Fragmented

Chapter Thirteen

I pulled back the shower curtain and stepped out of the tub. The bathroom in my apartment wasn't equipped with a venting fan, and I tended to take excessively hot showers, so the mirror over the sink always fogged up. The mirror was steamed as usual, but there was something wrong with the mirrored glass. I squinted my eyes and moved closer to the vanity, trying to discern what was different. Without my contacts in, I was nearly blind. I leaned closer and closer until I could nearly see. It almost looked like . . .

I grabbed my glasses off the shelving unit over the toilet and gasped when my vision became clear again. There were words on my mirror: How many pills will it take to make me go away?

Someone had written on my mirror with his or her finger, and now that I'd showered, the hot steam had made the message visible.

I yanked open the medicine cabinet and the secondary door. The prescription bottles were still there. I ran my fingers across the lineup of bottled antipsychotics and released a long, deep breath. Who had written the message, and when had they done it? Who knew about the pills? I was always so careful.

I didn't have time to go through each bottle individually to count the pills and see if any were missing. Instead, I opened the cabinet beneath the sink and pulled out a rag and glass cleaner. I probably didn't have time to clean away the words to make sure they never came back, but it had to be done.

Once outside, I hustled down the street with my hands shoved deep into my coat pockets and my chin tucked into my scarf. The buckles on my boots jangled with each step. I couldn't stop thinking about my bathroom mirror during the walk from my apartment to my car. I ran through the short list of names of who'd ever been in my apartment, but the list became impossibly short when I realized the message had to have been new. I showered every morning, and I hadn't noticed the words before. Someone had broken into my apartment while I'd spent the night at Kelley's, or I'd unknowingly done it myself. They were both unlikely, but it bugged me that I couldn't decide which scenario was more unreasonable.

My phone jangled in my coat pocket as I approached my vehicle. I felt sick when I read the familiar text message: What would they say if they knew you were more than study buddies? There's no pill for that.

My hands were shaking, but I typed out a rapid reply: Who is this? I demanded again.

The response blinked back seconds later: You already know, Harper.

My throat tightened when the next text popped up on the screen.

It's Ruby.

+ + +

We sat on Raleigh's twin bed, side by side, thighs just touching. I called my cell phone provider on my drive out to Raleigh's aunt's house to have the phone number blocked, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I hadn't heard the last of Ruby. Had she followed me back from Memphis after Fall Break?

I couldn't look at Raleigh. "Maybe we shouldn't be doing this," I announced into the room.

"This?" she questioned.

I motioned between our bodies. "This," I tried to clarify.

A frown marred her beautiful face. "Because of my legs?"

"No!" I insisted.

"Then why not? What's wrong?"

"I just ... it's not a good idea."

"You don't have to lie to save my feelings, Harper. I might be in a wheelchair," she said stiffly, "but I'm not some porcelain doll you're going to break."

"I'm just trying to protect you."

"From what?"

"From me!" My hands went to my face. I hadn't expected the outburst. "You don't know anything about me. Not about my past or what I'm destined to become."