LITMIR.BIZ

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      What do I want to do?

      Slowly came a vague realization …

      I want to go back.

      She wanted to know how Rhea’s death had happened.

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      With relentless questions about Rhea’s death dogging her mind, Riley stood still and looked up and down the dorm hallway.

      This was where it started, she thought.

      She found herself picturing the place on Thursday night, the moment after she reluctantly agreed to go to the Centaur’s Den with her friends.

      She had just put on her denim jacket over a flattering crop top and stepped out into the hallway. Trudy and Rhea had been rounding up the other girls for their outing—Cassie, Gina, and Heather.

      Riley remembered the bustle of immature excitement in the air—the promise of drinking, dancing, and maybe some guys.

      She also remembered how disconnected she’d felt from all that.

      She retraced the group’s steps down the hall and continued on outside.

      It was already dark out—not as dark as it had been that night, but the lamps along the pathways were on, so it was easy for Riley to visualize how things had looked at the time.

      As she walked the way they had all taken, Riley remembered lagging behind the others, tempted to head back to her room to resume her studies. Cassie, Gina, and Heather had clustered together, chattering and giggling. Rhea and Trudy had walked side by side, playfully punching each other in the arm over some joke that Riley hadn’t been able to hear.

      Riley kept visualizing all that had happened as she followed their route off campus and into the surrounding streets. Soon she arrived at the entrance to the Centaur’s Den, as they had that night. She remembered being pushed ahead into the smoky, noisy bar.

      As she walked on inside now, the place was markedly less crowded than it had been that night. It was also quieter. Alanis Morissette’s “Uninvited” was playing on the jukebox, softly enough for Riley to be able to hear the nearby cracking of billiard balls. And there were no moving light beams or sparkles flashing over the empty dance floor.

      But Riley could vividly remember the din and chaos of that night—how “Whiskey in the Jar” had blared so loudly that the whole place vibrated, and how Heather, Cassie, and Gina had headed straight toward the bar, and how Trudy had grabbed both Riley and Rhea by the hands and yelled over the music …

      “Come on, let’s dance, the three of us!”

      As she stood looking at the now-empty dance floor, Riley remembered shaking her head and pulling her hand away, and how Trudy had looked hurt and then stuck out her tongue at her and then went right on dancing with Rhea.

      Had that been the last time Riley had seen Rhea—at least alive?

      She remembered heading downstairs to be by herself. The next time she’d seen her friends was when they’d come stumbling drunkenly down the stairs and Trudy had been wielding a full pitcher of beer.

      Riley had asked Trudy …

      “Where’s Rhea?”

      Trudy hadn’t known, but one of the other girls—Heather, Riley thought—had said that Rhea had already gone back to the dorm.

      Riley swallowed hard at the realization—yes, the last time she had ever seen Rhea alive was right here on this dance floor.

      She felt a renewed rush of guilt, and the awfulness of that word if …

      If maybe I’d just stayed and danced with them …

      But she reminded herself of what Dr. Zimmerman had said about guilt—that it wasn’t going to bring Rhea back …

      “Focus instead on our capacity for empathy.”

      Riley wondered—was that what she was trying to do right now, by reliving what she and her friends had gone through that night?

      Was she trying to empathize?

      If so, with whom?

      She had no idea.

      All she knew was that her curiosity was growing by the moment.

      She simply wanted to know—without really having any idea what she expected to find out.

      Riley turned away from the dance floor and noticed a couple of guys playing pool. One of them was Harry Rampling, the football player who had approached her downstairs that night.

      Riley watched as Harry took a pool shot that didn’t put any balls in any pockets. Riley thought it was a dumb shot. She was a pretty good pool player herself.

      Then Harry made eye contact with her and sneered a little.