Page 23 of Revelation (Private 8)
"I prefer computer diva," Ivy joked.
I closed my eyes as a wave of realization came over me. Ivy, a computer geek? No wonder she'd
been able to rig Cheyenne's e-mail to keep sending me that suicide note over and over and over
again. No wonder she'd been able to get through to my accounts no matter how I
38
tried to block
her or how many times I changed my address. The more I learned about the girl, the
more certain I was that she was my tormentor. I made a mental note to add this new bit of info to
my suspect list.
The moment I heard the elevator ping and Ivy and Jillian's laughter fade, I slipped out of my room.
It was getting late, and the hallway was deserted. Taking a deep breath and saying a quick prayer
that Ivy and Jillian wouldn't double back for anything, I grasped the cold bronze doorknob and
pushed. Ten million times I had cursed the powers that be for deciding we didn't need locks on our
dorm room doors. For once, I couldn't have been more grateful.
Ivy and Jillian's room was about twice the size of mine, and they had made it cozy by draping
colorful scarves across the ceiling to hide the ugly stucco. The walls were papered with full-size
posters, magazine tear sheets, and framed photographs; not an inch of graying white paint peeked
through anywhere. Their beds, pushed against opposite walls, were littered with throw pillows,
and their desks stood back-to-back in front of the window so that they could both see out when
they were studying. And so that they couldn't see each other and get distracted. Not a bad little
system. I'd have to remember that if I ever had a roommate again.
Okay. What was I doing? This was not an episode of Pimp My Dorm. I was here for information.
Glancing around, I identified Ivy's side of the room by a square frame holding a photo of her and
Josh, clearly taken out on the quad. They were smiling and hugging.
39
Gag, heave, gag.
Part of me wanted to smash it, burn it, tear it to shreds, but instead I quickly sifted through a short
stack of papers next to her computer. It was all college brochures and copies of the applications
she'd sent: Harvard, Dartmouth, Tufts, Wesleyan, Boston College. Clearly the girl wanted to stay
close to home. I yanked open the first drawer of her desk. Nothing but pens, pencils, pads, and
