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I woke up gasping for air.

The room was dark, but my heart was hammering against my ribs, a wild, frantic rhythm that refused to slow. My breath came in ragged gulps, too fast, too shallow, as if the walls had closed in around me, pressing the air from my lungs. My fingers curled into the blankets, the fabric damp with sweat, clinging to my skin like a second layer of fear.

For a moment, I didn’t know where I was.

The darkness felt too thick, too suffocating. My ears were still ringing, but not from silence—from the echoes of sirens, the screams that had lodged themselves in my head, the rapid-fire crack of gunshots that I would never, ever forget.

I squeezed my eyes shut, but the images were already there, burned into the backs of my eyelids. The hallway, the chaos, the bodies dropping. The way the air smelled like fear and metal. The way time seemed to stretch and snap at the same time. The way I couldn’t breathe then, either.

I jerked upright, my pulse thudding in my throat. My shaking hand reached for my phone on the nightstand, knocking over a half-empty water bottle in the process. It hit the floor with a dull thud, but I barely heard it over the blood rushing in my ears. My fingers fumbled over the screen as I checked the time.

3:47 a.m.

Too early. Too late.

I swallowed hard, trying to convince myself that I was safe. That I wasn’t still there. That I wasn’t trapped in that moment, waiting for the next shot to fire, waiting for my own body to hit the ground.

But my heart didn’t believe me.

I forced myself to take a deep breath, then another. The ceiling stared back at me, featureless and blank, but I could still see the flashes of red and blue light through my bedroom window. My mind wouldn’t stop replaying the way Tasha had looked at me, that mix of hatred and something worse—something hollow, something gone.

Tasha wasn’t working alone.

That thought slammed into me like a punch to the gut. My fingers tightened around my phone.

Someone had helped her. Someone who had made sure she got the gun. Someone who knew exactly what she was going to do and let it happen. Maybe even encouraged it.

And whoever they were—they were still out there.

A shiver ran down my spine, cold and sharp. The air in my room suddenly felt too thin, too heavy all at once.

I wasn’t safe.

Not yet.

I didn’t say much at breakfast.

Lily and Sam talked, their voices drifting in and out of my awareness like a distant radio signal.

“I couldn’t sleep last night,” Sam muttered, stirring his scrambled eggs with his fork. “Every time I closed my eyes, I kept hearing it. The sirens. The intercom. The—” He swallowed hard, shaking his head. “I don’t know. It just kept replaying in my head.”

Lily let out a breath. “Same. Every time I thought I was finally drifting off, I’d hear the lockdown alarm again, like it was still happening.” She rubbed her arms, like she was trying to shake off a chill. “It still doesn’t feel real. Yesterday morning, everything was normal. And then…”

Her voice trailed off. No one needed her to finish the sentence.

Sam nodded slowly. “Yeah. One second, we were just sitting in class, and the next… we were hiding. Waiting. Wondering if—” He stopped himself, pressing his lips together. His fork scraped against his plate as he forced himself to take a bite, chewing mechanically.

Lily looked over at me. “Em, you okay?”

I barely moved, just kept pushing my food around my plate. The scent of scrambled eggs and bacon filled the air, warm and familiar, but it did nothing to stir my appetite. The eggs sat there, fluffy and yellow, next to a slice of toast that had gone cold. A few strips of bacon rested on the edge of my plate, slightly crisp but untouched. The orange juice in my glass had tiny bubbles clinging to the sides, but I didn’t lift it to drink. I just kept tracing the edge of my fork along the plate, pretending to be interested in the patterns it made in the eggs.

Mom kept glancing at me from across the table. I could feel her watching me between sips of her coffee, her fingers curled around the mug like she was holding back words she wanted to say. She probably expected me to talk, to open up, to tell her what was on my mind.

But I didn’t want to talk about it.

Because talking about it wouldn’t change anything.

Tasha had tried to kill me.

And now, someone else might try again.

The thought twisted in my stomach like a knot that refused to loosen. It had only been a day since everything happened, but it already felt like a lifetime. The police station, the phone calls, the threats—every bit of it clung to me like a shadow I couldn’t shake. Changing my number was supposed to make it stop. It didn’t. The messages just kept coming, like whispers in the dark, reminders that I wasn’t safe.

“I don’t want to go back,” Lily admitted, barely above a whisper.

Sam sighed. “Yeah. Feels like if we do, it’ll just—happen again.” He pushed his plate away, shaking his head. “Like, what if there was someone else? What if next time, they actually get into our classroom?”

Lily shuddered. “I keep thinking about the door. How we all just sat there, staring at it, waiting for it to open.” She bit her lip. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that feeling.”

I swallowed, gripping my fork a little tighter.

I knew that feeling too. But fear sat differently in my chest. Theirs was fear of what had already happened, fear of the memories that wouldn’t let go.

Mine was fear of what was still coming.

“Emily?” Mom’s voice was soft, careful.

I didn’t look up.

“You okay?”

I shrugged, still dragging my fork through the eggs. The weight of her stare pressed down on me, waiting.

Sam and Lily had gone quiet now, their conversation dying down as they picked up on the tension. I could feel them looking at me too.

I took a slow breath and reached for my orange juice, just for something to do. The glass was cold against my fingers as I lifted it to my lips. The juice was tangy and fresh, but I barely noticed the taste. I set it back down without a word.

Mom sighed, her chair creaking as she shifted.

“You barely touched your food.”

“I’m not hungry,” I muttered.

She hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. Just... let me know if you need anything.”

I knew she wanted to say more, to tell me to talk to her, but she didn’t push. Maybe she knew that no amount of words could fix this.

Sam cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “For what it’s worth... I don’t think any of us are okay right now.”

Lily nodded. “Yeah. We’re all scared, Em.”

I dropped my fork onto my plate, the clatter breaking the silence, and pushed my chair back. “I think I’m gonna go lie down for a bit.”

Mom frowned but didn’t argue. “Alright.”

I stood up and walked away from the table, my legs feeling heavier with every step. I didn’t look back as I left the kitchen, but I could still feel their eyes on me.

I knew they were worried. I knew they wanted to help.

But right now, I didn’t know if anyone could.

By mid-morning, Uncle David was back at the house.

He had his laptop open at the dining table, his jaw tight, his eyes sharp as he scanned through what looked like police files and security footage. A faint reflection of the screen flickered in his glasses, the light casting strange shadows across his face. His fingers moved quickly over the keyboard, tapping out commands with practiced efficiency. Whatever he was looking at, it had his full attention.

Dad stood nearby, arms crossed, his stance rigid. The usual warmth in his expression was absent, replaced by something hard, something protective. “Anything?” he asked, his voice low.

Uncle David sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose before sitting back in his chair. “Nothing concrete,” he admitted. “But we know Tasha wasn’t lying. She had help.”

A cold weight settled in my stomach. I gripped the back of a chair, steadying myself. “Who?”

Uncle David finally looked up at me. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held something that made my pulse quicken—concern, frustration, maybe even doubt. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he said.

Mom, who had been standing behind me, put a hand on my shoulder. It was meant to be comforting, but all it did was make my skin prickle. Like that would somehow make it better. Like that would make me feel safe.

It didn’t.

It just made me feel small, like a kid again, helpless against the storm swirling around me.

Uncle David exhaled and leaned forward again, tapping a few keys. “I have some names. A few possibilities. But if Tasha was willing to take the fall and not give them up right away, then they’re smart. They won’t make it easy.”

A shiver ran down my spine.

I already knew who I wanted to blame.

Trevor.

His name alone sent a rush of dread through my veins.

He had hated me for so long—mocked me, humiliated me, made my life hell. I could still hear his taunts in my head, the cruel laughter, the sharp words meant to cut me down. He had always been vicious, always willing to push things further than anyone else.

But would he go this far?

Would he actually help Tasha do… this?

I clenched my hands into fists, my nails digging into my palms. My heart pounded so hard it hurt.

I didn’t know.

And that terrified me.

Uncle David kept scrolling through his files, his focus intense. The room felt too quiet, even with the soft hum of the laptop and the occasional click of the mouse. Dad shifted, his arms still crossed, his eyes locked on the screen. Mom’s fingers tensed on my shoulder, and for once, she didn’t say anything reassuring. Maybe because she didn’t have any reassurances to give.

“Do you think it’s him?” I finally asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Uncle David glanced at me. “Trevor?”

I nodded, my throat tight.

He hesitated, just for a second, then shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s not the first name on my list, but he’s not off it either. We have to be careful about assumptions.”

I swallowed hard. That wasn’t the answer I wanted.

“So what now?” Dad asked.

“Now, I keep digging,” Uncle David said. He cracked his knuckles, flexing his fingers like he was gearing up for battle. “If Tasha had help, they left a trail. Maybe not one we can see yet, but it’s there. I just have to find it.”

The words should have reassured me. Should have made me feel safer.

But all they did was remind me that whoever had helped Tasha was still out there.

And they weren’t finished yet.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying—desperately trying—to make myself believe everything was fine. That the worst had passed. That I could sleep without fear clawing at my chest.

But sleep wouldn’t come. It never did, not anymore. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the messages. The threats. The endless unknown stretching out before me, waiting for the next strike. I could still hear the officer’s voice from earlier that day, calm but firm: If anything else happens, call us immediately.

I told myself I was safe. That it was over.

And then—

A sound.

A soft thump outside my window.

My breath caught mid-inhale, my whole body going rigid. My fingers dug into my blanket, my pulse hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape. The room felt too quiet, too still, the kind of silence that only existed when something was wrong.

I sat up slowly, my skin prickling as a sharp chill ran down my spine. My eyes darted toward the window. It was dark outside—darker than usual. The streetlight at the end of the driveway flickered unsteadily, its yellowish glow stretching long shadows across the yard. The branches of the old oak tree swayed against the night sky, their movement eerily slow.

For a long moment, I didn’t move. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was just the wind. Maybe—

Another sound.

Not a thump this time. More like… a rustling. Something brushing against the glass.

My stomach twisted. My mouth went dry.

I forced myself to swing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet hitting the wooden floor with a faint creak. The sound sent a fresh wave of panic through me, like I had just alerted something—or someone—to my presence.

Slowly, my legs trembling beneath me, I crept toward the window. The air felt colder near the glass, seeping through the thin cracks. I swallowed hard, hesitating before I reached out, fingers barely brushing the curtain.

The moment I pulled it back, I saw it.

A piece of paper. Taped to the outside of my window.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The edges of my vision blurred, the shadows outside distorting as my mind raced. A note. Another note. Someone had been here—standing right outside my window. Watching. Waiting.

The world around me tilted as fear crashed over me, cold and suffocating. My fingers twitched at my sides, my breath coming in uneven, stilted gasps. I didn’t want to know what it said.

But I had to.

With shaking hands, I fumbled to unlock the window. The latch stuck for a second before finally giving way with a soft click. A gust of wind rushed in, biting against my skin, making the curtain billow around me. My pulse pounded in my ears as I reached out, my fingers barely brushing the edge of the paper before I ripped it away from the tape.

It was standard printer paper, slightly crumpled, as if someone had balled it up before smoothing it out again. The ink was bold, smeared slightly from the damp night air. My stomach twisted as my eyes locked onto the words.

YOU’RE NOT SAFE.

The paper slipped from my fingers, fluttering to the floor.

I stumbled backward, my legs hitting the edge of my desk. My whole body felt numb, like I wasn’t even inside it anymore. My lungs tightened—too much, too fast—I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t—

The door burst open.

“Emily?”

Mom’s voice. Sharp. Urgent.

I turned toward her, but the words wouldn’t come. I couldn’t make a sound. My mouth opened, but all I could do was point at the window.

She followed my shaking hand, her gaze landing on the note lying on the floor. Her face drained of color. For a moment, she didn’t move, didn’t speak—just stood there, gripping the doorknob so hard her knuckles turned white.

Then she whirled around.

“Matthew!”

Dad was there in seconds, his footsteps heavy against the hardwood floor. Uncle David followed, his face dark with something unreadable as he took in the scene.

“What is it?” Dad asked, but Mom couldn’t answer. She just pointed.

Uncle David stepped forward, crouching to pick up the note. His expression darkened as he read the words, his fingers tightening around the paper. The muscle in his jaw twitched, his gaze snapping toward the window.

“Son of a—” He cut himself off, glancing at me before straightening. “This just now?”

I nodded, barely able to move.

Dad was already pulling out his phone, his voice low but tense as he called the police. Mom moved toward me, her hands trembling as she reached out, gripping my shoulders, pulling me close.

“It’s okay, baby,” she whispered, but her voice shook. “We’re right here. We won’t let anything happen to you.”

I wanted to believe her. Wanted to sink into her warmth, let it erase the fear still clinging to my skin. But I couldn’t.

Because all I could think was—

It’s not over.

They’re still out there.

And I wasn’t safe.

Not even in my own home.