Dear Diary

7. YOU CAN'T OUTRUN ME

Thursday, September 12th

K E L L Y

I walk down the school hallway pondering recent events. Logan Peterson didn't give the police much to work with so it's essentially back to square one. Almost nothing is coming together for me. I'm book smart, sure, and for that, one might think this was something I'd be good at. Ask me about something academic, like the themes of psychoanalysis, or challenge me with world history trivia, and I'm usually good to go. But this? Figuring out who killed Sidney? That's in a totally different league, and can't be compared to something as trivial as understanding why a boy has an irrational fear of butterflies, or why a woman can't seem to have a lasting relationship due to her lack of trust in men. Not to mention that learning something as a concept and applying it to the real world is a completely different ball game in the first place. It's not like I'm a professional.

Granted, I've been able to work out a few things. The crime itself seemed like one of passion, and it appears that Sidney put up a decent fight with the evidence of struggle. Which could imply that the perpetrator is female, or at least not overbearingly strong in comparison to Sidney. Some of Sidney's clothes were ruined, too. I'm having a hard time discerning if that means a different crime was premeditated and that led to an escalation, or if everything happened in the heat of the moment.

Then there's the chance that the person leaving notes could've been involved in the murder, but the only logical thing I can gather from that is it'd be a student, given Samara and Rome found notes in their lockers.

The thought is perturbing, a fellow peer being capable of such a dastardly act. That's why I'm prognosticating that the notes my friends talked about are a joke and nothing to be worked up about. It is high school, after all. Kids do vile things all the time. That is easier to accept. God knows I wouldn't know how to handle anything else. The reality of Sidney's death on its own has me quaking enough during the night. Being a potential target myself would leave me absolutely petrified.

Racking my brain like this will only result in a headache. Intrigue in solving murder is more up Rome's alley, if anything. He'd be the kind of person doing field work, on the scene and actively looking for clues. I'm not the sort. At all.

But at the end of the day, none of us are detectives, and Sidney had a plethora of enemies. There's no telling who reached their breaking point.

I know I'd had it with her.

My eyes land on Derek going through his locker down the hall. The urge to say something to him hits me, but it conflicts with another compulsion to say nothing at all. It's been forever since we talked or hung out alone.

Things left unspoken have left our relationship strained.

I push my glasses up on my nose, then bring my hand down to chew on a fingernail. The mere thought of addressing him makes my stomach curl into a tight ball. Not an unusual feeling for me, but with Derek it's ten times worse.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and psyche myself up to approach him. I can do this. Things are different, but we're still friends. Or, at least, I still consider him a friend. It'd be weird if I didn't check on him after he lost his sister.

He doesn't notice when I stop next to him. That, or he's ignoring my presence. Most likely the latter.

"I won't ask if you're okay," I say, "but I want you to know I'm here for you."

He glances at me, but shows no other emotion aside from indifference. "Thanks."

He doesn't want to talk to me. You don't need a degree in psychoanalysis to tell that much. Stoicism isn't an uncommon reaction to grief and I could chalk it up to just that, if not for the weight of the truth between us on top of it.