Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 95676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
My gaze lands on the photographs on top of a small dresser on the messy side, confirming my gut instinct that this is Rory's half of the dorm. He's front and center in a few of the photos, alongside an older couple, the resemblance making it clear they're related, likely his parents. Others are candid shots of him and his friends. One of Ivy holding her guitar sits in the middle of all the others. She looks ethereal, like she's in a completely different world.
Her stricken expression makes it clear that she's noticed the photo as well. She averts her gaze with a sad frown. I don't even have to ask to know what she's thinking. It's written all over her face. Because of Fake Ivy, this kid will never get to take another goofy photo with his friends or look slightly bored while his parents force him to pose for another family shot.
Does she know? Does she even care? Does it bother her at all that the real Ivy is the one here now, picking through the wreckage she left behind?
I pull the door to the room closed and step up beside her, handing her a pair of gloves so she doesn't leave fingerprints on anything. If there is anything here, we have to do this the right way. I don't want any doubts as to whether she contaminated the scene by touching things she shouldn't.
While she dons her gloves, I cross to Clark's desk and start shuffling through the papers on top. They're class notes, inked in small, neatly stacked letters.
Ivy stands in the middle of the room, clearly reluctant to touch anything.
"Come here, kitten." I hold out a hand toward her.
She quickly crosses to me.
"You good?" I ask, examining her with narrowed, worried eyes.
"Yeah," she says, nodding.
I tug her forward, wrapping an arm around her waist before pulling a book from the shelf. She watches me for a second and then starts poking through the papers scattered across the top of the desk. After a moment, she sucks in a breath, going rigid.
"Cam," she whispers, pulling one from the stack.
"What is it?" I place the book back on the shelf.
She holds the paper out toward me, her hand trembling. "I wrote this."
What the hell?
I frown, my gaze moving between her and the piece of paper in my hand. It looks like a song, or part of one anyway, scrawled across a single sheet of notebook paper.
"It's yours?" I ask.
She nods.
"Someone copied it?"
"No." She chokes on the word.
Fuck.
I gently take the paper from her and steer her toward the bed, forcing her to sit. She takes a deep breath, and then another, as pale as a ghost. Her hands shake so hard she has to ball them into fists to still them.
I kneel in front of her, seriously fucking worried. "Talk to me, kitten."
"It's a song I started writing three months ago. I thought I lost it," she whispers, swallowing hard. She looks like she's on the verge of throwing up or passing out. "Why is it here?"
"Where did you last see it?"
"At school, maybe?" She shakes her head. "I don't remember. I was just messing around after parent-teacher conferences, waiting for some of the other teachers to finish up so we could go out for drinks, and the song came to me, so I jotted down the lyrics. When I looked the next morning, the sheet wasn't in my bag. I figured it must have fallen out at some point."
Motherfucker. It's not just her song. It's her handwriting. Her fingerprints. Her DNA. How the fuck did LAPD miss this?
"Did anyone else know about it?" I ask.
"I don't think so. I never had the chance to show anyone."
"It's a love song," I say, scanning the page.
"Yes."
It's not just a love song. The song is about two people grasping for more without even knowing one another. Given that she was supposedly in a long-distance relationship with Rory at the time she wrote it, it's incriminating as hell.
"It's not about Rory," she mumbles.
"What?" I glance from the page to her.
"It's not about Rory," she says again, a little louder this time. Distress fills her expression, panic searing her expression. She too fucking smart for her own good. She knows how bad this looks. "I didn't write this for him or about him." She pushes to her feet, causing me to stumble back before I manage to catch myself.
"Kitten―" I rise to my feet.
"I didn't write this for him, and I didn't send it to him." She paces around the small room, taking shallow breaths. "I didn't do this, Cam. I didn't."
Fuck, she's killing me.
"Sweetheart, stop." I toss the page to the bed and grab for her, yanking her into me.
Her body collides with me. I wrap my arms around her, caging her in against my chest. She struggles for a moment, trying to fight her way free, but I don't let her go. I will never let her go.