Page 17 of Revelation (Private 8)
A small white place card with my name handwritten in pink calligraphy sat in the center of the
desk. It was my place card from Cheyenne's last official meeting as president of Billings. And in
front of that was a tiny velvet bag with pills spilling out of it. White pills with a blue dot design. The
pills that Cheyenne had OD'd on. No--the pills that someone had used to kill her.
I staggered back a few steps and slammed into the bit of wall between the closet and the
doorway. Pain radiated up my spine, but I barely felt it. My heart was going ballistic, pounding in
my ears. Who had done this? And what did it mean? Did it mean I was next? Cheyenne had died
the night she was kicked out of Easton. I had just been kicked out of Billings. Had the person who
had killed Cheyenne left these here for me as a warning? Did this mean I was going to die?
Tonight?
I wildly checked the room as if someone was going to pop out of nowhere horror-movie style, but
there was nowhere for anyone to hide. Still, my mind reeled as I clutched the pink paper in my
sweaty palm. No one had known I was moving into Pemberly aside from the Billings Girls. Had
someone in my old dorm left these here for me? And if so, who? Why? Why was this happening?
Why couldn't whoever was doing these things just leave me alone?
"Well, well. Look who's slumming it."
28
A cold chill raced through me. I whirled around to find Ivy Slade leaning against my open doorway,
a satisfied smirk on her witchy face. Instinctively, I backed up until I was blocking her view of the
place card and pills. The very sight of her on top of what I'd just found was not good. I suddenly
felt light-headed and had to clutch the desk chair behind me to keep from trembling.
"I am just so psyched we're going to be neighbors!" Ivy said with false exuberance.
"What... what're you talking about?" I said, somehow finding my voice.
Ivy took a couple of steps into the room, which left about three feet between us. At least she was
toothpick-thin in her skinny jeans and flowy black top, so she didn't take up much room. As I stood
there paralyzed, she looked around, her raven ponytail swinging.
"All year I've been pissed off that there was an empty single next door," she said. "I asked
Cromwell to let me have it, like, a dozen times, but he refused." She paused and her black-eyed
gaze flicked over me. "Maybe he knew all along that you'd end up here."
Inside, I fumed at the comment, but I couldn't seem to find a comeback nestled among my
