Cursed by the Fountain of Youth

Chapter 8

Several days later, Fae still hadn't gotten over her visit with Brigitte. It would take her a long time to process all her emotions: anger, guilt, despair, regret...

Maybe someday she could find it in herself to forgive Brigitte. But that day wasn't today.

Fae walked into her empty dorm room, eager to feel the cooling comfort of slipping between her bed sheets. Morgan was probably working late on a class project somewhere. Stripping down to her underwear, she slid her white, lacy nightgown over her head.

Just as she stepped up the first rung on her ladder, her phone vibrated. Her bare feet padded over the cold, linoleum floor as she stepped over to her dresser. Morgan's name lit up the screen.

"Hello," Fae answered.

"Fae," Morgan said, her voice ringing with anxiety. "Are you in our room?"

"Yeah," Fae said. "I'm just headed to bed."

"Oh, no, you can't go to bed yet. I've got a big problem. Mrs. Albrecht said someone is moving into our old room, and I just remembered. I left a box with some of my jewelry in it on the top shelf of my old closet, pushed clear to the back. I was going to grab it when we moved, but I totally spaced it. Can you go get it for me? I don't want the new girl moving in and laying claim on it. I have my grandmother's ring in there. I should have listened to my mom and left it home."

"No, no," Fae said. "Don't worry about it. I'll get it."

"Thank you so much," Morgan said. "You are the best roomie ever! Listen, I've got to go. Can you text me when you find it?"

"Sure," Fae said as she stepped from her room into the hall.

Fae approached the door and hesitated. What if the girl was already there? Raising her fist, she knocked. She waited a minute and knocked again. Still no answer.

Should she just go in? Or should she get Mrs. Albrecht? No. The girl obviously wasn't in, and Morgan really needed her jewelry back.

She tried the knob, and it turned easily in her hand. Stepping into the dark room, she turned on the light, and her heart skipped a beat. Someone had moved in.

"Oh, shoot," she whispered. She needed to get out fast. Rushing to Morgan's old closet, Fae threw open the door and slapped her hand over her mouth.

Beside the hanging sweaters and blouses, just above the rows of designer shoes, a young woman dangled from the curtain rod. Her milky eyes were open and her mouth hung askew. Her skin was white—not just pale, but freakin' white! And her hands and feet.... Fae fought the sudden nausea that threatened to cause her to lose the contents of her stomach then and there.

Fae backed away and shut the door. She swallowed bile as her mind raced. Here she was, breaking into a room, and she finds a dead body. Knowing her luck, she would end up cell mates with Brigitte. But still, she had to call the police. She—

Wait a minute. She had Nick's number. He did say to call him if she needed him for anything. And he was an FBI agent—one who knew her and seemed to actually like her.

Pulling out her phone, she dialed his number.

"Fae?"

"Listen, you said I could call you if I needed help." The words rushed from her mouth.

"Is something wrong?"

Her breath came out in gasps as the reality of the situation seemed to crash down on her. Tears flooded her eyes. "You could say that."

"What's wrong?"

"There's a..." she swallowed, "dead body in my roommate's old closet." The image flashed in front of her eyes, and she began to shake.

Nick paused on the other end of the line. "Is this a joke?"

"No. I swear, there's a...there's a..." Fae was trembling so hard her teeth began to chatter. Her stomach twisted in a knot. "I think I'm going to be sick."

Nick swore. "Fae! Fae, listen to me. Are you still in the room with the body?"

"No. I closed the closet door."

"Good, good. I want you to go out into the hallway. You need to be around other people."

"I don't feel so good," she said when her stomach lurched and darkness seeped into the edge of her vision.

"Close your eyes and breathe."

"Are you...coming?" she asked as she stumbled into the hall. There wasn't anyone around. She slumped to the floor and put her head between her knees.

"I'm on my way. I'll call it into the campus police."

"There..." Fae closed her eyes. "...wasn't any blood." She focused on breathing and calming down. What kind of investigator would she be if she fell apart at a murder scene?

"What?"

"She was as white as a sheet and her hands and feet...were gone. But there was no blood on the floor beneath her. Not a drop. There wasn't a drop of blood anywhere. Isn't that strange?"

"Yes, it is," he answered calmly.

She could hear him mumbling in the background—probably calling the police. She sat and tried her best to focus on her breathing.

"Fae?"

"Yes," she answered.

"The police are almost there."

Moments later, the door from the outside burst open and two campus cops rushed in. They locked eyes on her. "Are you Fae Miller?"

"Is that them?" Nick asked.

"Yes," she said, answering them both.

"Who are you on the phone with?" one of the officers asked.

"Special Agent Nick Chase," she answered.

"Fae," Nick said. "I'm going to hang up now so you can talk to them, but I'll be there in just a few minutes."

"Okay," she said. "Thanks, Nick." She hung up and looked at the cops.

"Are you okay?" the younger of the two asked. He was a hefty, short man who looked to be no more than twenty. His name badge said Officer Holden. The other officer—Layman—looked older, but not much. He was in better shape and much taller.

Fae nodded weakly. She remained on the floor. She didn't trust her legs to hold her up.

"Where it is?" Layman asked.

It? Fae's stomach sickened at the thought that that girl, the one who had great taste in shoes, the girl who couldn't have been more than eighteen years old, had been reduced to an "it." She looked at the door to her old dorm room. "She's in there. In the closet."

They both nodded. Officer Layman reached for the doorknob.

"Stop!" Fae shouted.

The officer jerked his hand back and put his hand on his gun.

"No, no...I'm sorry. I just think you should dust for fingerprints first. The murderer was probably the last one to enter that room—well, before me. You don't want to miss the chance to pull his prints off the doorknob."

Officer Layman frowned at her. "This isn't our first investigation."

"How many murders have you had on campus?" she asked, genuinely interested.

Layman must not have taken her question in the spirit she'd asked it because he simply answered with a scowl.

Officer Holden whispered to Layman, "Maybe we should wait for the investigators."

"Fine," Layman snapped. "I really don't want to see a dead student anyway. Let the meat wagon handle her."

At the mention of meat wagon, the image of the girl surfaced in her mind—her body hanging from the curtain rod, her hands and feet missing. She had to put her head between her knees again.