Retrocognition

48 | revelation

The library is quiet.

Almost too quiet, the silence leaving me alone with nothing but my thoughts. My mind is probably the scariest place I could get lost in at the time, so I try to busy myself by studying the books stacked upon the rows of shelves before me. Though the library is relatively empty—it is the weekend, after all—I still find myself hiding in the back corner, as if I don't want to be seen.

He arrives on time, though I'm not surprised. Part of me doesn't know why I messaged him. Maybe because I knew he would show up if I reached out, even if I really don't know him much too well at all. I needed to talk to someone. I knew he would listen.

"Why are you all the way back here?" Zach questions as he approaches the section of the library I am hidden within. He offers a teasing smile in my direction, seemingly having reverted back to his playful self after his break in character last night. "It took me forever to find you. I didn't—"

"I need to talk to you," I interrupt, dead serious.

Zach stills for a moment, staring at me cautiously. His hands rest in his pockets, as if to make his presence seem less intimidating. His dark hair gleams, seemingly still wet—as if he showered recently. The smell of his cologne wafts in the air around me. I wonder to myself if he took the time to make himself presentable just to meet me in the campus library. The thought is ridiculous. I'm too mentally out of it to find the thought endearing.

"Okay." Zach nods, gesturing for me to offer an explanation. "What is it, Tatum?"

"You're not going to believe me," I warn. "And I know you won't. Because it's crazy. But I don't know who else to tell, and I can't—" My voice breaks, giving away the fact that I'm struggling to hold myself together. "I can't do this alone anymore."

Zach stiffens. Concern illuminates his gaze, etched onto his features. He moves in closer to me. I flinch, which sills his movements. I don't mean to. I don't know if I'll ever be able to trust anyone again after what happened last night.

I take Zach's silence as a cue to continue. I can't meet his gaze as I speak. "I've been having these . . . visions," I mumble, fidgeting with my hands nervously. "At first, I thought it was nothing. But now . . ." I trail off, shaking my head as I struggle to explain what I have been going through. I'm on the verge of tears already. I feel pathetic.

Zach doesn't say anything. I sort of like his silence; I feel less insane when no one is pointing out how crazy I'm acting.

"They started a few months ago. I would faint and wake up not able to remember too much of what was going on around me or what happened before I blacked out. Then the fainting became constant and got worse. Sometimes I'd black out, and sometimes I'd be asleep and the visions would come to me in dreams. But now I can remember everything that happens when I experience these hallucinations. It starts off in a dark room. I'm in bed and there's—there's—" My voice cracks again. I risk a glance at Zach to find him watching me carefully.

"There's someone on top of me," I admit in a whisper. "And it hurts and I can't move and all I can think about is how it feels to have every single piece of me completely violated. It's like dying without the relief of no longer having to live through the moment. And then it ends and I think it's finally over but it's not. It just gets worse. I can feel myself on the ground and it's cold and wet and dirt sticks to my body. And then a hand grabs me by the ankle and I try to struggle but I can't because I can't think straight and I can't move and I can't scream. Then there are hands around my neck and I can't breathe and everything hurts and all I can do is beg over and over and over again. And then . . . and then I die."

Zach raises his eyebrows, gaze conflicted as his face goes white. He still doesn't say a word, which is fine because I'm not quite done speaking.

"But it's not me all of that is happening to," I explain in a whisper, my eyes darting around the space around us as if to make sure no one has overheard what I have just said. "I'm experiencing it, but it's not me. It's someone else. Like I'm a witness in the body of who all of it is actually happening to. And I think . . . I think I'm living through what happened to Naomi. I think I'm reliving her death."

For a long moment, there is nothing but silence in the air as Zach stares down at me expressionlessly. Dozens of emotions run through his gaze, though nothing reflects on his face. Whatever it is he's thinking, I'm clueless to.

"Just say it," I mumble, holding back tears. "I know you're thinking it. Tell me it's stupid, Zach. Tell me you think I'm crazy. Tell me I need help. Just say it."

"You're not crazy," Zach reassures me, shockingly enough. He crosses his arms over his chest, studying me intently.

My tears momentarily fade. "You can't possibly believe me."

Zach shrugs. "I've heard crazier stories, Blythe Tatum."

"I sound insane, Zachary," I hiss, glancing around the library once more to make sure no one has overheard our conversation. "Even I think I'm crazy. Don't pacify me because you think I'll lose it if you do otherwise."

"You're the most rational person I've ever met," Zach says calmly. "If you say you're having visions, then I believe you. Even if this is . . . drastic."

"You don't seem surprised," I note, studying him carefully. "Why don't you seem surprised?"

A look of guilt crosses Zach's features. His gaze skirts away from mine, as if he can't bear to look at me. His jaw clenches tightly, revealing the inner turmoil he is feeling.

"I know you know something, Zach," I say quietly. "I know you know that there is something that connects me to all of this. There's something that ties me to Naomi. I know that's what all of your warnings have been about. Please, Zach. Tell me. I'm begging you."

Zach remains silent for a brief moment. When he meets my gaze once again, he looks the most sorrowful I've ever seen someone appear. It's as if there is guilt physically eating at him, consuming his being from the inside out.

"The night Naomi died," Zach starts to say, voice scratchy as he tries to keep his tone low. "I saw her."

This revelation piques my interest. My heart hammers in my chest as I hang onto Zach's every word, moving in closer to him without realizing. I know I'm about to learn something important—something that might be able to put an end to all of this craziness I have been experiencing once and for all.

"There was this party," Zach explains, "at Will's frat house. In honor of the beginning of the semester, or whatever. I was there with some friends from the team. And . . . so was she. Naomi. I didn't talk to her or anything—I never knew her personally. But I saw her that night, a few hours before she disappeared. And she was with Jacob."

I have to cup a hand over my mouth so as not to release a cry. My eyes well with tears all over again, though this time they are much too hard to fight back. My heart shatters in my chest. My stomach feels as if it is doing cartwheels, leaving me fearing I'll be sick.

I shake my head, opening my mouth to speak. What Zach has just revealed can't possibly be true. I'm prepared to argue, to deny whatever facts he will share, forgetting all of my rationality.

Zach stares at me keenly, quick to add, "I'm not saying he did anything, Blythe. I don't know. All I know is that Naomi was talking to Jacob the night she died. She wasn't drunk at first—at least she didn't seem like it—but I saw him take her up the stairs after a while and she was suddenly hardly able to stand on her own. I don't know enough about that night to accuse him of . . . I've known Jacob for a few years now. I've seen him around girls, Blythe. I don't know if he killed her, but I wouldn't put anything else past him."

I recall the beginning of my hallucinations. The dark room. The weight atop my body. The rough movements and calloused hands. The grunts.

I'm going to be sick.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I wail, shaking my head as I lose control of my composure and rationality. "If you even suspected—why didn't you tell me?"

I'm shaking, so put off by this new information. I can hardly manage to breathe, struggling to inhale rattling breaths that feel as if they barely make it to my lungs. Naomi was with Jacob the night she died. As in my boyfriend Jacob. The boy I have been spending so much of my time with these past few months—practically since the night I first caught wind of Naomi's murder. My stomach churns as I realize this knowledge could be detrimental to Naomi's case. Regardless as to whether Jacob may have harmed her fatally, it is possible he hurt Naomi in other ways that night. I shudder as I recall the dark room and the body atop mine, forcibly assaulting me in the hallucination. Just the thought that Jacob could be the identity behind the mysterious assailant leaves me struggling to ward off a full mental breakdown.

As my mind continues to fall down the rabbit hole Zach's confession has opened up, I realize that Jacob's description almost perfectly fits that of the suspect demographics the police released not too long ago. If it is true that Jacob was with Naomi the night she died—if he really did assault her . . . then it is plausible for him to have done much worse to her that night. I blink back tears at the thought, wishing I could shake the idea from my mind with full belief that my boyfriend could never be capable of such violence. Yet, after what happened with Jacob in his dorm last night, I begin to wonder exactly what he may be capable of—along with what he may be hiding from me.

"I tried to warn you, Blythe," Zach murmurs, breaking me from my horrid thoughts. He looks apologetic, with tears gleaming in his piercing gaze. "Jacob knows I saw him that night. He knows he was the last person Naomi was seen with, and he knows I saw him take her up the stairs during the party. After I heard that she was . . . I asked Jacob if he knew anything about what happened to her. He lost it on me, Blythe. He threatened me. Denied everything and called me crazy. And I know that's not an excuse, but I didn't—I couldn't—"

"You could have given his name to the police!" I cry, my voice louder than necessary. Zach glances around us, as if scared someone will hear me wailing. "What if it's him, Zach? What if—"

"Why aren't you defending him, Blythe?" Zach cuts me off. His scared expression turns serious as he tilts his head to the side, studying me attentively. "Jacob is your boyfriend. Why aren't you arguing with me about this?"

I fall silent. My gaze is glued to the ground. My bottom lip trembles as my tears trek hot paths down my cheeks, running down my flesh in jagged patterns.

"What did he do?" Zach questions in a low tone. There is a new gleam shining in his gaze—one of dark anger. I know I don't have to tell Zach the story. Somehow, he already knows. "What did he do to you, Blythe?"

Wordlessly, I pull up the sleeve of my shirt to reveal the lower half of my arm. My flesh is dotted with five dark purple bruises in the shapes of fingertips, the skin around the wounds colored an angry red. A shadow crosses Zach's features as he studies my flesh. I pull my phone out of my back pocket, revealing the cracked and broken screen, a large piece of the glass missing from the top corner.

"He was upset," I murmur lamely. "He grabbed me. Then threw my phone." I'm unsure if revealing this information to Zach is a good idea. I come to the decision that, at this point, there is no sense in hiding anything from him. After all, if it is possible Jacob could have done what we suspect of him, there is no use in protecting him. Furthermore, Zach and I are on the same side. There's no use in working against him, nor is there any use in lying.

Zach's features pinch with rage. "What else?" he questions, his voice rising as frustration overtakes his rationality. "I swear to God, if he did—"

"Nothing," I admit. "I've never seen him like that before last night. But after the way he acted yesterday . . . I don't doubt it will happen again. As much as I hate to admit it, I don't doubt it has happened before either."

"So leave," Zach says, shaking his head. "Leave him and we'll go to the police and let them look into this. We'll—"

"I can't," I tell Zach. The words come out so softly, I almost don't realize I've actually said them aloud.

"Wait, what?" Zach asks dumbfoundedly. "Blythe, you have to. What if he hurts you? What if—"

"The only thing that could possibly tie me to Naomi is Jacob," I tell Zach. "He was the last person seen with her the night she died. I'm dating him now. What if that's it? What if that's what all of this is about? My visions, I mean."

"What does it matter?" Zach questions incredulously. "This is something the police can take care of, Blythe. Don't take matters into your own hands. You don't have to be a hero." His concern for my welfare is endearing, though I don't have the time to take this to heart. I have too much running through my head at the moment, between finding out the boy I've been dating could be a potential killer, to knowing I have been experiencing the death of his victim.

"The police have done nothing to solve Naomi's case and its been months," I deadpan. "They'll take this lead and it will go nowhere. Think about it, Zach. It's our word against Jacob's. He's a wealthy white boy and Redwood's star quarterback. No one is going to believe us without proof. I need to get Jacob to admit to what he did, Zach. I need to get the truth out of him. And he'll never tell me if he doesn't trust me. I have to stay. If he did anything, I need to be the one he confesses to."

"So you think he did it, then?" Zach whispers. "You think Jacob . . .?"

"Yeah," I admit after a moment. I think back to the look in Jacob's eyes last night, the way he had grabbed me without a second thought--as if that sort of violence came naturally to him. I recall how scared of him I had been in the moment, the longing I had felt to get far, far away from him. "I do."