Her Death, Their Sinful Secret

Her Death, Their Sinful Secret

Gavin

5.0
Comment(s)
View
11
Chapters

The first time Chloe died, I wasn't there. I was in the library, trying to finish a paper, when a text from our friend Emily shattered my world: "Something happened at the dorm. Come back. Now." I ran, only to find flashing lights and yellow tape around our building. Emily, pale and shaking, whispered the horror: "It' s Chloe. She... she fell." The university moved with chilling speed, declaring it a tragic suicide, scrubbing every trace of her from our room as if she never existed. My best friend, gone. But I knew Chloe. She wouldn't just jump. The bruises, the whispered phone calls to a blocked number that made her face tighten with fear-they screamed something else. I tried to tell the police, but they dismissed it, already closing the case. The university wanted me quiet, gone, just like Chloe' s memory. In a haze of grief and rage, I remembered her hidden burner phone and secret journal. I knew they held the truth. That night, I snuck back into our room, found them, and a terrifyingly large man in a dark suit appeared, attacking me. I woke up with a throbbing head, confused, but the buzzing alarm clock confirmed it: Wednesday, 7:00 AM. May 18th. Then I saw her. Chloe, alive, humming at her desk. I had woken up three days in the past. This was my second chance. I could save her. But I failed. Even knowing, even running, I was too late. I watched her fall again, this time on a Wednesday. Despair threatened to swallow me whole, but then a cold, hard determination set in. They had taken everything the first time, covered it up. Not this time. I couldn't save her life, but I could get justice. And the key was the phone and the journal-still hidden where I' d left them in the original timeline. When university officials, including Dean Peterson and the terrifying man who attacked me, burst into my room to silence me, I had a choice. Beg for help? Or fight back? I dialed 911, then deliberately smashed the window, screaming for real police attention. When they finally arrived, I knew my physical evidence was gone. Dean Peterson's smug face confirmed it. So, I played my last card. I looked the officer dead in the eye and said, "I pushed her. I killed my best friend." It was a monstrous lie, a suicide bomb of a confession, but it forced their hand. A suicide they could bury; a murder, they had to investigate. Sitting in the interrogation room, recounting the nightmare to Detective Anderson, the impossible truth started to break through. He listened, he saw the inconsistencies, and for the first time, someone believed me. Chloe's journal and the burner phone, retrieved by my bewildered friend Emily, laid bare the horrifying truth: Dean Peterson was pimping out vulnerable female students, including Chloe, to powerful, wealthy university trustees like the HIV-positive Mr. Thompson. Chloe's death wasn't suicide; it was murder, a desperate escape from a web of abuse and control. My false confession cost me my freedom, my reputation, my sanity, but it ignited a firestorm. The corrupt system crumbled, Thompson and Peterson jailed for life. Standing at Chloe' s grave, the fight over, I knew for the first time: we did it. We changed her story. And no one else would suffer like her again.

Introduction

The first time Chloe died, I wasn't there.

I was in the library, trying to finish a paper, when a text from our friend Emily shattered my world: "Something happened at the dorm. Come back. Now."

I ran, only to find flashing lights and yellow tape around our building. Emily, pale and shaking, whispered the horror: "It' s Chloe. She... she fell."

The university moved with chilling speed, declaring it a tragic suicide, scrubbing every trace of her from our room as if she never existed. My best friend, gone.

But I knew Chloe. She wouldn't just jump. The bruises, the whispered phone calls to a blocked number that made her face tighten with fear-they screamed something else.

I tried to tell the police, but they dismissed it, already closing the case. The university wanted me quiet, gone, just like Chloe' s memory.

In a haze of grief and rage, I remembered her hidden burner phone and secret journal. I knew they held the truth. That night, I snuck back into our room, found them, and a terrifyingly large man in a dark suit appeared, attacking me.

I woke up with a throbbing head, confused, but the buzzing alarm clock confirmed it: Wednesday, 7:00 AM. May 18th.

Then I saw her. Chloe, alive, humming at her desk. I had woken up three days in the past.

This was my second chance. I could save her.

But I failed. Even knowing, even running, I was too late. I watched her fall again, this time on a Wednesday.

Despair threatened to swallow me whole, but then a cold, hard determination set in. They had taken everything the first time, covered it up. Not this time.

I couldn't save her life, but I could get justice. And the key was the phone and the journal-still hidden where I' d left them in the original timeline.

When university officials, including Dean Peterson and the terrifying man who attacked me, burst into my room to silence me, I had a choice. Beg for help? Or fight back?

I dialed 911, then deliberately smashed the window, screaming for real police attention.

When they finally arrived, I knew my physical evidence was gone. Dean Peterson's smug face confirmed it.

So, I played my last card. I looked the officer dead in the eye and said, "I pushed her. I killed my best friend."

It was a monstrous lie, a suicide bomb of a confession, but it forced their hand. A suicide they could bury; a murder, they had to investigate.

Sitting in the interrogation room, recounting the nightmare to Detective Anderson, the impossible truth started to break through. He listened, he saw the inconsistencies, and for the first time, someone believed me.

Chloe's journal and the burner phone, retrieved by my bewildered friend Emily, laid bare the horrifying truth: Dean Peterson was pimping out vulnerable female students, including Chloe, to powerful, wealthy university trustees like the HIV-positive Mr. Thompson.

Chloe's death wasn't suicide; it was murder, a desperate escape from a web of abuse and control.

My false confession cost me my freedom, my reputation, my sanity, but it ignited a firestorm. The corrupt system crumbled, Thompson and Peterson jailed for life.

Standing at Chloe' s grave, the fight over, I knew for the first time: we did it. We changed her story. And no one else would suffer like her again.

Continue Reading

Other books by Gavin

More
The Truth About His Mistress

The Truth About His Mistress

Short stories

4.7

I was four months pregnant, a photographer excited for our future, attending a sophisticated baby brunch. Then I saw him, my husband Michael, with another woman, and a newborn introduced as "his son." My world shattered as a torrent of betrayal washed over me, magnified by Michael's dismissive claim I was "just being emotional." His mistress, Serena, taunted me, revealing Michael had discussed my pregnancy complications with her, then slapped me, causing a terrifying cramp. Michael sided with her, publicly shaming me, demanding I leave "their" party, as a society blog already paraded them as a "picture-perfect family." He fully expected me to return, to accept his double life, telling his friends I was "dramatic" but would "always come back." The audacity, the calculated cruelty of his deception, and Serena's chilling malice, fueled a cold, hard rage I barely recognized. How could I have been so blind, so trusting of the man who gaslighted me for months while building a second family? But on the plush carpet of that lawyer's office, as he turned his back on me, a new, unbreakable resolve solidified. They thought I was broken, disposable, easily manipulated – a "reasonable" wife who would accept a sham separation. They had no idea my calm acceptance was not surrender; it was strategy, a quiet promise to dismantle everything he held dear. I would not be handled; I would not understand; I would end this, and make sure their perfect family charade crumbled into dust.

When Love Turns to Ash

When Love Turns to Ash

Short stories

4.6

My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend. From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down." That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny. But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded. I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said." Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off." My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers. I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal. Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing. As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury. In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho." How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me? Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault? Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred? I would not be his victim. Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done. I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties. This was not an escape; this was my rebirth. Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.

You'll also like

Chapters
Read Now
Download Book