But when scores came out, so did the news—Roger James had gone to that bar alone to celebrate. A wealthy woman had taken interest. He'd been found beaten nearly to death, bones shattered, bleeding out. Rushed to the hospital.
When Samantha heard, she lost her mind.
She rallied the entire class. They pushed me off the roof.
I died on impact.
When police questioned them, they lied in perfect unison:
"He threatened us. Said if anyone tried to help Roger, they could forget about taking the exam."
"He got scared when it backfired. Jumped."
Those calls I'd made that night? The security footage of me counting heads at the exam site? All twisted into "evidence" of my guilt.
The internet tore me apart. Some psycho doused my family's home in motor oil and set it ablaze.
My parents burned alive.
Samantha lived next door. She stood on her balcony, arms crossed, watching my mother and father scream themselves hoarse—and only called the fire department after they stopped.
I didn't learn the truth until after I died.
Roger James had orchestrated everything.
Now I'm back.
When Samantha laced her fingers through Roger's and announced, all smiles, "See everyone at the bar tonight—"
I grabbed my bag and walked out.