I shut my eyes as tight as I can. My ears are ringing as if a bomb has just gone off. I can’t feel my hands. For a moment I fear that I might be about to pass out.

I pinch myself, both to keep myself from fainting and also hoping to wake myself up from this nightmare.

Please let this be a dream. Please let this be a hallucination. This can’t possibly be real. This can’t be happening again.

I can just make out someone screaming, “BOB! OH MY GOD, BOB! ARE YOU OKAY?!”

I open my eyes.

Bob is most definitely not okay.

His lips are already blue. His blood darkens the bedspread. It’s hard to see what color it was before.

One of his arms is splayed over the side of the bed, the fingers curled into claws. It looks like he’s reaching out toward us. Like he’s trying to ask us for help.

Like he was trying to escape from his horrific predicament before he died. But he couldn’t. Because he is very clearly stuck to the bedpost.

Oh god.

How does this keep happening to me? Why is it that everywhere I go, I leave a trail of bodies in my wake? Am I cursed? Am I the daughter of Satan? I’m like a walking bad luck charm. Death follows me everywhere.

I don’t recall my brain communicating with the rest of my body, but I find my legs moving, backing out of the bedroom. I collapse against the wall in the hallway, stuck in place.

It feels like the hallway is turning. Sheer vertigo.

I sink to my knees, gripping the fibers of the carpet for dear life.

Around me, it’s chaos. More people who heard the scream are running upstairs to see what’s wrong, and now they’re screaming and panicking. Everyone’s yelling for someone to call an ambulance, but it takes a while for someone to calm down long enough to actually make the call to 911. People fight over whether or not they should move the body. They argue over how they’d even possibly remove the body without getting Bob’s guts all over the place.

I think I’m going to throw up.

I feel a hand slip through mine, and I almost let out a scream of my own, but it’s only Libby. She crouches beside me in the hallway. She doesn’t say anything, just huddles in a ball and trembles. Poor Libby. Unlike me, this is probably her first dead body. Someone like Libby shouldn’t have to bear witness to something this horrible. It’s not fair.

It’s not fair to Bob either, obviously. He just wanted to be a frat bro.

“Alright, everyone, calm down!” someone shouts, and I look up to see Eli, the creep from downstairs trying to take control of the situation.

“Give him some room. Step away from the bed. Don’t touch him, dumbass. You want to get your fingerprints on him? You want to get arrested? Wait for the ambulance to get here. He could still be alive.”

I guess Eli isn’t studying to be a doctor, because it’s pretty clear that this kid is dead. It doesn’t take a genius to see that.

Libby begins to sob, burying her face against my shoulder.

Eli barks orders at people, directing people out of the room and outside to meet the police.

“Who is this Eli guy?” I find myself saying. “What’s his deal?”

“He’s the president of Alpha Gamma Epsilon,” Libby sniffs through her tears.

“He’s the head of AGE?” I ask, staring at Eli as he puts two fingers against Bob’s throat, checking for a pulse.

He doesn’t find one.

He looks out into the hallway, where many of us are still frozen in shock.

“Let’s all clear out,” he says in a solemn voice. “Something terrible happened in here, and we should remove ourselves from the room so we don’t tamper with any evidence. I know we’re all in shock, but we need to pull ourselves together for Bob. The police will figure out what happened. There’s nothing more we can do for him now except give him some privacy. It’s the least we can do.”

I have to admit, I’m impressed by Eli’s efficiency. Immediately, people begin to obey him, heading downstairs as they wipe their eyes on their sleeves and frantically text their friends with updates.

Eli’s good.

But he also sets off my killer radar that I’ve honed since my experience with serial murders.

Anyone who is this calm in the face of a gruesome murder…there has to be something wrong with them. He barely even blinked up there when he checked for Bob’s pulse.

I try to quell the panic building up inside my chest. We don’t know that Bob was murdered. It could’ve been a freak accident. Maybe he tripped? Maybe he was trying to replace a lightbulb and fell over?

There’s a fucking bedpost sticking out of him. What kind of accident causes that to happen? Practicing for his audition for Cirque du Soleil?

I take a deep breath, trying to count the seconds as I inhale and exhale.

In for seven seconds. Out for eleven seconds. And again. I have countless anti-anxiety tools in my back pocket. It’s what has kept me from going crazy these past few months.

I’m okay. I’ve lived through this before. I know how this unfolds. I know what to do. And I know what not to do.

It’s just a matter of whether I should do something. I have nothing to do with this incident. It’s just a coincidence that I happen to have unfortunate familiarity with innocent people being killed. I don’t know Bob. Or I guess I should say I didn’t know Bob. I don’t know any of these people. Even the few people I recognize from class are strangers to me. I’m the new kid. None of this is connected to me. I should stay low and stay out of everyone’s way.

I should leave. Now.

But Libby clings tightly to my arm, and I know that I can’t abandon her here. She’s the one person on campus who’s been kind to me. And she’s clearly not okay right now.

“Come on,” I tell Libby, helping her to stand. “Let’s go downstairs.”

I gently guide Libby down the stairs and onto a couch, where I sit beside her. I wish I had a blanket to throw over her shoulders or a mug of coffee or something. That’s what I was given in the interrogation room after all my friends were killed and I was brought in for questioning.

“I didn’t even know him that well,” she murmurs, staring blankly ahead. “He was so nervous about pledging. He was scared they’d make him streak across campus or eat dog crap or something. He wasn’t worried about dying. I’ve never known someone who’s been murdered. I’ve never even known someone who’s died.”

I pat her on the arm, knowing it does little to help.

Her first dead person. Her first murdered dead body.

Welcome to the club, I think sadly.

After what feels like an hour, the sheriff and her troops arrive.

It’s nice to see a female sheriff, for a change. Her name is Officer Tandy. She seems weirdly enthusiastic. Like she’s almost vibrating with excitement, chomping at the bit at the opportunity to solve a murder case.

Soon after Tandy’s arrival, Libby and I are interviewed by a couple of very unenthused cops. We repeat over and over what we saw, which is not much—we heard a scream, ran upstairs, and found Bob in his dying position on the bed. No, we hadn't noticed anything off about anyone at the party. No, we didn’t know anyone who would want to hurt Bob.

The cops seem bored with our responses. This pisses me off, but I’m too numb to snap back at them when they ask me for the forty-seventh time if I noticed anything unusual about the party.

I lose sight of Libby and the rest of the sorority sisters during the interviews. I shoot her a text, telling her to call me and let me know that she’s gotten back to her dorm safely.

Before I can leave the house, Tandy steps in front of me, blocking my path.

“So,” she says, hands on her hips, “you’re the notorious girl from Frostville who I’ve been hearing so much about.”

Fuck. I really don’t need this right now.

“Yup. That’s me,” I mutter.

“Isis Chambers, is it?”

I nod. Like she really wasn’t sure.

“Strange coincidence, you ending up at the scene of another campus murder.”

Bad luck is what I’d call it, but okay.

“I already told your officers everything I saw,” I say. “Can I go home now?”

“It’s an awfully strange coincidence, you being the sole survivor of the Frostville killings and all,” Tandy says.

Before I can think to respond, someone points a finger at me.

“It’s you! You’re the one who killed Bob!”