CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

GROUP POLARIZATION

( — the tendency for groups to make decisions that are more extreme than the decisions that would be made by the members acting alone. )

— ♡ —

          RHIANNON'S NAME IS WRITTEN IN BLACK.

          It's not the only one, being joined by Matteo's, Jude's, Zelda's and Roman's, but it contrasts heavily with the reds—Taylor, Brooklyn, Laura, Hailey, Dimitri—and isn't that different from the blues—Gabriella and Sutton. Even though she thinks she knows Frances' criteria for color choice, the man was a box full of surprises and she should know better than assuming things.

          Taylor's name, written in red ink, has an ellipse drawn around it. It's followed by Brooklyn and Dimitri, with Zelda breaking the read chain. Gabriella's blue looks awfully out of place when followed by Laura and Hailey's reds, but it softens quickly after, with Sutton, Matteo, Jude, Rhiannon (whose stomach is turning like a tornado), and, finally, Roman.

          It feels like staring at a ghost. It also serves as a reminder that two people involved in the building of this diagram are no longer alive, and Beatrice seems to have had no hand in taking care of it. Perhaps she didn't care. Perhaps Frances didn't want to explain his reasoning.

          Perhaps.

          Rowan takes her phone from her hand, slowly enough to not startle her, but it still happens. Somehow, she managed to forget he's standing right next to her, she managed to forget they're standing right in the middle of his living room and she managed to forget they're definitely not alone. Isla's eyes meet hers and she knows her best friend instantly realized something isn't quite right.

          "You should sit down," Rowan advises, with a hand set on her arm, right above her elbow. The floor wobbles beneath her feet and she places an unsteady hand on the table in front of her, nearly knocking the framed picture aside. "Come on."

          "I'm sober," she stupidly mumbles. "Tell Isla to sit down and stay where she is."

          "Uh . . ." Rowan briefly turns to glance at Isla, who has already stood up from the couch, but hasn't moved an inch. Rhiannon fears she might be growing roots, but perhaps that's for the best. "I'm sure you know Isla a lot better than I do, but I think we both know Isla does what Isla wants to do."

          "I think I'm going to throw up."

          "Not on my floor. Please."

          It takes Rhiannon's brain an embarrassingly long time to properly process Rowan is just joking. When that happens, she thinks she tries to laugh, at least ever so slightly just so the joke doesn't hang around awkwardly and makes it all even worse, but all that comes out is a laugh that sounds awfully sarcastic. It's a simple ha and it sounds pathetic, even for her.

          It's pathetic that she has to depend on someone else to simply stand upright on her feet because her knees buckle too much and her legs can't support her body weight. It's pathetic because she isn't heavy and is all made of sharp angles and thin limbs. It's pathetic because she's always dependent on other people, no matter what for.

          She couldn't even sign up for the experiment on her own accord. Matteo had to talk her into doing it, seeing as she's apparently unable to make decisions for herself.

          "Come on," Rowan insists, tugging at her arm, and she follows him towards one of the hallways, but it's not the one leading to the kitchen. He opens a door, revealing his bedroom, and Rhiannon's heart jumps in anticipation as she throws the living room one final panicked look. Rowan notices it and instantly draws back his hand. "Oh, no, please don't get the wrong idea. Stay here and I'll show you"—he quickly rushes into the room, pulling a whiteboard with wheels at the bottom—"the investigation board."

          "What is that?"

          "An investigation board."

          She scowls. "I'm not stupid." He winces and, once again, she straightens her shoulders, inhaling sharply. "Okay, I'm sorry. What do I have to do with that . . . board, or whatever?"

          Rowan places a hand on his hip and points the index finger of his other one at her, like a scolding mother. "Listen here. I didn't bring you to the board to hear you insult it. It's my child." When Rhiannon doesn't say anything (after all, she's not quite sure of what to say about a twenty-five-year-old man who has developed a strong emotional bond with an inanimate object), he drops the accusatory hand. "See? We're bonding."

          "You make me want to pull out my hair."

          Rowan's lips stretch into a wide grin, the biggest she has seen him show, not counting the one from the graduation picture. "We're one and the same. I don't particularly like you, either."

          Rhiannon pouts. "But I'm pretty."

          "Ah, yes, the infamous sphere of prettiness. How many times has that worked out for you?"

          She returns his grin. "You'd be surprised, even though it hasn't always been for my benefit." She steps forward to get a better look at the whiteboard, finding several pins connected by different colored wool strings, along with post-it notes, newspaper cut-outs and other pieces of information. "Shouldn't you be working on the book?"

          "I'm waiting for Gabriel to send me his notes on the first draft, so, as of right now, I can't do anything else about it. This board is a fun distraction."

          "The board is about a dead girl," Chase states, walking past them after exiting the bathroom. Rhiannon throws him an incredulous look, but Rowan simply sighs, massaging the bridge of his nose, as if this was a common occurrence. Rhiannon already has to put up with Chase at Crowcrest a lot more often than she had hoped for, as they take the same courses and are in constant competition (much like Isla and Hailey), but he often wins. Therefore, she doesn't want to have to deal with him outside of the campus. "I wouldn't call that a fun distraction."

          "And no one called you," Rowan softly retorts. "Go back to the living room."

          Chase raises his chin. "I'm telling Isla."

          "Chase. Five foot two."

          "Rowan," Chase echoes, in the exact same deadpan tone, and Rhiannon really wishes she was in the mood to even crack a laugh. "I don't care." He then turns to face her. "Hey, ice queen."

          "That would be me," she greets, certain he has already noticed her stiff neck and, worst of all, the way her dark circles seem to carve into her skull. They're so dark they look like bruises. "How have you been? Hit anyone with your baseball bat recently? Or do you only do that when your grades drop to marks below mine?"

          Chase's light eyes radiate cold fury, like the depths of hell. "That was one time." He takes a deep breath and Rhiannon tries not to drown in satisfaction. Chase Fowler isn't someone who's easily intimidated, but she managed to hit him right where it hurts—that massive, massive ego of his. Still, the higher they go, the harder they fall. "What about you? Terrified many children lately?"

          "I eat them for breakfast, thank you, Chase."

          "Goodbye, Chase," Rowan chimes in, gesturing towards the living room, and Chase finally leaves them, leaving them alone with the board. "Moving on to more important matters than your diet and Chase's baseball bat . . . can you mail that photo to me so I can print it and hang it on the board? It might be useful."

          "Rowan." She dares to set a hand on his shoulder. "My dude."

          "Are you drunk?"

          "No. Maybe."

          It was stupid. It was really, really stupid, but Isla had actually bought two bottles of Montoya Cabernet, and everyone knows Rhiannon can't resist a bottle of good, expensive red wine, even with a stomach bug. It was one of the stupidest ideas she could have had, but Isla was surprisingly patient as she watched her best friend drink an entire bottle of wine on her own.

          The little devil.

          Rowan looks at her like she's a teenage girl who can't hold her alcohol. When she looks into his eyes, so dark they're almost black, she sees the same thing she has found in her parents' eyes way too often.

          Embarrassment. Disappointment. Confusion.

          She drops her hand. "I'm sorry. I'll . . . I'll mail it to you. I think I'm going to—"

          "Isla?" he calls, raising his voice so Isla can hear him from the living room, and never gives her a chance to finish her sentence. The levels of GABA and dopamine in her bloodstream are spiking and her vision is hazy, with the edges blurring as her limbs grow heavier. Footsteps echo in her ears (or so she thinks; it might as well be her pulse beating like a drum), getting closer with each of her heartbeats. "A little help here would be nice."

          "Please," Isla says. "Rhiannon weighs, like, one hundred and ten pounds?"

          "One hundred and sixteen," Rhiannon corrects. "I modeled," she rushes to add, when Rowan raises an eyebrow, seemingly in concern.

          "We know, Rhea. You keep all your magazines in our bedroom." Rhiannon has to bite her tongue to avoid asking Isla to not reveal that to the public. There are times when she strangely misses modeling, in spite of how objectified it made her feel, with people pointing at every single one of her flaws and analyzing her face and body to every microscopic detail. It gave her a sense of purpose—something not even she could screw up. "You look great, babe. Maybe go easier on smoking."

          "Great conversation," Rowan interrupts, once more, and Isla swings an arm around Rhiannon's waist to steady her movements, while the latter simply lets out an idiotic giggle after losing her balance. "Bed. Rhiannon, bed."

          "Nice to meet you, bed," she blurts out, and Rowan and Isla exchange a look she can't quite decipher, as the alcohol-induced dizziness has really settled in. "Do you know why alcohol makes you so . . . sleepy and slow? Alcohol connects to a certain part of the chloride receptors and raises the chloride conductance; therefore, there are more inhibitory effects."

          "Isn't she adorable?" Isla questions, and the next thing Rhiannon feels is a soft surface beneath her, encouraging her to lie down.

          The printer in the room beeps once and Rowan pulls out the warm piece of paper, shaking it a few times to ensure it's dry before hanging it on the board, glued to the surface by a piece of red tape.

          Rhiannon's brain quickly shuts their voices out and turns them into lovely background noise as she slowly drifts off to sleep, warm and cozy. The voices and the silhouettes slowly blur and she simply lets them talk and examine the diagram Sutton messaged her.

          ". . . last name?"

          "Hobbes. Rowan, you can't—"

          "I saw it. I saw it, I saw it in Taylor's journal; where the hell is the list . .. "

          "Right in front of you, you idiot."

          "Are you always this supportive?"

          "Only on Saturdays." A brief pause. "Rowan? Rowan, what is it?"

          "No," Rowan gasps, lowering his voice, but Rhiannon remains in the consciousness threshold, still able to hear them, albeit not as clearly as she wants. Still, it's clearer than he seems to want. "No, we can't do this here. Aren't . . . aren't they friends?" Silence. The rustling sounds of pages being flipped. A gentle slap against someone's skin. "There."

          "The Leviathan is frightening when it's furious. I thought I had seen it all since freshman year, but I was certainly in for a surprise . . . although I wish I had simply witnessed it from the sidelines. I got used to being on the sidelines and was perfectly happy being there, where I could steal no one's thunder. No one's spotlight. The Leviathan knows its worth and will never let anyone take it away—not even me. It said I'd regret it, that I don't know what I'm getting myself into. Truthfully, I don't. I don't know why it bothers the Leviathan so much; after all . . . it can't be trusted. No one in this place can, apparently, but it has to be brought to light."

          "The Leviathan knows some people are stronger than others. Some are smarter. Nevertheless, at the end of the day, they're all equal . . . or they should be. Humans still need an authority figure to guide them, however, and the Leviathan made sure to let me know I, too, responded to it. Said there'd be devastating consequences, and it's written in my contract, whatever it may be. We are not free. I certainly am not." Rowan chokes on the last few words and Rhiannon's breathing momentarily stops, heart racing like a hurricane.

          Hailey. Hailey Hobbes.

          Thomas Hobbes. The Leviathan.

          Rhiannon rolls out of bed before any of them can blink, but they're faster and their movements certainly aren't being slowed down by alcohol. Isla holds her shoulders and Rhiannon is pretty sure she sees her lips move, but no words come out—either that or her brain simply isn't registering them.

          She can't believe their theory. She doesn't want to believe it.

          Even if Hailey can come off as too intimidating sometimes, never being afraid of speaking her mind and being somewhat terrifying at times, Rhiannon still saw the look in her eyes when the news of the discovery of Taylor's body broke out. They were in that living room, back when the experiment didn't seem as scary and staring up at those cameras was almost comical.

          Nothing from that point on was funny in the slightest, with that New Year's Eve party being an exception . . . up until a certain point. Dimitri fell to that couch, fully defeated. Gabriella remained expressionless. Brooklyn had no idea where to turn. Laura and Sutton were shaking.

          But Hailey. Hailey was downright furious at Beatrice and Frances, having to be held back by Matteo before she did something she shouldn't, and that was the moment when Rhiannon saw just how far Hailey was willing to go just to prove a point. She saw Hailey lash out at everyone in that living room, pointing fingers and delivering passive-aggressive comments, but Rhiannon always wanted to think she was innocent—on both charges. Both in Frances' and Taylor's deaths.

          She still does. It's why this makes no sense—there are things you can't fake, unless you're a master manipulator.

          "This is stupid," she mutters, in a slurred voice. "Hailey didn't do anything."

          "No one is saying she did," Isla says, "but . . . her name is in red in that diagram, and we just read that passage . . . Rhiannon, I know you like her, but Hailey can be a difficult person to deal with. She can be too intense."

          "So what? What makes you think the reds mean the people who could have done it? What did Frances have to do with it? What was in it for him, huh? Because those people"—she gestures towards the diagram, plastered to Rowan's whiteboard—"are the ones who can be connected to the case in a general way; Brooklyn was the only one to come back, Dimitri was Taylor's boyfriend, Hailey was her friend, but Laura? Laura was Frances' protégée, alright? She was his favorite. She's in the experiment because he wanted her there, not because . . . not because she has had anything to do with this!"

          "And what makes you think Laura didn't do it?"

          "Because she has a goddamn alibi that has been verified countless times! She was with her parents the entire day Taylor died! November 29th!"

          "Okay," Rowan intervenes. "Okay. Laura is off the list. But, Rhiannon, Hailey . . . she's a possibility we'll have to consider." Rhiannon looks away, firmly crossing her arms in front of her chest. "We don't know what happened between them that made them fall apart as hard as they did—"

          "Hailey cared about Taylor," Rhiannon argues, focusing back on the blurry outline of his body. "She didn't do it. She also didn't push Frances."

          "How do you know?"

          "I just do." Her voice cracks. "I just do."

          "Maybe this means nothing," Isla points out, in a low voice. "He was running out of ink with the red pen"—she points to Hailey's H—"and could have had to switch colors. The blue pen was kind of weak, too. We're grasping at straws, Rowan, and Taylor knew a lot of people—she knew a lot of people who would do terrible things just to ensure she stayed quiet. There are people in that diagram who might be in red, but their alibis have been verified. Laura, Brooklyn. Probably Dimitri."

          Rhiannon narrows her eyes. "And Hailey?"

          "Rhiannon, you were living with her. I have no idea."

          "You think she did it."

          "I didn't say that."

          "You didn't have to."

          Rhiannon takes her phone from Rowan's hand and bolts out of the door, stopping by the kitchen to take the remaining bottle of Cabernet. Isla runs after her, telling her she can't leave like this and she certainly can't drive (especially since her car is at Crowcrest, as she rode with Isla), but she decides to throw all carelessness aside as she slams the front door behind her.

           You're okay, she tells herself as she closes her coat's flaps with an arm, as her other hand is firmly holding the bottle of wine. Walking from Rowan's apartment to Crowcrest is a terrible idea, especially in such a chilly evening, and she can barely see what's in her way, blurry vision and all. The only time it's not hazy is when she catches a glimpse of herself in a glass door, tired eyes staring back at her, and she quickly looks away, refusing to think about himself.

          That is a lot easier said than done.

           Rhiannon doesn't want to believe Hailey had anything to do with what happened to Taylor (and to Frances) simply because it would hurt her, because it would destroy her expectations and the image she created of Hailey. She's an inherently selfish creature, and this just proves it.

           It's a miracle she doesn't fall on the walk back to Crowcrest, especially with all the fog. The lower portion of it clings to her hair as she stumbles out of the parking lot, fingers curled around the bottle of wine—as if it's the only thing that matters. The events from earlier today had almost vanished from her mind, but, when they come back, they hit her like a train.

          Connor. Soraya. They're all out to get them, determined to find out who started the lie and why.

          Her unsteady steps take her to her dorm, her brain fully functioning in auto-pilot, and it takes her a while to realize the annoying sound echoing in her ears is that of her own sobs. It's certainly influenced by the stupid chloride in her system, courtesy of how much she's had to drink, but that doesn't stop her from opening the new bottle and bringing it to her lips.

          "Happy birthday to me," she mumbles, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Congratulations. You just got played. Again."

          "Rhea?"

          She jumps, nearly dropping the bottle (and sincerely hoping that won't happen; even though she wasn't the one to buy the wine, those two bottles were stupidly expensive), and turns around to follow the source of the voice that called her name. She finds Matteo, standing by the door leading to his room, and freezes.

          It's been an awfully long time since they last had a proper conversation, and she hates that she's the main reason behind it. She wants to trust him, she really does, but whoever pushed Frances—if someone pushed him—had to have plenty of upper arm strength or the skill to catch the man off-guard.

          The latter is a lot less likely than the former. Matteo just doesn't have a motive.

          "Hi," she greets, leaning her shoulder blades against the wall. A stubborn tear rolls down her cheek. "Lovely night, isn't it?"

          "Are you drunk?"

          She huffs, lowering her head, and her hair forms a curtain between them. "What is it with everyone asking me that tonight?"

          "Uh . . . I don't know. It might have something to do with how you can't walk in a straight line, you're slurring all your words and you're holding a half-full bottle of Cabernet."

          Rhiannon raises the bottle. "Looks half-empty to me." Matteo chuckles and she turns her head to look at him once more. It's almost as if she had forgotten just how tall he is, with cheekbones that could potentially cut through diamond. "That's the difference between you and me. But, when we're in the group, it's like those things don't exist, isn't it? We're not Rhiannon and Matteo. We're the participants, or whatever. They don't care if you're a pessimist or an optimist; they don't care if you pushed that guy from the top of the staircase or not. They only care about you following the story and taking part in the lie." She sighs. "In the end, we're all bad people."

          "We're all bad people," he echoes. After a brief moment, he reaches out a hand towards her, in spite of the distance between them; they're almost standing on opposite ends of the long hallway, but the place is so quiet they hear each other perfectly, even while keeping their voices down. "Would you like to come in? Jude's here."

          "Sick. With the flu. I have a stomach bug." He gestures towards the bottle of wine. "Shut up. It's my birthday. I'm twenty-two, so it's perfectly legal."

          "Just because it's legal, doesn't mean you should do it."

          "Just because pushing someone from the top of a staircase, letting them break their neck, and then forcing everyone in that house to lie since no one knows who you are is illegal, it didn't stop anyone from doing it." Matteo doesn't react. She watches his posture, the drooping of his shoulders, the firmness of his jaw—nothing changes. So, she dares to shorten the distance between them, stopping right by the door. "Did you do it?"

          "No."

          She quirks an eyebrow. "'No'? That's it? You're not going to say something like 'no, I already told you that countless times and you're stupid'?"

          "I don't think you're stupid. I think you're one of the few people in this group who's still thinking clearly." He sadly shakes his head, and, when he turns to look at her once again, she knows it. His eyes are dark, but not like a black hole; they're warm, they're human, and they're good. "People will believe what they want to believe, and all the Psychology in the world can try to explain it and formulate theories on human behavior, but it's different when it happens to you. Northrop said it herself last week. I'm guilty of lying to the police, but I'm not guilty of lying to you, Rhea." He gently takes her free hand, giving it a small squeeze. "I hope you'll believe me, for whatever my word is worth."

          "Everything," she replies. "It's worth everything."

          His full lips twist into a small smile. "Thank you."

          "I'm so sorry for doubting you. There's no excuse, but . . ."

          "We'll talk in the morning. You need to sober up—wow, Cabernet." He takes the bottle, examining it as if he had never seen one like it before. "Expensive tastes."

          "What can I say? I'm expensive."

          Matteo laughs, opening the door and setting the bottle on a shelf by the entrance, and Rhiannon's heart stops. Jude is out of bed, probably going against every medical recommendation under the sun, and his lips part when he looks at her—like someone who has seen the stars for the first time.

          He doesn't care that he's sick, but she does. It's happening all over again, with Jude forgetting he's human, forgetting he needs to rest, forgetting not everyone is good all the time, and, when he steps forward, she's not the one falling to his arms—it's the opposite.

          Her fingers grasp the back of his jacket and her head lolls forward until she can rest her cheek against his shoulder, sighing softly when he returns the hug. He smells like typical Jude, a mix of aftershave, cologne, shampoo and a faint smell of cigarette smoke, but that comes from the jacket; Jude always has the decency to not smoke when he's sick, which always leaves him slightly grumpy, but his lungs are thankful.

          "It's charity," he once explained, after sneezing five times in a row while Rhiannon commented on how full his pack of cigarettes had been for the past week. "It's so important to give back."

          "Dude, they're your own lungs," Isla retorted. "If anything, you're only helping yourself."

          "You"—he weakly pointed a finger at her, while she simply smirked—"are a horrible human being. Does that come with being tiny? You have to make up for what you lack in height?"

          Present Jude doesn't pull away. If anything, he only holds her tighter, and Rhiannon lets herself go. It's the only constant she has right now and she's not willing to lose it, no matter what it takes.

          She wonders if that's the thought that ran through Hailey's mind, if she did it—any of it. She couldn't have.

          She couldn't. If she had done anything to Taylor, which Rhiannon still highly doubts, Frances knew about it, but what about Gabriella? Gabriella, whose only goal in this has always been to protect Hailey and ensure her safety, but who has always been so calm and collected, so willing to let others make the important decisions . . .

          If Hailey hurt Taylor, Gabriella would know about it—after all, it was Hailey herself who told Rhiannon there are no secrets between them. If Hailey did it and Frances knew about it, she could have cracked when she thought he was going to open his mouth about it.

          She got scared. He wanted to do the right thing. She did the wrong thing—or maybe Gabriella did it for her.

          Rhiannon doesn't know what to believe in. Not anymore. Not when they're the group and not their own people. Whatever decisions the group makes, everyone has to own up to them; after all, they knew this would happen as soon as they accepted to take part in the experiment.

          They were warned. They had the choice to quit. They didn't do it. Now, it's time for them to deal with the consequences of their actions and decisions, regardless of how destructive they have been, both for them and for third parties.