We've all heard and devoured the classic trope involving the shenanigans of a jock, a princess, a nerd, and a criminal. Although who knows of the trouble capable of ensuing when The Breakfast Club isn't PG-13 anymore?
That's the 2007 freshman batch...
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14th February 2015 Brooklyn, NYC
She was dead. Her pale lifeless body looked nothing better than a mass of bones lathered in burnt cigarette ash, except for her hazel eyes that were glued on me, strangling on my dry throat. I wanted to save her, somehow grab her hand as it constantly slipped into the clutches of the grim reaper... but I was distracted by a buzzing sound.
My eyes flicked wide open to soak the porcelain white ceiling of the apartment— sweat trailing down my chest, glistening under the halo of the golden rays of sunshine peeking through the blinders. I felt a hitch in my breath, a sharp pain rising up my back as it arched off the pulsating phone. The random arrangement of numbers didn't have any name to tag along, which seemed strange at this unearthly hour.
"Hello, who is this?" The coarseness of my throat made itself audible, but I couldn't get myself to care for it.
"Ms. Callaway speaking? Barney Stinson, this side. You might know me better as Professor Stinson, a former faculty at Arlington University. If I'm not mistaken, you were a student in the batch of 2007?"
"Oh, of course, Professor Stinson." Sleepiness fading, I sit up amidst the tangled sheets.
If you had asked me to guess who would be on the other end of this call, I wouldn't have narrowed it down to Professor Stinson in a million years. However, I also couldn't guess how this one phone call would change the course of our lives in the span of a mere few hours.
Once I was done splashing ice cold water on my nightmare stricken face, I left for the station to bat the crippling anxiety surging within me. A day when I am supposed to browse through eBay to search for a valentines gift for my boyfriend, I had to sort through dusty old files in the quarters.
Apparently, my pictures from a previous case had been doing rounds of a local news channel, and somehow caught Professor's eye. I assumed he wanted to talk about some insurance scam or a legal estate matter at best, but the urgency lining the calm of his voice said otherwise— and it wasn't wrong. He pulled on a cord of my, or precisely our past, the moment he mentioned his daughter's murder. Rachel Stinson's murder.
