Lancaster Cemetery, 5:00 PM

VICTIM II.

There were less people than I expected. Though Mrs. Marshall made it seem like this would be nothing more than a candlelight vigil, the flier she put out did claim that this would be a full-on burial. And it definitely is. With the closed casket decorated in flowers, it eerily looms over the six-foot grave, tentatively awaiting to be lowered.

Mr. Marshall is here, eyes nearly swollen shut from profusely crying. He carries around a basket of flowers, handing all the attendees one. Mrs. Marshall takes on the job of explaining that one-by-one, they want us to leave a white carnation on the sleek surface of Sara's coffin, saying a few words as we do so. I feel wrongful for being here, being that this is rather a task for me. I've rarely uttered a word to Sara, and the only impression I got from her was a snob who like to tease. How do I sugarcoat that?

People who didn't know her as much, either, start to go up. They describe her as cheerful and bright – something people regularly use to describe Kat. By the way the parents proudly grin a tight line at their daughter's corpse, I realize these are just things every parent would be proud to hear about their kids. Funerals are for the living, anyways. I'll just go up and tell a few white lies.

Next to me, Kat uncomfortably shifts. She's wearing a formal black gown, which is something rare for her – both the formal and the gown parts. "I don't know what to say," she discretely whispers to me. "Honestly, I didn't even really like –"

"I know," I cut off, still finding it inappropriate to insult someone at their resting place. "Just…say something nice. They're doing it," I point out as I nod at the strangers stepping forwards.

"I don't know, Camry…" she murmurs.

Just then, a tall figure with combed back black hair saunters up. Dressed in a suit and tie, the way he holds the flower makes it look like a symbolic weapon from the mafia, more than a mourning peer of Sara Marshall. Carefully, he places the flora as if putting it in the wrong place will end the world. He lets his long-fingered hand linger in place without saying a word. Somehow, the meaning in his touch seems like enough, if not more than enough, to surpass the need for a wish for safe passage to the next life.

The person next to me steps forwards as the man turns to recede back into the crowd. It's Izayah Parker. For some reason, I figured he wouldn't show up to a place like this, where you offer yourself up to voluntary depression. But here he is, playing the part of a mannered gentleman like he was rumored to be able to do. It makes me wonder how many other rumors are actually true.

Elbowing me in the side, Kat hisses, "Camry, you're next."

Twirling the flower between my fingers, I sigh. "…right." Planning on just doing what Izayah did, I place my flower towards the middle of the casing holding Sara Marshall's body. The crevice where half the top can be lifted open to expose her lifeless figure catches my eye. I wonder why they didn't have an open-casket service…especially when their daughter was known for being so pretty.

For some reason, an internal alarm starts to go off, like this means something greater. But it's not rational. If I do anything rash, I'll look insane. Feeling like I've been standing here too long, I initiate what I like to call a "risk analysis." If I do what my gut is telling me to, then I'm going to look like a madman in front of these people, and if I know anything about our university, it's that rumors can get really misconstrued and twisted. But if I think about it, I don't care about the opinions of people who's thought on me are based solely on gossip. If I do something so outrageous, then the only people I know here – Kat and Izayah – will see it. Kat will flip out on me and Izayah might not take me out for a free lunch, but if I'm wrong about my intuition, then this will really be my final moment contributing to my conspiracy that Sara's death was something other than a street drug gone wrong.

And if I'm right, then I'm really going to look like a freak…but not a baseless freak.

Sucking in a deep breath, I force myself to turn away. My mind needs to get a grip on reality. Enough of this useless thinking. Not having to fake a grimace, I make my way back to where I came from. Though from behind the crowd, zooming through the parking lot, dozens of vans burn rubber as they slam on their brakes. Like cockroaches piling out from the shadows, men and women with cameras and microphones dash our way. "Are they coming…at us?" Kat murmurs, furrowing her caramel brows.

With us being the only group in the cemetery, and their direction not changing as they get closer, I have to assume that yes, they are. "Why would they?" I mumble, mind instantaneously revisiting the oddity of the closed casket.

Insensitively, the strangers barrel right through us, cameras focused on the coffin without giving anyone the slightest explanation on what's happening – not even the parents of the deceased. Right as the reporters arrive on the scene, a police siren blares once before parking next to the vans in the lot and unloading a set of cops. "Camry?" Kat uneasily calls, looking to me in a frenzied state as if I know the reason for this.

And for some reason, I find myself looking to Izayah, who steadily watches as the policemen ascend the scene. His gaze, always so unenthused and nonplussed, refuses to change despite the situation. I wonder what it would take to shake him.

"Out of the way!" the first cop snaps, shoving the uncalled-for media out of the way. Perhaps the reason they're all here will snap Izayah out of his stoic reverie.

"What's happening?" I question the nearest reporter, a stocky woman who was just shoved aside. "Why are you all here?"

"We all received letters this morning in paste-font."

"Paste-font?" I echo.

"You know, cutting out letters from magazines and pasting them on paper to make your own sentences. Apparently, the body in that coffin isn't who everyone thinks it is, and if we don't cover this story in our departments, then someone else will die," the woman explains, readjusting the hefty camera on her shoulder. "We called the cops on the way here, of course." Roughly, she chortles a laugh and nudges me with her elbow. "We aren't complete animals."

Next to me, Kat eats this information up with disgust written all over her face. "I want to see," I mumble to my best friend. After all this deliberation and instinct that something wasn't right, I'm finally going to get confirmation. "I need to see."

Stealthily, I maneuver around the occupied mob, keeping my head low and avoiding brushing shoulders with the strangers. Gradually, I make my way to the front of the crowd. The second officer onsite talks into a walkie-talkie pinned to his shirt. Craning his head to speak, I barely make out his words. "We're about to confirm or deny the claim, sir. The media is swarming us like vultures on roadkill, though. Permission to proceed?"

Just then, a massive shadow covers me. For an instant, I'm filled to the brim with fear, as if the author of the paste-font notes has come to put me in that coffin himself. Swiveling my head around like an owl, I come face-to-face with a chest beneath a well-pressed suit jacket. Tilting my chin up, I find the face of its owner, Izayah Parker, who shows up out of the blue everywhere I go nowadays.

Before I get the chance to say anything, a muffled voice comes in over the cop's radio. "Proceed confirmation." And just like that, all my attention shifts back to the front.

The second police officer grips the lid of the coffin but hesitates. Visibly, I see his chest fill with air, preparing himself for an ominous and imminent future. And as if it weighs the size of 20 elephants, he hefts the thing up.

The picture I see is brief and filled with red. I make out a mutilated body, with all of its insides on the outside. But I can't quite differentiate what's what because not even 0.01 seconds after I see what's inside, a hand covers my eyes. Clenching the wrist of the stranger's hand to shoo it away, a voice I'm slowly becoming familiar with softly urges, "Wait."

I don't know what it is in his voice, but I listen to him. Perhaps because he's constantly unbothered, that since now he's concerned with something for the first time I've noticed, I'm actually fearful for what nightmarish slew of blood is inside that glossy casket. My eyes don't close since I can't see anything anyways, but in the prolonged period I wait for Izayah to move his hand, my other senses heighten with my sight being robbed.

The putrid stench of decaying flesh burns my nostrils. Gnats and flies buzz around the exposed corpse while the crowd gasps. Reporters begin an impromptu "breaking news" segment, a few students cry, and the mother of Sara Marshall hysterically shouts, "Where's my baby!?" Police officers request for backup, and somewhere to the side, someone throws up. Though I can't see the chaos, hearing it still has me on edge. Everyone is riddled with fear and there's nothing we can do about it.

Sara Marshall is dead, her corpse is missing, and in her place there is something or someone else splattered all over the inside of that coffin.

Feeling nothing but the steady pulse of Izayah beneath my fingertips and the fluttering of my lashes against his palm, I rely on him to explain what's happening. "What's in there?" I inquire, voice wavering more than I anticipated.

"I think it's another cheerleader," he warily answers. "Morgan. But…I can't be sure."

"…so it's a person."

Izayah doesn't answer, because affirming what I already know is probably nothing more than a waste of breath to him.

Morgan…Morgan Palov. She was pretty, so she made the cheerleading team, but she was more into studying than rooting for the football team. What she could've done to make someone kill her absolutely baffles me. As cruel as it may sound, at least with Sara, she egged people on enough to make an enemy or two. But Morgan? She's as quiet as they come.

Someone is either targeting cheerleaders or women in general, I figure. Obviously, the same person who did something to Sara did something to Morgan, or else there wouldn't have been a paste-font letter connecting the two. Still, the inconsistency comes from how differently the two girls were murdered. One was poisoned, and the other torn to ribbons. Unless Morgan wasn't killed that way, but displayed as such.

"Close it up and wait for backup," the voice of the first officer instructs. "Everyone else, clear the scene! This is an official crime scene. Yellow-tape area, come on, let's get a move on."

Once the lid shuts, Izayah removes his hand, wriggling out of my grip on the way. I watch as the police herd the nosy cameramen out of the vicinity, and I can't help but think that Morgan and Sara might've been watched just like this: observed up close but without a clue.

"Are you deaf?" the second police officer suddenly barks at me. I didn't realize I was too close to the scene. "Move it!"

"Camry!" Kat hisses, appearing at my side at the drop of my pin. Her hands grip my arm with little strength, and her tan skin is uncharacteristically pale. She's trembling and her lips are dry and cracked. She might've been the person who threw up, and it looks like she could do it again at any time. "Come on," she pleads. She drags me a few steps out of range of the crime scene. "I just want to go home…"

"I'll request an Uber," I promise, reaching for my phone.

"We have to wait for an Uber?" Kat sobs. Already, the sun has started its descent, leaving darkness in its wake. Most of the attendees of the funeral have evacuated, finding comfort in their own cars that they drove here. "Out here? Camry…" Whatever was in that coffin…I wanted to see it. But seeing how shaken and feeble it made Kat – Kat of all people – I'm grateful for Izayah stepping in.

Speaking of, where did he-? "I can drive you to your place," Izayah offers, having been trailing two steps behind us. Then he looks at me. "Both of you."

The man who Kat thought might have the DNA of Ted Bundy suddenly becomes a god to her. "Really?" she chirps.

Somberly, he nods.

While Kat is itching to accept, I'm a bit less enthusiastic about the situation. I'm still remembering that cocky smirk from effective communication he gave me after Sara died. Not to mention, his strange appearances don't add up. "I don't want to impose," I discreetly decline, earning an evil-eye from Kat. "Thanks, though."

"It's really fine," Izayah insists, sliding his hands into the pockets of his black slacks.

"Camry," Kat hisses. "What are you doing? Let's go."

Though I don't like the idea, I concede for Kat's sake. "…fine." Snorting in what could be aggravation, one of the corners of Izayah's lips quirk up, as if he can't believe I'd contemplate accepting a ride from him for so long. He offered to buy me lunch and shielded me from a grotesque scene, I tell myself as I follow him to his car. Maybe I just imagined that chilling smirk.

We reach a black, American-made car. Kat files into the passenger seat and I sit I the middle of the back so I can keep my eyes on the road, ensuring no worrisome "wrong turns" occur. It isn't that I suspect Izayah of being the culprit behind these recent incidents, but I definitely don't suspect him of being a saint. The entire university knows about his fights on and off campus, along with the odd connection to him being the reason behind the star wrestler's disappearance.

"Where to?" he asks, turning his key in the ignition. And now I have to tell him where I live.

"The Eight," Kat informs. "I'll show you which building it is when we're in the lot."

Izayah nods then looks at me from his review mirror, waiting for my address. "We live together," I tell him.

"Ah," he hums. He turns on the radio, playing low music through the speakers as he pulls out of the lot.

Before discomfort manages to settle in the atmosphere, Kat does what she does best despite her state of mind: she puts everyone around her at ease. "I'm sure whatever happened will be cleared up. We'll wake up tomorrow and go to school, just like every other day, and there will be a perfectly logical explanation for this."

Clearly, Kat has never read about many murder cases, let alone ones that seem to be connected to each other. In fact, when I learned about how many unsolved murder cases there are in North America alone, I couldn't sleep for days. So many lives are lost at the hands of the unaccounted and unpunished. Now, I'm almost certain that someone is trying to terrorize these students, and I'm horrified at the idea of never knowing who.

I don't realize I'm burning holes into the side of Kat's head as I think all of this, staring at her with disbelief that this will all be solved at the blink of an eye. Snapping out of my thoughts, I look ahead and notice Izayah's dark and stony orbs watching me. Though eventually, they leave my face to tend to the road illuminated by his headlights. What is it with this guy?

"You don't have any class after effective speaking tomorrow, right?" Kat checks, swirling around in her seat to see me.

Using all my willpower, I refrain from groaning. First, we disclose where we live. Now, I'm going to have to dish out my day-to-day schedule, too? "Um, no…why?"

"Can you walk me to my next class? I know it's a campus full of people, but I really don't want to be alone."

"Of course," I assure. "Do you want me to pick you up, too?"

"No, I can have my someone else do that for me," she coyly teases, referencing the man she's been seeing whose name starts with the letter P.

"Fine by me," I surrender, finding myself chuckling along with her.

Meanwhile, Izayah is so quiet that I almost forget he's the one driving the car. It isn't until we pull into our apartment complex that Kat talks to him and I remember he has a voice. "Our building is all the way on the right, next to the trees," she instructs, pointing. "I really wish we had lamplights or something. It's so damn dark."

"Just use your phone flashlight," I brush off.

"My phone is dead."

"Don't worry," I grumble, pulling my cell out. But when I press the home button, I can't believe my luck or lack thereof. "Actually, worry…mine's dead, too."

Without warning, Izayah reaches across his arm rest and lunges at Kat. Startled at first, I calm down when he pops open his dashboard, pulling out a hefty flashlight. "We can use this," he eases. Or, tries to ease. I'm caught up on the "we," as if he wants to walk us to our room. It's one thing to know our complex, another to our building, but now the room?

And of course, Kat eagerly accepts his help. "Not all heroes wear capes, after all," she cheers, swinging her door open and waiting for Izayah and I to get out.

Once we meet the cool spring breeze, Izayah hands the light to Kat to lead the way. Tentatively, she picks her way across the lot, avoiding the various broken branches that fall from the trees whose roots have pocketed the cement. Izayah falls in step beside me. Lowly so Kat can't hear, he utters, "Do you have a problem with me?"

Not prepared for him to come out and confront me like that, I momentarily stop walking, but come to my senses and pursue Kat's light that bounces with her steps. Rather than admit that I don't have a problem with Izayah, but don't not have one with him, either, I change the subject. "Why did you smirk when Sara died?"

Questioningly, he raises a brow at me. "Smirk?"

Dumbfounded, I study his face. Without his hair swooping against his forehead, he looks older than he really is. In fact, if I didn't know him, I'd say he looked like a dashing groom taking a stroll after his afternoon wedding. But I'm no fool. "When we were leaving class, I looked back and you smirked at me. I remember."

"Ah, that," he hums, acting like he forgot. "I didn't really mean for it to come off like a smirk. I just thought it was funny."

"That someone died?" I seethe through clenched teeth as we begin to ascend stairs.

"That it was so obvious that you were already playing detective," he corrects. "Scouring for clues, checking for pulses. I just…found it amusing." I don't know whether to be offended or assured, so I pull a page out of Izayah's book and saying nothing, letting the conversation hang like skunk spray that won't go away. "And as long as we're asking questions, why did you keep looking at me to begin with?"

"Because you were looking at us," I justify, recalling the moment Kat and I looked down and his eyes were already on us.

Sounding like an older brother trying to egg on their younger sibling, he hums a skeptical, "Mmhmm," meaning he doesn't buy my reason but won't press the issue.

Scoffing at the suddenly childish angle, I choose to respond with silence once more.

When we reach the third floor, Kat stops at the apartment right in front of the staircase. Using the light, she fishes out the right key and turns it in the lock. "Thank you so much. Who knew you'd actually be cool?"

Pointedly, he glances at me while answering her. "Apparently, just you."

"Is there something I can do to pay you back for this?" Kat offers. "I don't have any cash on me, but if you ever need something down the line-."

Holding his hand up to stop her, Izayah guarantees, "I'm sure I can think of a way." Finally, he takes his flashlight back. Without any further words, he trots down the stairs and out of sight.

Kat wastes no time stepping inside the safety of our apartment and flipping on all the lights. Now that she's somewhere she's comfortable with, the air around her eases into relaxation. Sinking into the couch, she props her feet on the coffee table. "You know…" I can tell by her mischievous tone that she's about to say something absolutely ridiculous. "He looks kinda sexy all cleaned up. You know, like a reformed-bad-boy type."

"Did you forget to charge your phone and your sense before we left?" I diss.

Pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes at me, Kat slowly leers, "…I didn't hear a denial."

Picking up one of the throw pillows on the couch, I make use of its namesake and chuck it at my crazy friend's face. "I'm getting a shower and going to bed," I alert, speeding out of the living room.

Even louder, she shrieks, "I didn't hear a denial, Camry Evans!"

Turning on the water, I shout back, "Showering!" I tell myself I'm only letting her have this kind of fun because it's how she's coping with the grotesque scene just a half hour ago.

Throwing my clothes off, I leap into the tub-less wash space. As the scalding water cascades down my back, I try not to think of the scene at the funeral. It'll be all over the news by tomorrow, anyways. Instead, my mind loops around Izayah's parting words regarding his payment for driving Kat and I home. I'm sure I can think of a way.

And I think I know exactly how he plans on getting his debt paid off.