An ad blasts my eardrums, somehow even louder than the music it replaced. I jam my finger on the volume button, and the sound fades to ringing.

Ringing. It's not just my ears; it's the doorbell downstairs. I sit upright on my bed, swimming through blankets to place my feet on the floor. The door opens downstairs, and Mom says,

"Hi, Zoe. So good to see you."

Oh dear. My first thought is, she can't see me like this. She can't find out.

"Let me see if Madelyn is up." Mom's feet pound steadily up the stairs.

My second thought: pretend I'm asleep.

But Mom is faster than my groggy brain. She opens my door, and a small smile spreads on her lips. "Oh good, you're awake."

Yes, for hours. My brain won't let me sleep.

"Zoe's here," Mom says when I don't respond.

Anxiety prickles at my skin. I can't let her see me like this. She might realize that I'm different, that something's wrong with me. She might see that I've been broken for years, not just for the past week.

But there's a good chance Zoe already heard Mom talking downstairs. If Mom goes down and says I don't want to see her, she might wonder why I'm keeping my distance.

"The company will do you good," Mom says softly.

Reluctantly, I sigh. "Okay. She can come up here for a bit."

Mom beams and disappears. A minute later, feet bound upstairs, and Zoe rushes in. My bedroom door clicks behind her. She pauses, hands folded in front of her and heels rocking. This is the most unsure I've seen her in a long time.

"Hey." My voice is hoarse, and I don't even want to think about how puffy and raw my face probably looks.

"Hey," Zoe says. She takes two tentative steps forward. "I hope it's cool that I've stopped by. It's just that I've missed you at school."

A week seems far too long to go without communicating with Zoe. Even on vacation, we still text or facetime each other, or at a bare minimum, stalk all the fun things we're doing on Instagram. A small knot twists in my gut. I've stayed off all social media since the incident, but maybe I should've replied to some of the texts I've received.

Only damage control can be done now.

Before I open my mouth to reply, Zoe says, "I'm sorry! I didn't mean for that to sound backhanded or anything. If you just need space, that's totally fine. I can go."

"No, stay. It's fine."

Zoe swallows. "You sure? 'Cause—"

"Yes. It's probably not good for me to be isolated right now anyway."

Slowly, Zoe lowers herself onto the floor, crossing her slender legs underneath her. "I just wanted to check in and see how you're doing. Be here for you in case you need me."

"Thanks. I could use a distraction."

"Want to watch something? Play a game?" Zoe clamps her mouth shut. "Shoot. Never mind."

My brow creases. "What do you mean?"

"Never mind, never mind. Bad suggestion. A movie." Zoe forces an innocent smile onto her lips.

"I don't follow."

Zoe sighs. "I guess we all just feel responsible. We were the ones who forced you to download the app."

"That was Autumn."

"It was my idea to play scare or dare. I'm so, so sorry. If I had known this would happen, I would've never suggested it. Neither would Autumn. I think she feels the worst about it."

I gulp as a fresh wave of guilt courses through me. That explains the snippets I've seen of her messages. I mentally note that I should reply to her, at a minimum, after Zoe leaves.

"I never meant this to happen," Zoe says. Her brown eyes glisten, and for a moment, I wonder why she's apologizing so earnestly.

"I don't blame you for what happened," I say.

"Really?" I nod, and Zoe exhales. "That's a relief. I thought you were. I thought maybe that's why..." Her eyes stray to my phone.

"No, it's not why I've been unreachable. I've just needed time to process."

"Yeah, of course. Take all the time you need."

Silence fills the air. After a minute, I stand and ask, "still feel like a movie?"

"Yes, please."

I shake my head, the slightest smile tugging my lips upward. "Are you sure you didn't just come for the movie theater here?"

"Can't promise that I didn't," Zoe jokes back, though it lacks the usual levity.

We walk to the movie room at the end of the hall, while I call out to Mom, asking for some popcorn and water. Once we're settled on the couch, wrapped in blankets and reclining on extra cushions, Mom places two large bowls and glasses of water on the coffee table that stretches the length of the couch in front of us.

Two hours later, the credits to Legally Blonde are rolling. I barely paid attention during the movie, not only because I've seen it a million times. I just can't seem to escape my head, even with Zoe present, even with a movie trying to pull me into a different world.

"You good?" Zoe asks. It takes a moment for me to realize that my cheeks are wet, that tears stain my blanket.

"Yeah." I glance around, wondering why there are no tissue boxes in here. Mom must've moved them all into my room since I've been going through them so fast.

"I thought a comedy would make you laugh," Zoe says.

"It's just... been a lot lately." My throat tightens, and I don't feel like I can elaborate.

Zoe nods, not pressuring but understanding. After several beats of silence, she says. "Well, if you ever need to talk about it with someone, I'm here for you."

"Thank you."

"This kind of thing is hard on anyone, but especially you."

My head tilts to the side. I try to keep my features schooled, but I can't help being taken aback. Does she know about my anxiety? Perhaps I haven't hidden it nearly as well as I thought. "What do you mean?"

"I mean... I just assumed that with your enhanced senses..." Zoe bites her lip. "Well, d-don't dead bodies feel different than live ones?"

Slowly, I blink at her. "Well, no. They actually don't."

"I'm sorry," Zoe rushes to say. She places a tentative hand on my arm. "I didn't mean to be so callous."

"I-It's okay," I stammer, though admittedly I feel pretty shaken.

Don't dead bodies feel different than live ones?

Dead bodies.

It feels so wrong to reduce a person's life to a mere body. Aren't lives so much more than that? More than flesh, bone, and blood?

"I'm sorry," Zoe repeats. "I won't bring it up again. That wasn't a helpful thing to ask or talk about right now. Or maybe ever." She chews a little more on her lip. "Do you want to watch another movie? Or would you rather just rest?"

I grab my water glass and cool my parched throat. "Maybe another movie. I could use the distraction."

Zoe grabs the remote, her beige cheeks tinged with pink. She flicks through movie options, but I barely register the titles.

"They don't," I say at last. "Dead bodies don't feel any way special."

The movies stop scrolling by. It takes a moment to process that Zoe paused on Saw 2. I gulp, and Zoe quickly scrolls past, not stopping until the cursor lands on a My Little Pony movie.

"Sorry," Zoe says. "I'm not at all trying to get you to watch Saw with me."

I force a smile. "Bad timing."

"Very," Zoe says with a short exhale. "But what you said... they don't feel any different?" I shake my head. "So when you walked in, you felt nothing? That must've been weird since you were meeting someone."

"I did sense someone there," I begin. "When I first walked in, that is. But it went away soon after."

"Really?" Zoe's eyes land on the empty popcorn bowl. Either she's deep in thought or still hungry. "So... someone was in the auditorium with you? A, for lack of a better word, a living person?"

"I guess so." My throat is becoming more like sandpaper by the moment. I drink the rest of my water in one gulp.

"Have you told the police?" Zoe asks.

"No..."

"Why not?"

"Well, why would I?" Irritation creeps into my voice, though she can't possibly know the reason.

"It could be significant."

I remain silent. That's exactly what I'm afraid of. It's the thing that ignited my fears. That boy died in my presence. Could it also be that I caused his death?

You couldn't have. It's not possible. You don't remember killing him. No blood was on your hands.

No blood was on his body, either.

What would it have taken to kill Evan? The question weighs heavy in my mind. I have no way of knowing, not without talking to the police.

"Hey, Madelyn? Are you okay?"

I blink Zoe's worried face into focus.

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry," she says. "But really, you need to tell the police. That's super important evidence."

"How?" I gulp. Does she wonder the same thing as me?

Does she think that she's in the presence of a killer? Fear kicks my heart beat into high gear.

"Because that means that either the killer was walking away when you entered, or Evan had just died. Either way, the killer had to have been close by. Did you see anyone leaving the foyer when you entered the auditorium?" I shake my head. "Exactly. The murderer was probably still there, in the auditorium. That sets up a timeframe for the police."

I hadn't considered that before. Maybe Evan was already dead when I entered the auditorium. But why would the murderer linger? How long would it have taken Evan to die?

My head is swimming with questions, so when Zoe asks what movie I want to watch, I vaguely reply with, "anything." I find myself staring at some movie I've never seen before, probably an old romcom from the fifties based on the video quality and costumes.

I'm not really watching. Instead, my mind circles back to the police, the death, to Amber's suggestion. Maybe talking to the police is the solution. It might prove that I'm innocent. After all, how easy would it be to haul someone up a ladder, tie a rope around them, and...

No. I can't continue that train of thought.

Perhaps some mild investigations would help prove that I'm innocent. And once that's clear in my mind, it will be easier to prove it to the police.

I guess I should tell the police about what I sensed. I will tell them... once I'm sure that I'm no longer a suspect. Because right now, there's no way that my name isn't on their list. If for no other reason, I was there in the auditorium close to the time of death. They'd be fools to not consider the possibility that I did it.

Am I a fool for questioning my memories, for wondering if I'm a killer? Or am I just in denial to the reality that Evan Barnes died by my hands?