"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.
I'm eating lunch alone in the student center, my headphones on and the recording of my latest statistics lecture in my ear, when the stranger sidles up to me.
I feel their presence right away, but assume it's somebody pausing by my table while they scan the rest of the room for their friends. So I don't react, at least until the seconds start ticking into awkwardness, and then I muster the confidence to look right at them.
"Hello."
I don't recognize the guy straight away. He's short, with thick glasses and a kind of hipster beard. There's also an air of formality about him, like I've walked into a job interview I didn't know I was attending. I don't know him—but at the same time, an underlying sense of familiarity tells me he's not a total stranger.
"Uh, hi," I say, lifting my headphones, careful not to remove them completely and risk inviting more conversation than I'm looking for. "Can I help you?"
"I certainly hope so," he replies. Again, weirdly formal. "Am I right in thinking that you're Morgan Cain?"
"Yes. That's me."
"Great." He sits down and clasps his hands together on the tabletop. "I don't know if you know me, but I'm David Stephenson, editor-in-chief of campus' most-read newspaper, The Davidson Daily."
Of course: now it makes sense. That's where I know his face from. Sitting in front of me is Hanna's sworn rival, the guy she claimed was "God's gift to mediocrity", and the editor of the newspaper I frequently heard described as "insufferable misogynistic trash." We used to celebrate every time the readership on one of Hanna's articles surpassed that of the Daily, and the pair of them have been known to engage in vicious back-and-forth Twitter wars that attract considerable attention.
For him to be approaching me now is a sure sign that mine and Hanna's friendship has gone down the pan.
"Right, the Daily," I say. "Weirdly named, since it's a weekly newspaper."
He purses his lips, irritated. "Well, yes, but as I've explained to too many people, there are a number of different reasons for the name."
I shrug. "Okay. Sure."
"Anyway," he continues pointedly, "there's something I wanted to talk to you about. A proposition, if you will."
It doesn't escape my notice the way he's leaned in, lowered his voice—making this whole thing seem a lot seedier than it did thirty seconds ago. If I wasn't suspicious about being approached by David Stephenson in the first place, I certainly am now.
"What kind of proposition?"
He smiles thinly, and I kind of hate myself for even entertaining the idea. But he's looking so pleased with himself he'd probably force it on me anyway. "Excuse the personal question, but were you dating the sophomore Josh Kelley at the time of his death last year?"
