isla's) tells her now would be a great time to hit him right where it hurts.

          "I'm sure you know who Soraya is," he continues, after stepping away. Soraya doesn't smile. Her bone structure is so sharp, so well-defined it could cut into a diamond. "In case you don't, well . . . Soraya Madani, Rhiannon Ford."

          "Oh, I know who she is, alright," Soraya says. "I'm sure she has a lot she wants to tell me."

— ♡ —

sooo. soraya is played by my love sarah shahi, mostly bc i miss person of interest (and root . . . and shaw . . . and reese . . .) a lot

eight chapters left!!!! we're almost there. trust me.