Page 17 of What Happened on Roslyn Street?
Isit at my desk, squinting at my bright laptop screen. It’s too early for this, but my classes start in an hour, and I have research to do.
The human news outlets don’t report on the Strode deaths, but there’s a way around that. The supernatural news is easy to find now that I’m on Strode Wi-Fi.
I guess that’s how they keep everything so private.
There are five reported deaths scattered over the last year—including Poppy.
“How is this place still open?” I mutter, making a new tab for each of the articles.
This is why they’re trying to keep it from the mainstream outlets, I assume. They’re good at sweeping things under the rug. Too many people don’t want to acknowledge that the supernatural exists at all.
Five deaths, including Poppy’s.
The first was a witch. She was an eighteen-year-old freshman and identified as a woman. No cause of death.
I click on the next article. A twenty-three-year-old werewolf. Man. No cause of death.
And the next. Another witch, twenty, a man. Drug-related death.
In a shocking twist, the next one is a thirty-year-old professor. A man. No cause of death—they assumed it was a suicide. But how?
Lastly, there is Poppy. She isn’t reported in the supernatural news. Her death is ruled as drug-related. She was a twenty-five-year-old woman.
Three students. One professor. One local.
There are no common links between the deaths. Two were witches, but there’s nothing else.
Maybe Poppy’s death is unrelated. She’s an outlier with no connection to Strode.
What the hell am I doing here?
I shake off the thought and close the tabs, but their names follow me on the way to my classes.
Another day,another body. It’s expected, but I didn’t see it coming this fast.
Two days in, and the school is already burning to the ground.
Walking outside after dark is something they told me to avoid at orientation, but I can always play stupid.
Itisstupid—just as stupid as investigating the scene of Poppy’s death. That had a favorable outcome, and so will this.
At first, I don’t know what I’m looking at, but it’s out of the ordinary. Quiet hours began an hour ago, but there’s a large group surrounding the area.
And it's not only the students. Professors and securityguards are there, too, blocking them from something I can’t see.
I push closer, ignoring the voices telling us to leave the area.
When I realize what they’re crowding, I go cold. Time stops.
Yellow tape is the only thing keeping the other students from trampling over the poor, lost person. My heart pounds, and my eyes prick with tears.
I don’t recognize them, but it doesn’t matter. Images of Poppy’s perfectly preserved body flood my brain.
I may be the next to die—from a heart attack.
The student is one I vaguely recognize from orientation, and—God, they can’t be more than eighteen years old. They didn’t speak a single word, and their loss doesn’t impact me personally, but they meaneverythingto me. They are Poppy. I had never seen Poppy in this state, and now I’m glad. If the sight of a stranger looking like this feels so terrible—enough to make me want to vomit—how would I feel if it was a friend?
There’s no time to be sick. I have to focus. I take note of what I can see. No injuries. No sign of a struggle…
