But I’m not dead yet. The ticking watch, my beating heart, the smell of the musty books around me, they all mean I still have time. Not much time, but hopefully enough to stop this.
I pull myself together, brushing hair out of my face. I told Zoe and Chris that we were going to fix this, that we were going to change the future, and I have to believe we can. But to do that, I need more information.
My time of death is 11:38 p.m., a little over twenty-four hours after we return to the present. The place of death says Santa Monica State Beach. Not very descriptive, since the beach is pretty big, and I have no idea why I’d be there so late.
I scroll down, but when I see the cause of death, I have to cover my mouth to keep from crying out.
Self-Inflicted Gunshot Wound. Suicide.
I’m the girl Shawnda mentioned, the one who shoots the others and then herself.
I’m the killer.
07:17
No, it can’t be. But the words stare back at me. Self-inflicted gunshot wound. Suicide.
No, no, no. It doesn’t make sense. I would never kill the others—would I?
I know I have a temper. I know sometimes I itch to fight, to let my rage out, to show other people I’m not weak. I know I’ve done some stupid shit in my past—but to actually kill someone? And not just someone, but three people I’m starting to think of as…friends?
No, never. I refuse to believe it. And I’d never kill myself either. Not in a million years. It must be a setup. Aether Corp or whoever is behind our deaths did this to us and then placed the blame on me to tie it all up with a nice string.
But I’m the only one with a gun, and I would bet money the gun in my backpack is the same one that’s going to shoot the others. I even turned it on Chris less than an hour ago. And despite what I told him, I would have pulled the trigger.
Oh my God, it is me. I really am the killer. I’m going to become the one thing I swore I’d never turn into: a murderer like my father.
I guess it’s inevitable. It’s in my blood.
My nails dig into the desk, sending sharp, shooting pains up my fingers. I can’t look away from the image with my fate written on it. But if I am the killer, why would I do this to them? I can’t think of any reason I’d want to kill them. Maybe I snap at some point between now and then…and afterward my grief drives me to shoot myself. But if that’s the case, why do I spare Adam?
I need to know more. Maybe I can find some hint of a motive, or learn when and where the others were killed so I can stop it from happening.
I won’t become a killer. I won’t.
I close the genealogy program and open a new search for old news articles. I input my name plus suicide, and half a dozen articles show up from various local news sites. I click on the first one, with the headline: Four Teens Dead in Apparent Murder-Suicide.
SANTA MONICA, Calif. – Four teens, all in the foster care system, have been found dead in an apparent murder-suicide.
Three of the teens suffered fatal gunshot wounds yesterday in different locations across Los Angeles County. Coroner’s assistant Edith Moore said the victims were shot multiple times. The names of the victims have been withheld.
Police suspect the final teen, Elena Martinez, 17, killed the others before taking her own life. A lifeguard discovered her body early this morning near the Santa Monica Pier, with what police believe to be a self-inflicted gunshot wound. No suicide note was found. The investigation is ongoing.
Any lingering doubt I had is gone. This is going to happen.
The other articles all have similar headlines. I go through each one, hoping to learn more, but none give any hint as to why I did it. Most of the articles are short—just another random murder in a big city. They don’t even have pictures of our bodies or names or locations or anything I could use.
“Hey,” Trent says.
I jump and twist around, using my body to block my screen. Trent’s leaning back from his cubby, which is next to mine. His face looks even whiter than usual, bleached out by whatever he’s learned. Does he know I’m the one who is going to kill him? If they find out, I might not make it to tomorrow. Zoe wouldn’t do anything, but Chris or Trent? I’m not sure.
“Are you…” He stops and closes his eyes for a moment, but I know what he means.