Page 19 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

I remember Cassidy taking some photos during the party last night, her phone always out, snapping away. There’s a chance, a slim chance, that she caught something in one of the pictures–maybe the masked guy, or at least the tattoo. My heart pounds as I unlock my phone, my fingers shaking as I click open her social media profile.

Cassidy always posts everything, even mid-party, so there’s a chance she’s already shared something, my breath catches asI click through her profile, skimming past selfies, blurry group shots and dance videos from her dad’s studio. The familiar faces of my classmates blur together as I hunt for any sign of him–of the masked guy or the tattoo.

I swipe faster, the anxiety building in my chest, but then I pause on a photo from last night. The neon lights from the party casting a strange glow over the crowd. In the center of the photo, Cassidy is smiling rather goofily, wrapped in the arms of some shirtless frat guy but my focus isn’t on them. I squint, my heart hammering. In the background, standing at the edge of the room, right in front of the stairs…

A shirtless figure, wearing the same mask I remember. My stomach twists as I zoom in, my breath catches in my throat. The mask’s expressionless face, blank and haunting, stares straight ahead. The figure stands stiffly, one arm raised, gripping the stair railing as if he was debating whether to go up the stairs or not.

My pulse quickens as I trace the faint outline of the words circling his bicep, barely visible but unmistakable. This is him. The masked man. He’s right there, lingering in the background, just a few feet from where we all danced, laughed, and drank, completely oblivious to him.

I stare at the image, my heart pounding in my chest.

What do I do now?

Panic bubbles up inside me as I stare at the photo, the realization sinking in. This masked man, the one who was there that night—the one who knows everything—is right in front of me, and I have no idea who he is. I try to steady my breathing, forcing myself to think logically.

I save the image to my phone, my fingers shaking. I can’t let this go. I need to figure out who he is. Maybe someone in the frat would know—someone must recognize the tattoo or have seenhim without the mask. But how do I even begin asking without drawing attention to myself?

Cassidy. Maybe she noticed him. Maybe she remembers something. I glance at her contact in my phone, my thumb hovering over the call button. But can I ask her without raising suspicion? I bite my lip, torn between dragging her into this mess and needing answers.

Before I can overthink, I type out a quick message, attaching the photo.

Hey Cass, Do you know the guy in the mask in the background?

As soon as I press send, a wave of regret crashes over me.

What if this makes her suspicious?

What if she asks too many questions?

I clench my phone in my hand, watching the screen, waiting for those three little dots to pop up. My heart races with every second that passes, my mind spiraling with possibilities.

Finally, the dots appear, and I hold my breath. The reply comes quickly.

Uhh. No clue. Why? Something happen with him?

I stare at the message, my pulse quickening. I should have expected that.

Now what?

My fingers hover over the screen, debating my next move.

Do I come up with an excuse? Brush it off? Or do I dig deeper, risking more suspicion?

I tap out a response, trying to sound casual.

Nah, just thought he looked familiar. Probably nothing.

Cassidy doesn’t respond right away, and I take that as a small relief. I go back to the photo, scrolling through it again, and my gaze catches on the comments underneath. There’s a mix of inside jokes and compliments but one comment stands out.

Saw you there last night, Rhea. Crazy night, right? #secretsdontsayburied

I freeze, staring at the words, my breath catching in my throat. My heart pounds in my chest as a wave of nausea rolls through me.

Who wrote this?

What do they know?

My hands tremble as I tap on the profile of the person who left the comment, but it’s private. No posts, no profile picture—just an empty, faceless account.

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