CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

COUNTERFACTUAL THINKING

( — human tendency to create possible alternatives to life events that have already occurred; something that is contrary to what actually happened. )

— ♡ —

          IT MIGHT NOT EVEN MAKE SENSE, BUT RHIANNON ALREADY DISLIKES SORAYA.

          Perhaps Rhiannon could hold her own in a physical altercation with her, seeing as she's several inches taller than Soraya, who must be standing at a height of five foot three; however, the latter is older and, most likely, stronger, as Rhiannon doesn't know the concept of upper arm strength and can't throw a punch to save her life.

          She can't even run. Therefore, she's pretty much useless and is praying both of them will be able to keep things minimally cordial; after all, Rhiannon would like to think she hasn't done anything wrong. The only thing she wanted that night was to get out of that house, take Roman to a safe place and take Jude to the hospital as quickly as possible; they can hold her cowardice against her, but it was for a greater good.

          The lie is also for the sake of a greater good, but it's totally different. That's what Soraya would use as an argument against them while speaking to the police.

          Connor shifts his weight from one leg to the other, and Rhiannon bitterly realizes this is the worst combination of people she wanted to spend time with on her birthday. "So . . . is there anything you want to tell each other? Because we really, really should get going. This place is depressing."

          "How do you two know each other?" Rhiannon questions, with a note of irritation weighing down on her voice. They're a terrible combination and, if their individual threat level was pretty high, it gets even scarier when they're standing side by side.

          "Over the experiment, obviously," Soraya clarifies, choosing every word as carefully as possible. Only people who have something to hide do things like these, along with adopting a defensive posture; Soraya herself has firmly crossed her arms in front of her chest, and Rhiannon raises her chin. "I'm certain you know Connor's family was kind enough to let Crowcrest borrow one of their houses for the experiment, and that's how they repaid the favor."

          Rhiannon narrows her eyes. "The fire was an accident. There were candles spread all around the house and people were already panicking, so someone must have knocked one aside and the flames spread."

          Soraya flashes her a cold smile. "I'm sure you know a lot about what happened that night. That makes me wonder, though; do the people at the police department know all about it too? Or did you just tell them what they wanted to hear?"

          "Soraya, I told you," Connor intervenes, much to Rhiannon's surprise, and she still doesn't want to trust him. Just because he seems to be on their side, it doesn't necessarily mean it's true and it certainly doesn't mean he's doing it for purely altruistic motives. It wouldn't fit his individualistic, self-serving nature. "You saw the footage. It wasn't her."

          "I can defend myself, thank you," Rhiannon protests, before she can stop herself, and Connor simply arches an eyebrow. If she talks too much, she and the rest of the group will get in trouble, but she also can't refuse to talk; it's only a matter of saying what really needs to be said without getting into much detail. The more details you provide, the harder it will be for everyone else too remember them while telling their stories, especially if it's a blatant lie. "I left before the fire started. My boyfriend tried to help your boyfriend, but someone knocked him out and left him with a concussion, so I needed to get him to a hospital. It was just me, him and a friend."

          "And why didn't everyone else leave too?" Soraya insists. "Why just you three?"

          "Someone had to drive! And it certainly wouldn't have been the guy with a concussion or a blind guy!"

          Soraya blinks, and Rhiannon feels truly disgusted with herself by referring to Roman in such terms. He shouldn't be defined by his blindness, and must have spent his entire life fighting against it, fighting against the stigma, while she's simply standing here and helping perpetuate harmful stereotypes.

          If he was here, he could have cracked a joke about it, as he has done in the past, but that's something that's up to him, not to anyone else. He would have defended himself a lot better than Rhiannon has been managing to do in his place, and she hates that she can barely stand up for a friend, even after all they've done for her. Even while knowing that particular friend would find more creative, stronger ways to defend her.

          "Whatever," Soraya mutters, dismissing what Rhiannon just said with a quick wave of her wrist, while the latter's blood boils in her veins and she closes her hands into fists next to her thighs. "It doesn't excuse what one of you did that night. It doesn't excuse what all of you are doing!"

          "I don't know what you're talking about," Rhiannon deadpans. Even if it sounds like she's thinking for herself, taking control of the situation, this is just what Aaron and Ezra told her to do—don't say more than what you absolutely have to; reply only with yes, no, I don't know or I don't remember; if you have to lie, don't break eye contact and only do it if you're positive you can get away with it. She'll never stop being a follower. "I don't have anything to tell you."

          "Listen here." Soraya takes a step forward, standing so close Rhiannon has to fight against the urge of holding her breath, as that could be a clear sign of intimidation. "If you don't think I'm going to find out the truth about what happened that night, you're horribly mistaken; I know one of you had something to do with what happened to Frances"—her voice cracks when she mentions Frances' name and Rhiannon actually feels bad for her—"and you can believe I'll be doing everything in my power to find out who it is."

          "Including threatening us via texts and phone-calls? Is that your M.O.?"

          "Stop it," Connor scolds. "Stop this immediately. Soraya, you're throwing random accusations when there is absolutely no proof that what happened that night was anything other than an accident. Yes, it was a tragedy"—Soraya rolls her dark eyes, rimmed with black eyeliner—"but it must have been an accident. These are college kids."

          Rhiannon feels like throwing up. She knows he doesn't believe a single word he's blabbering, as evidenced by the threatening glance he discreetly shoots her as a request for her to stay quiet, and that only makes him a lot more terrifying that he was before.

          They're all horrible people.

          "College kids can be cruel," Soraya continues. "After all, one of them died a few months ago. I've only been here for a month and I already know about, at least, a dozen different rumors they spread about each other, as if their only motivation was to tear each other down to succeed."

          Rhiannon bites her tongue. It really would be a bad idea if she said that's exactly the type of person Connor is and Soraya is choosing to side with him for whatever reason; then again, Connor has played a double-agent before, and it wouldn't surprise Rhiannon if he was a triple-agent this time.

          "What happened to that girl had nothing to do with this," Connor argues, his voice going up an octave, and Rhiannon watches them as if this was a tennis match. "They can be awful, but, trust me, they're all terrified—"

          "Yeah, terrified of having someone find out the truth!"

          "What do you know about Taylor?" Rhiannon chimes in. "What have you heard?"

          Soraya blinks. "What?"

          "That's the girl who died a few months ago." She inhales. Stupid, stupid, stupid. "I heard Fran—Professor McCall talk about it a few days after her body washed up on the beach. He said . . . he said he and Professor Northrop knew who did it, but couldn't tell anyone about it because it's a student. I think whoever did it has some dirt on them."

          "So?"

          "Rhiannon," Connor warns, eyes narrowed.

          "So," Rhiannon echoes. "Taylor was being threatened via text, which is what made her leave Vofield. We think whoever was texting her tracked her down to wherever she was, because she was probably dragged back here by the currents. Professor McCall was out of town when that happened."

          "Can you hear yourself?" Soraya snaps. "You're accusing him of—"

          "Shut up and listen," Rhiannon interrupts. "I think he really might have known the truth, and wanted to come clean about it. I also think other people didn't want him to do that."

          "Maybe it wasn't an accident, then," Connor begrudgingly whispers. "But that doesn't mean—"

          "No, not necessarily. I think someone had it out for him, but they wouldn't do it in a house full of people. Someone else would have caught on to it." She looks into the distance. "I think there's a high chance we might be protecting someone else, someone whose identity we don't even know. That's why we're doing it—because we honestly have no idea who did it. I'm not asking you to believe me or trust me because I wouldn't either, but he must have pissed someone off really bad if he was pushed; most of the time, we really didn't care whether we were being watched through the cameras. It was easy to forget they were in the control room."

          "You're right," Soraya sighs. "I don't believe you. Not entirely, at least. But, if it wasn't an accident and someone screwed him over, maybe you should all keep a close eye on each other. Maybe you're all trusting the wrong people. And, for the record, I haven't been texting or calling any of you. How would I have gotten your numbers?"

          Rhiannon excuses herself from the narrative, heading back towards her dorm before she freezes to death or throws up all over Connor and/or Soraya. The latter wouldn't be as bad as the former, but she'd rather not take any risks, which doesn't even come as a surprise.

         She hates them both so much it makes her sick.

         Back inside, where the air is much warmer and smells like people, a mix of cologne, shampoo and worn out books, she runs into Roman—literally runs into him, as she's looking over her shoulder as she walks instead of looking straight ahead, and one of her steps make her walk straight against him.

          He instantly loses his balance and stumbles aside, slamming a shoulder against a wall, but he's still thoughtful enough to hold her by an elbow. He has the courtesy to prevent her from falling, while she couldn't even be bothered referring to him as a person outside of his disability.

          "I'm so sorry," she blurts out, taking a step back to let him regain his composure, and one of his eyebrows raises. "Roman, I'm so sorry. Are you okay? I should have seen where I was going."

          "Yeah. Are you?"

          "I'm kind of sick." She rubs her forehead with the back of her hand to wipe off the sweat. "I think I'm going to lie down for a bit."

          "I can walk you to your room, if you'd like." He offers her his arm and she takes it, letting him guide the way while they're walking across a straight hallway. When they have to turn, she gently nudges him, secretly glad she has someone to lean on after what happened outside. "You seem tense. You're shaking."

          "Did you get the call?"

          His jaw clenches. "Unfortunately. It woke me up."

          "We all did, then." She sighs. "I just met Soraya, though. She's furious, as expected, and she exited the offices building with Connor. Beatrice said he's on our side, but, frankly, after all he's done, I don't trust him one bit." She tightens the hold on his arm when they stop in front of her dorm room. "This is me. Thanks for coming along."

          "Anytime." Her hand slips and she opens the door, being greeted by the deadliest glare she has ever seen Isla throw anyone. "Hesitation again?"

          "I think my roommate is going to kill me."

          "I could," Isla remarks, raising her voice. She's still sitting on her bed, glasses sliding down her nose bridge. "Hi! I don't think we've been introduced. Isla Guerreiro. I'm Rhiannon's roommate."

          "Roman Cooke," Roman cheerfully replies, and his lips twist into a smile. "Lovely room."

          Isla blinks. "What?"

          "Kidding. If you'll excuse me."

          He then walks away, leaving them behind until the sound of his cane softly tapping against the floor can no longer be heard. Isla rushes to roll out of bed and pull Rhiannon inside, barely giving her time to close the door; when Isla eases the grip on her wrist ever so slightly, Rhiannon takes that opportunity to break free and falls to her own bed.

          Her headache is destroying her by the second. She covers her eyes with her forearm after lying down, as if would help.

          "How did it go?" Isla asks.

          "Terribly," Rhiannon groans. "I hate that woman. She knows we're lying." Isla clears her throat, asking Rhiannon to elaborate, and she does, telling her everything that went down outside. "Basically, if she keeps investigating, if Northrop and Connor don't find a way of making her back off, she'll find out the truth before any of us. I hate her."

          "Damn. That sucks. I'm sorry, Rhea. I hope you'll find a way of getting out of this."

          "So you're not angry?"

          "Please. I've been trying really hard to gather enough courage to ask you to go out for dinner with me tonight at Rowan's. It's your birthday and we're not doing anything anyway, so I thought it would be a nice way of getting your mind off things . . . since security is tight. Besides, my dad would much rather know where I am and with whom."

          "I don't want to intrude."

          Isla laughs. "How many times did you force me and Matteo to third-wheel with you and Jude because you were scared of being alone with him? Not scared-scared, but . . . help me I've been in love with him for pretty much all my life and I don't know what to do-scared."

          "That's different."

          "So you're coming?"

          Rhiannon huffs. "Fine."

          "Great!" Isla claps once. "Also, can you do me a favor?" Rhiannon nods. "Please, please, please tone down the ice queen act. I'm not saying Rowan is kind of scared of you, but Rowan is kind of scared of you."

          Rhiannon drops her arm. "I'm not scary. Haven't you heard what people have said about me? I'm all growl."

          "I don't think you do it on purpose, but, like . . . you never smile. You never laugh. You're always so expressionless, even more than robots, and you barely give anyone the time of day; when you do, you either look really damn bored or you glare. This is Rowan Underwood we're talking about, Rhea. If you're intimidating enough to terrify him . . ."

          "No. Are you serious? Has he told you?"

          "Nope. But I can tell."

          "Great. Can you tell him I, like, didn't mean to scare him? I swear, it wasn't on purpose. I just . . ."

          "Tell him that yourself." Isla winks. "I promise he's not as mean as he seems."

— ♡ —

          ROWAN LOOKS LIKE HE SAW A GHOST WHEN HE OPENS THE DOOR. It feels like it's been forever since the last time she landed eyes on him, and, even though he remains easily recognizable, there are a few differences; for instance, he has grown a very short stubble above his upper lip and along his jaw, a consequence of not having shaved this morning, but it fades against his brown skin and can barely be seen under the lighting in the hallway.

          She fears he'll only let Isla in and then close to the door on her face. Isla stands on her toes to press a quick kiss to his lips before walking past him and heading towards the living room, where voices are coming from, and they're alone. After a brief moment of awkward silence, Rowan steps aside to let her through.

          The people in the living room are the ones Rhiannon has seen Rowan and Isla hang out with at Crowcrest. Chase Fowler is here, surprisingly, but Rhiannon assumes that slamming a baseball bat against someone's leg in the middle of a crowded cafeteria is his way of being welcoming. Joanna Potter throws her a polite smile. Natalia Winters remains expressionless (Rhiannon even fears they're mirroring each other) and Micah O'Neill throws her a military salute.

          Rowan disappears into the kitchen, following Isla, and whispers come out of the room. Rhiannon doesn't want to hear it.

          She starts pacing around the room, not feeling entirely comfortable with sitting next to a tight-knit group of friends. There are framed pictures scattered all around, meaning Rowan has been trying to make the apartment feel like home, even if his time in town is limited; the place is cozy, despite small (but it's still bigger than hers, that's for certain), and seems more like a hang-out spot.

          In one of the pictures, a younger Rowan stands between two adults, wearing his graduation gown and holding a diploma. Their smiles are frozen, but reach their eyes. The man is so tall he almost got cropped out of the picture, with skin a few shades darker than Rowan's, while the woman's is almost similar to the light-beige blazer she's wearing, platinum hair slicked back. Rowan's hair is much shorter, and it's the happiest she has ever seen him.

          God. She must really be a monster.

          "You can go ahead and ask," a voice states from behind her, and she jumps. Rowan steps forward to stand beside her, being only a few inches taller than her. "I get it all the time."

          "What?"

          "They're my biological parents. My father is Afro-Jamaican. My mother is as white as bleach." Rhiannon blinks, staring up at him, and he returns the confused look. "People usually think I'm adopted because I don't really look like any of them." He makes a vague circular gesture in front of his face. "They probably think I spend all my money on spray-tans, or something."

          "You have your father's smile, definitely. I think you look a lot like him, actually." She looks back at the picture as he picks it up. "You have some of your mother in you, too. The eyes, mostly. Your father's are darker. But, um . . . I'm sorry people say those things to you. I'm not going to tell you I understand, for obvious reasons, but . . ."

          "It's okay." He sets the picture back in its place. "I'm used to it."

          "You shouldn't be. Microaggressions are just as awful as more outspoken ones."

          Rowan massages his temples. "Can we talk about something else? Please?" She bites down on her bottom lip, sincerely wishing she could find a way of not screwing things up all the time. Of course she shouldn't be giving out advice—it's something she'll never experience. "Isla said you're sick. There's soup in the fridge, if you'd like."

          "Okay," she blabbers. "That sounds nice. Thanks." He gives her a quick nod, preparing to leave her, but Rhiannon straightens her shoulder. "Look, I'm sorry. Isla told me I . . . can be a bit intimidating sometimes, but I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable or unwelcome, or anything. I'm really sorry. I'm not going to dump the story of my life to you to try to come up with excuses for my behavior, but the way I've acted towards you since we met was out of line and I apologize."

          Rowan simply sighs, shaking his head. "Isla."

          "She didn't do it out of malice. She invited me and thought it'd be nice to give me a heads up."

          "I know. I just didn't think she had noticed it."

          "You'd be surprised if you knew how much she notices when you least expect it." Rowan's lips curve into a small smile and Rhiannon realizes it's one of the rare times she has ever seen him do it. "Anyway, I hope I'm not overstepping. Isla is really happy with you, but, um, it's sort of my job as a best friend to let you know I definitely won't be nice if you hurt her; even though I'm the worst fighter in this country and I highly doubt you'd ever do something like that, it's in my contract. No refunds."

          "Sure." He reaches out a hand towards her and she takes it, accepting the handshake. "Sorry I couldn't have been of much help back then. I think we followed different approaches, anyway, so maybe it was a good idea things didn't get mixed up."

          "Yeah." She draws back her hand. "I think the things I found out are the same you guys did, so it would just be redundant. Besides, after what happened last month . . . we've all had a lot on our minds lately and there's new information coming out almost every day; I guess we're having some trouble keeping up with it."

          Being cordial and nice certainly doesn't include running her mouth about what the group has been doing. Even if he's leaving in just a few months, even if he had nothing to do with what happened that night, the fewer people who know about it, the better.

          "I understand," he replies. "The things we've been doing . . . I can't say they're exactly legal, but Nat is the sheriff's daughter and it has helped us get away with it. At the end of the day, we have good intentions. So have you." Rowan briefly pauses as Isla exits the kitchen, throwing them one of her characteristic smug grins. "We stole Taylor's phone from the police station to clone it and found out about the threatening texts she had been getting from a blocked number. We gave it back, of course. Then, Nat decided to steal Taylor's diary from her own house to get copies and we've been reading them just in case there's anything important. Did you know Taylor was in Maine when she died?"

          "No," Rhiannon admits. "We all assumed she was dragged back here by the currents, but didn't know where she was at the time. Have you found out why she was there? We get our information by eavesdropping on other people's conversations or by asking each other the right questions at the right time, but we're mostly focused on . . . on finding out the truth about that night. Of course we care about Taylor, since Dimitri—her boyfriend—was part of the experiment too, but that professor . . ."

          Rowan rubs the side of his neck. "We haven't, but she used a lot of codes while writing. She seemed to have a nickname for everyone, so we've been spending most of our time trying to find out who the people are." He hesitates. "How are you?"

          "Sorry?"

          "The last time I saw you, you were a wreck."

          "That's a nice way to put it." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "I think I'm better. We've all been seeing therapists, but there are some things about that night we can't tell anyone. It would put us all in danger, even more than we already are. Oh, sorry," she adds, when her phone buzzes inside her pocket.

          It's a text from an unknown number, but this one is signed.

          UNKNOWN NUMBER, 6:11 PM: Don't freak out. This is Sutton. No, I'm not the anonymous texter; you can confirm my number with Matteo or Isla.

RHIANNON, 6:11 PM: Who gave you my number? That sounds like an invasion of privacy to me.

          SUTTON, 6:12 PM: Isla. She said you're literally across the room from her.

          Rhiannon shoots Isla a glare, but the latter merely winks at her before focusing back on the conversation she's having with Micah, while Rowan waits for development.

          SUTTON, 6:12 PM: Anyway, I promised I'd investigate, so I went to Laura for help, just to cheer her up a bit, and we've done some digging.

RHIANNON, 6:13 PM: Was any of it legal?

          SUTTON, 6:13 PM: Desperate times call for desperate measures. I forwarded this to everyone, but someone will have to help out poor Roman.

1 ATTACHMENT

          Huffing, Rhiannon presses her thumb against the tiny folder symbol flashing on her screen, and Rowan looks over her shoulder, barely having to crane his neck. It's a photo of a notebook page, with a perfectly manicured nail on the left side, and Rhiannon's stomach sinks as she recognizes Frances' handwriting.

          "What the hell?" Rowan mutters, zooming in on the image with his thumb and index finger. "There's your name on the corner . . . and—"

          "—there's Taylor's. Right in the center." There are the names of every single participant scattered around the page, but they're written in different colors—blue, black and red—and they're connected by lines, starting from the center. Of course she knew it had all started from Taylor, but she didn't know how everyone else connected. "It's how they chose the participants."

          Rowan looks at her, eyebrows knitted together. "Taylor. You were right."