Three new messages.
One from her mom. One from Lydia. And one from that unknown number.
Her stomach tightens slightly at the last one, but she ignores it for now, tapping on her mom's message first. Probably something about checking in or asking if she's eaten.
Then, Lydia, her best friend. It's either gossip or a meme, and honestly, she could use something lighthearted.
But that third message lingers at the back of her mind. The unknown number.
With a deep breath, she hesitates before opening it.
Evette's thumb hovers over the unknown number's message, her heart pounding just a little faster.
"Don't try to run from your troubles."
The words sit there, cold and deliberate.
Without hesitating, she types back: "I'm not."
She stares at the screen, waiting for a response, but nothing comes. The message remains unread, and after a few seconds, she locks her phone and tosses it onto her bed.
Fear wants to creep in, but she won't let it. If someone thinks they can mess with her, they're wrong. She's not running. She's not hiding.
She's going to figure this out, no matter what it takes. Even if it's the last thing she does.
A sudden thought crosses Evette's mind, wild, reckless, maybe even stupid. But she doesn't care.
Without overthinking it, she grabs her phone again, pulls up the unknown number, and presses call.
The ringtone hums in her ear, steady and unchanging. She waits, fingers drumming against her knee. One ring. Two. Three. A full minute passes. Then another.
No answer.
She clenches her jaw, staring at the screen as the call eventually drops. No voicemail. No response. Nothing.
With a frustrated sigh, she throws her phone onto the bed and leans back against the pillows. Whoever this person is, they clearly want to play games.
Fine. She'll play. But on her own terms.
Evette grits her teeth, frustration bubbling under her skin. She hates feeling like someone else is in control, like they're toying with her. But sitting here, stewing in anger, won't get her anywhere.
With a sharp exhale, she pushes herself up and grabs her laptop. If she's not getting answers tonight, she might as well be productive.
She pulls up her pending homework assignment, staring at the title:
"The Legacy of Alumni: Role Models and Cautionary Tales."
With a determined nod, she cracks her knuckles and gets to work, letting the rhythmic clicking of her keyboard drown out everything else.
Evette pulls out the The worn 1999 yearbook , its faded cover rough beneath her fingertips. She had borrowed the book to gather information about alumni for her assigment.
Then she sees him.
A boy with blond hair and piercing gray eyes. Something about his stare feels unsettling, like he's looking right through the camera, through the years, straight at her.
Her eyes drop to the name printed below his photo.
Emerson Holloway.
"Whatever you do, don't be like me."
A chill skates down her spine. Who leaves a message like that in a yearbook? It wasn't a joke. It wasn't a cliché senior quote. It was a warning.
She reads on.
Star student. Brilliant mind. Future full of potential.
Then the last line makes her blood run cold.
No one knows where he is now.
Evette swallows hard, her fingers tightening around the edges of the book. Emerson Holloway.
She has a sinking feeling this isn't just some long-forgotten name. This is something else.
Something she isn't supposed to find.
Evette swallows down the unease curling in her stomach and grabs a sticky note from her desk, marking the page before she shuts the book for a moment. The weight of Emerson Holloway's words lingers in her mind, but she forces herself to push forward.
Taking a steadying breath, she flips to another random page, her fingers grazing over more faded photos and bold, outdated fonts. The scent of old paper fills the air as her eyes skim over rows of unfamiliar faces, their smiles frozen in time.
Most of the entries are unremarkable, class clowns, student council members, future doctors and artists, all summed up in a few short sentences. But then—
Her gaze lands on another name. Another face.
And something about it makes her pause.
Evette's eyes lock onto the name beneath the next photograph.
Margaret Langley.
A girl with rich brown hair and deep brown eyes, her beauty so striking it nearly distracts Evette from what she's actually looking for. But then she reads the quote beneath Margaret's name, and her breath catches.
"When life gives you lemons, give them to Emerson."
She freezes.
Margaret and Emerson. It doesn't take much to put the pieces together—this girl was probably his girlfriend, or at the very least, someone close to him. But unlike Emerson's entry, Margaret's description is vague, almost dismissive.
"Margaret was a bright student who carried lots of potential."
And that's it. Nothing else. No mention of what she went on to do. No achievements. No whereabouts. Just… a name, a face, and an eerie tie to Emerson Holloway.
Evette swallows and slowly presses another sticky note onto the page.
I need to focus on alumni for my assignment, she reminds herself. But that doesn't mean I'll forget about Emerson.
Because something tells her… she's not meant to.