Great. Just fucking great.

It wouldn’t be the first time that someone accused me of being a murderer. It comes with the territory of being a final girl. People don’t know how to cope with the senseless violence and grief, so they point fingers (literally) at the one person who miraculously survived the whole thing. To some people, final girls represent hope. To others, they raise suspicion.

Why her? Why does she deserve to live? What’s her secret? What makes her so special?

The truth is, I’m not special. I don’t deserve the air I breathe any more than the next person does. I’m not smarter or stronger than anyone else. I just got lucky. If you can call it that.

Still, that doesn’t stop the harassment. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but it brings the same anxiety-inducing panic attacks. Sometimes it feels like the whole world hates me. It’s hard to go through life knowing that everyone has made up their mind about what a horrible person I am before they’ve even met me.

My throat nearly closes as the accusation. I try to fight the instinct to hyperventilate and force myself to breathe and not throw up.

I turn to face my accuser. It’s a girl I’ve never seen in my life, of course. Someone who probably thinks she knows everything about me. She read an article about me somewhere, so she thinks she can say shit like this to my face. She’s probably never had anything bad happen to her in her life.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” I snap.

The girl flicks her long blonde mane over her shoulder and huffs, as if I’m the one who has some nerve. Like I’m the rude one.

Fucking bitch. I didn’t survive a serial killer only to let some sorority girl try to bully me. She looks like the kind of girl whose sole goal is to be the queen of everyone’s world. Like some freak mash-up of Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian.

I want to reach out and slap her across her stupid face. But I don’t want to raise suspicion with Sheriff Tandy standing there. Innocent people don’t go around hitting people in the face.

But it’s so fucking tempting.

“I don’t know who that girl is,” I tell Tandy gruffly. “I have no idea where this is coming from. Obviously, this person knows that I’m the sole survivor from Frostville, and for some reason she has a problem with it.”

I hate playing the victim card, but if I have to pull it to get out of this situation, I will.

The tears come easily, especially since I’m on the verge of a PTSD panic attack.

“I just wish people would leave me alone,” I say, and I’m not milking it. I really do wish I could go through life like a normal person. But I know I’ll never be normal again. And that really does make me want to cry. I’m sick over what happened tonight. I hate that while this is traumatizing for everyone else, it’s old hat to me. I don’t want to be a pro at this. I wish I could press rewind and go back. All the way back.

Tandy glances at me uneasily. To her credit, this is probably her first dead body, and she’s handling it pretty well, all things considered. She probably didn’t have Aspiring Frat Boy Impaled On A Bedpost on her bingo card for the evening.

“I understand this must be painful for you, considering what you’ve been through,” she tells me. “I’ve read about the Frostville case, and I can’t even imagine what that was like. I’m sorry.”

I wipe my eyes on my sleeve. I hate showing vulnerability in front of people, but I’m grateful that Tandy is sympathetic.

I feel an arm on mine, and I force myself to wait before automatically throwing a punch. But it’s not the bitchy blonde sorority girl. It’s Libby.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Look, Claire, you can’t point fingers at someone without having any evidence to back it up,” she snaps at the girl. “That makes you so extra.”

Claire huffs again. “Your mom is so extra.”

It’s not funny. It’s the worst comeback I’ve ever heard in my life. But for some reason, after seeing yet another fellow student horrifically murdered, Claire’s lame response strikes me as fucking hysterical.

I burst out laughing, unable to help myself. I can’t hold the giggles. Even Tandy smirks at Claire’s idiotic retort.

Claire glares at me with her ice-blue eyes.

“I’m glad you find this situation funny,” she hisses. “You’re so heartless. A boy just died.”

“You probably didn’t even know his name before tonight. Stop trying to be a drama queen. Isis was with me downstairs for the whole party. There’s no way that she could be the killer. Get over yourself,” Libby retorts. “Unless you want to accuse us both of being liars.”

By now, Libby’s sorority sisters have gathered around us, forming a shield.

Claire finally relents, but not before throwing another vicious glare at me.

If looks could kill…

I silently give her the finger in my mind. I hope she trips and lands face-first in a patch of poison ivy.

“Well,” Tandy says, breaking the silence that follows. She turns to her troops. “It looks like we have a murder to solve, don’t we?”

***

I don’t get any sleep that night. Instead, I stare up at the ceiling, trying to block out the sight of Bob’s lifeless face. I try to do breathing exercises to lull myself to dreamland, but it’s no excuse. And even if I did sleep, I’d probably have nightmares.

In the morning, I decide to look into Bob’s death myself. People are probably talking about me more than ever, especially after Claire’s public accusation. The only way to avoid everyone’s suspicion is to find the true killer.

I’m surprised to see texts from Libby and her friends checking in on me. Who are these nice people? What planet did they come from? I’m not used to this kind of unconditional love. It’s weird to have people supporting me. I don’t completely trust it. Part of me wonders what their motivation is. If their kindness isn’t really what it seems. I can’t afford to trust people at face value after what I’ve been through. You never know who could hurt you. Who could be capable of murder.

I don’t have time to analyze these text messages. I need to find out who killed Bob. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that things like this aren’t isolated incidents. If the killer is still on campus, then none of us are safe.

I agree to join Libby and the girls for dinner later at their house. I have to make it look like I’m still doing normal college activities. I don’t want to raise further suspicion by being flaky and weird.

The girls are doing a “make your own sushi roll” thing for dinner. I don’t know how anyone can concentrate on anything besides the murder. It’s literally all I can think about.

As people pass around rice, chopsticks, and little pots of soy sauce, I try to plot my escape.

I do my best to create a California roll, but I don’t pack it tightly enough, and it falls apart.

I don’t have much of an appetite anyway. I nibble on a few pieces of seaweed.

This is stupid. I’m wasting time. I need to find a space to do investigative work. My dorm won’t cut it, not with Edith and her stupid drums.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I announce, and take the opportunity to sneak around the house, looking for a space to claim as my office.

I discover the sorority basement, which is a little musty, but it should serve my purposes. All it’s being used for is storage space for a couple of tattered yoga mats.

Perfect.

I return to the dinner table.

People begin to talk about the murder over food. I don’t know who can talk about gory things while eating raw meat, but I sure can’t.

I sip at my water glass, trying to ward off nausea.

I decide to keep quiet and observe everyone’s conspiracy theories. These people know more about the school and Bob than I do. Maybe I can learn something.

After dinner, the girls decide to head to a bar. I’m not in the mood, but I don’t want to return to my dorm, where I probably won’t get any sleep between the noise and the horrible flashbacks of Bob’s death pose.

As we approach the bar, a group of girls from Omega Phi walk up to us.

They’re all staring at me. As if I have something to hide.

Claire steps forward, that stupid manicured finger pointing at me again.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the killer on campus,” she sneers. “How are you doing, Killer?”

Her sisters laugh uproariously as they pass us by, bumping into us with their shoulders.

My face burns with anger.

This freaking sucks.