"I can't remember what happened that night. I'm not talking slippery details or fuzzy-edged visions; I mean a complete and utter blackout. Like I wasn't even there. Except... I know I was."
Since the death of her boyfriend six months ago, Morgan Cai...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
It all makes sense.
It's Hanna.
Of course it's Hanna.
The girl at the party. The girl who ended up in over her head, because it was the first time she'd tried anything stronger than alcohol or weed. The girl with the anonymous voice, who dared to speak out after the dust had settled.
The choice had been there. She could've let Josh's memory lie in peace, keep the secret close to her chest with the guarantee that it would never be shared without her consent. But she chose to speak out, because it was the right thing to do. Even if setting the precedent meant losing her best friend in the process, she went ahead with it—because she knew she wouldn't be able to live with herself if she didn't.
I can't blame her.
In fact, I can only admire her.
Because I'm not sure whether, given the choice, I would sacrifice that much in the name of the truth.
I have to speak to her. It's two in the morning, and a crazy idea to go anywhere right now, but if turning up at her apartment door in the middle of the night means we can finally put the pieces together then I'm willing to do it. The only way I can feel at peace right now is if I hear her admit it. That she was the girl Josh assaulted, and all this time, the only one to see the other side of him.
I should take an Uber, but there's so much white-hot energy coursing through me that the thought of standing still and waiting for one is unthinkable. So I pull on fleecy leggings and a thick hoodie and a waterproof jacket and tear out of my room like a madwoman. I power-walk through campus, even though it's pouring with rain the most irritating pathetic fallacy ever, and the water soaks my hair and streams down my face. But I don't care. As long as I make it there. As long as I finally put an end to this ordeal.
There's a buzzer on the outside of the apartment building, but I don't want to scare Hanna or her roommates by pressing it as many times as I want to. Instead I pull my phone out and scroll until I reach her name.
MORGAN: I know this is weird, but can you come to your door?
I know Hanna well enough to be confident her phone will be on. Even if she's asleep, it'll buzz her awake; she'd rather die than resort to do not disturb. And sure enough, the two blue ticks appear less than a minute later.
HANNA: ???
But she doesn't wait for a response; the main door soon buzzes to let me in. I move quickly and take the stairs two at a time.
Then I'm at her front door.
And she's standing right there.
"Morgan?"
She looks dishevelled: that's the only word that springs to mind. Her hair, which has grown longer than I'm used to seeing, is ruffled and unwashed. The dark circles under her eyes suggest she hasn't had a good night's sleep in weeks. And to top the whole thing off, there's a half surprised, half panicked expression on her face.
