The morning fog still clung to Grayshore College when Tara stepped onto the campus grounds, the chill sinking through the thin fabric of her jacket and settling deep into her bones. The cold wasn't just from the weather — it was from the weight of everything she had uncovered so far. The feeling of eyes watching her from the shadows, whispers trailing in the hallways, and the sense that with every step she took, she was drawing closer to something dangerous.
She kept her head down as students passed her by, some throwing curious glances her way, others whispering under their breaths. Tara was no stranger to being the outsider, the girl they called "Murder Freak" or "The Crazy One." Their words stung less now; she had learned to wear their disdain like armor. She was too focused on the puzzle in front of her to care about their scorn.
Her first stop was the campus Records Office, a small, cluttered room tucked between the old science building and the administrative block. The air smelled of paper and stale coffee, and the flickering fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead. Mrs. Greaves, the clerk, sat behind the counter, her lips pursed into a permanent frown as she tapped her pen against a pile of files.
Tara slid into the plastic chair across from her, careful to keep her voice calm and casual. "I'd like to see Maya Kennel's tutoring schedule, please."
Mrs. Greaves's eyes narrowed, and for a moment Tara thought she would be turned away. "That information is confidential," the woman said sharply. "Why do you need it?"
Tara shrugged, forcing a light smile. "I'm trying to catch up with some friends. You know how it is—wanting to find people around campus."
The clerk stared for a long moment, then shuffled through a stack of papers with deliberate slowness before sliding a printout across the desk. "Here," she said curtly.
Tara took the sheet, fingers trembling slightly despite herself. The schedule was as expected—Maya had tutoring sessions three times a week, mostly in English Literature. Then one name caught her eye and froze her blood.
Aaron Blake.
The name was familiar. She'd seen his face in campus news stories: the star of the track team, known as much for his charm as for his temper. A charismatic figure, yes, but the kind that always seemed to be walking a knife's edge. Aaron Blake was the kind of guy who smiled with ease but could erupt into violence without warning.
Her mind raced as she studied the schedule. Maya had been spending hours each week with him—long enough for trust to build, or fear to fester.
She left the Records Office with the printout clutched tightly in her hand, heart pounding in rhythm with the urgency inside her. She had to find out more.
The library was quieter than usual, the soft rustle of pages and clicking keyboards a gentle hum around her. Tara found her usual spot, a corner by the window, where the light softened her sharp features. She pulled out her phone and typed Aaron Blake's name into the search bar.
News stories, social media profiles, campus rumors—all painted a complex picture. A track star with a history of fights, suspensions, and bad decisions. Headlines shouted "Track Captain Suspended After Bar Fight" and "Aaron Blake: Talent or Trouble?"
Jessie appeared at her side, concern written clearly across her face. "You really want to go after this guy?"
Tara met her gaze, unflinching. "Maya trusted him, and something went wrong. I want to know what."
Jessie shook her head, her voice low. "Aaron's dangerous, Tara. People like him don't take kindly to being questioned."
"But they'll take worse from Maya," Tara whispered.
Later that evening, Tara found Aaron running laps alone on the athletic fields. The sun had almost dipped below the horizon, leaving long shadows stretching across the grass. Sweat dripped from his brow, muscles flexing as he pushed himself through the final rounds.
Tara approached cautiously. "Aaron?"
He slowed, turning toward her with a frown. "Yeah?"
"I need to talk about Maya."
His eyes darkened, a flicker of something unreadable flashing before his jaw clenched. "Why?"
"Because she's dead. And I don't believe it was suicide."
A bitter laugh escaped him. "You think I killed her?"
"No," Tara said, voice steady. "But I think you know more than you're saying."
He looked at her for a long moment, then shook his head, anger rising. "You don't know what you're getting into. Stay away."
Tara's chest tightened but she held his gaze. "I'm not backing down."
Aaron gave a humorless laugh and jogged off into the fading light, leaving her alone with the uneasy silence.
Walking home, the streets seemed unfamiliar—strangers' faces blurred in the dim streetlights, shadows lengthening like fingers trying to reach her. Then she noticed it: footsteps behind her, steady and slow, just out of sight.
She crossed the street, heart steady but alert.
The footsteps followed.
Tara ducked into a narrow alley she knew well, her shoes silent on the cracked pavement. Swiftly, she climbed the metal fire escape to the roof of a nearby building. From this vantage point, she watched the figure below—a man in a hooded jacket, hands deep in pockets, scanning the shadows.
He seemed lost, searching for her, his breath visible in the cold night air. His shoes caught her attention: white sneakers, worn and torn on the left side.
The same shoes she'd seen earlier.
Her stomach twisted. Someone was watching her, tracking her every move.
When she finally descended and reached her apartment, an ominous stillness awaited. At her door lay a small envelope. Heart hammering, she picked it up.
Inside, a single message, written in red ink:
Stop digging, or next time, you won't be so lucky.
The warning was clear.
But Tara was already too deep.
The shadows had found her.