Chapter 8 - A pact of Ashes

By the time Miles returned, his expression was unreadable.

Olivia ran up to him, holding his hands immediately,When their eyes met, he didn't say a word. Just dropped onto the chair opposite her like gravity had doubled.

She hated this.

The silence.

The waiting.

The possibility that someone in their circle—maybe someone she trusted—had blood on their hands.

"What did she ask you?" Olivia finally said.

Miles rubbed the back of his neck. "About the party. About Melrose seeing us. About what time she left."

"And?"

"And I told her what we all agreed on. Midnight. Changing clothes. That's it."

Everyone exhaled, but her nerves didn't ease. Her thoughts buzzed like angry bees:

—Did Carmen hold up under pressure?

—Did Lacey stick to the plan?

—Was someone already cracking?

I guess she asked us all the same questions, Miles muttered, looking at everyone's face. 

"Yeah…" Raina murmured 

"We need to meet. All of us. Tonight."

"What? Why?" Carmen asked.

"Because someone might slip. Or worse—flip. If one person panics, it all falls apart."

Miles sighed. "You don't think this is getting a little... extreme?"

She stopped pacing.

"Melrose is dead. We cleaned it up and dumped her body in some dark alley," Olivia hissed, eyes wide, breath shaky. "We fucking cleaned the crime scene, babe."

She stepped forward, her gaze sweeping the group like a warning. "If this blows up, we're not just dealing with rumors. We're dealing with prison."

"All seventeen of us have blood on our hands." Her voice lowered. "All. Of. Us."

The room fell into a thick silence.

"To those left for interrogation," Carmen whispered, "Detective Serena is intimidating. She'll twist your words and make you doubt your own damn memory."

"And I think she's suspecting you, Olivia." Isaac muttered, avoiding her eyes.

"Yeah," Olivia said quietly, "I know."

"She asked me something about you. Like maybe you were the murderer," Carmen added, looking straight at her.

"She asked me too," Raina chimed in.

"Me too," Isaac admitted.

Olivia's lips parted in a slow breath. Then her gaze snapped to everyone.

"Then we have to tighten our lies," she said.

Miles looked torn, rubbing his jaw. "My dad's a detective too. If he gets pulled into this case…"

"You think he'll protect you?" Isaac scoffed.

"No. I think he'll make an example out of me."

Olivia stepped closer, took Miles' hand gently. "We'll get through this, babe."

Lacey, who had been staring blankly ahead, suddenly checked her watch. "Doctor Trent's class starts in five minutes."

The silence that followed said what no one dared to voice — the world was still spinning, even as theirs teetered on the edge of collapse.

...

12:30pm

The lecture hall hummed with forced normalcy.

Professor Trent strode in, tie slightly askew, juggling a tablet, coffee, and a folder labeled Crime Scene Techniques — Level III.

 He barely looked at the class as he muttered, "Welcome back Class " and dropped everything on the table with a thud.

"Alright, settle in. You all look like hell," he said, adjusting his glasses. "And that's fitting because today we're covering one of the darkest aspects of crime journalism: Constructed Crime Scenes."

The projector blinked to life behind him.

> Topic: Crime Scenes & Media Manipulation

A few students opened their laptops. Others stared blankly, as if their souls were still floating by the rooftop pool.

"I hope you all did your pre-readings," Dr. Trent continued, tapping on the desk. "Let's begin with a question. What makes a crime scene unreliable?"

A long pause.

Then Olivia raised her hand — calm, collected.

"When evidence is tampered with. When witnesses lie."

Professor Trent arched his brow. "Good. Any other ideas?"

Isaac spoke up. "When too many people get involved. When the truth becomes groupthink."

Trent nodded. "Exactly. And that's the danger. Crime scenes are sacred, but they're also fragile. Especially when the people involved are emotionally connected — or worse, trying to protect each other."

Cleo shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"Sometimes," Trent went on, "a crime scene is manipulated not by the killer, but by the people trying to cover for them."

His gaze swept the room, and for a second — just a second — it felt like he knew.

"Let's talk about 'The Pact Phenomenon.'"

The projector changed to a case study from 2003. A headline read:

> 'TEENAGERS FOUND IN SUICIDE PACT — OR COVER-UP?'

Trent gestured toward it. "In this case, a group of high school seniors agreed to tell the same story. Every. Single. Time. They never broke character. You know what cracked them?"

Silence.

"Hair. Just a single strand of it — at the bottom of a locker."

Rayna swallowed hard.

Trent paced slowly. "In a cover-up, there's always a weak link. One crack in the pact, and the whole thing collapses."

His voice dropped to a near-whisper.

"And the worst part? It's usually not the person you expect."

He clicked off the projector.

"Quiz on this next week. Class dismissed."

The room stayed quiet even as backpacks zipped and chairs squeaked.

Trent grabbed his folder, stopped at the door, and added one final thing without turning back:

"By the way… if any of you are writing about real crime scenes — remember. The truth has a way of rotting through silence."

Then he went out 

.....

The corridor was quiet. Just murmurs from students in lecture halls. 

Professor Trent closed the classroom door behind him, massaging his temple as he reached for his coffee. Teaching a room full of half-awake students pretending not to be guilty was exhausting.

He turned to head toward the staff lounge when—

"Dr. Trent."

A low, firm voice.

He looked up to see a woman standing near the stairwell. Black blazer. Clean lines. Unreadable expression.

Detective Serena Hale.

"Yes?" he said, confused.

She stepped closer and lowered her voice. "I didn't want to interrupt your lecture. But you should know one of your students was found dead this morning. Melrose Wexley."

There was a long pause.

The words hung in the air like broken glass.

Professor Trent blinked. "I… what?"

"Her body was discovered under suspicious circumstances. I'm handling the investigation. I've already begun questioning the class."

He looked over his shoulder at the closed classroom door.

"But they were all just… they didn't say anything—none of them…"

"They wouldn't," Serena said flatly. "Especially if they're involved."

Trent stepped back slightly, stunned. "Melrose is… dead?"

Serena nodded once. "I thought you should hear it before the faculty finds out through a viral post."

His face fell. "She had so much fire. That girl could light up a lecture or burn it down."

"She certainly burned bridges," Serena replied. "And now everyone's pretending they weren't standing on one with her."

Trent's face went pale as he processed. Then, without another word, he turned back toward the classroom door and pushed it open again.

The students, who had just started packing their things, froze.

He stood at the front again, this time not as their professor, but as someone who looked like the floor had just been yanked from under him.

"I was just informed…" he began, voice uneven. "That one of our students… Melrose Wexley… passed away this morning."

Sniffles rippled through the room, most of them theatrical, some almost convincing.

"She was… brilliant. Sharp. Difficult at times, yes, but her passion was undeniable."

He looked directly at everyone one by one before finally settling on Olivia. 

"If anyone have anything to say, see the school counsellor or you can just tell me"

With that, he went back outside. 

The lecture hall door shut gently behind him.

Professor Trent stood in the hallway for a long beat, eyes slightly glazed, as if still absorbing the weight of the news.

Detective Serena Hale was exactly where he'd left her — arms folded, heels planted, face unreadable.

He approached slowly.

"God," he muttered, glancing down the hallway like the walls might start whispering secrets. "Melrose Wexley. I still can't believe it."

"She was found early this morning," Serena replied. "Her body… wasn't in good shape."

Trent's jaw tensed. "This is going to hit the university like a meteor. Her parents, her reputation. She wasn't just some girl."

"I'm aware," Hale said. Then added, "And I'm also aware someone in that classroom likely knows what happened."

He looked at her, unsettled. "You sound convinced."

"I am. These kids aren't just shocked. They're rehearsed." She paused, then said, "I've interviewed half of them so far. And you know what's interesting?"

He raised a brow.

"They all said the same line about when Melrose left the party. Word. For. Word. That's not a memory. That's scripting."

Professor Trent exhaled slowly. "So… what are you thinking?"

Serena's voice dipped. "I have one student on my radar. Olivia Brown."

His expression twitched. "Olivia? Really?"

"She's calm. Too calm. Almost… choreographed. Deflects perfectly, says just enough without saying anything." She leaned closer. "And she and Melrose had a very public rivalry."

Professor Trent hesitated. "Look, I've taught teenagers for over a decade. They're dramatic. They throw words like daggers, but most of them wouldn't know what to do if one actually hit." He gave her a measured look. "Don't jump to conclusions. Especially with a girl like Olivia."

Serena arched her brow. "A girl like her?"

"She's sharp. Perceptive. Dangerous but in the way brilliant people can be when they've been underestimated too long. Still…" He sighed, "That doesn't make her a killer."

"No," Serena said, her voice cool as steel. "But if someone orchestrated this, she wouldn't need to get her hands dirty to be the one pulling the strings."

The air between them grew heavier.

Then her phone buzzed.

Without breaking eye contact, she checked the screen. "Next interview's waiting."

She turned to leave, then glanced back. "Thanks for your insight, Professor. But I trust my instincts."

"And I trust mine," he said quietly. "Just… don't ruin a girl's life based on a hunch."

She didn't answer. Just disappeared down the corridor like a shadow in heels.

Professor Trent stood alone in the hallway, watching the space she'd left behind.

Because deep down, even he wasn't sure which one of them was right.