"The sharp knife of a short life..." If I Die Young, The Band Perry

The tempestuous Stryker manor stood before me, and I squinted through the wan early morning sun to assess the building that I had spent the majority of my high school life at.

Memories of wild parties and dancing on tabletops and sharing secrets and sneaking whiskey ran through my head, and I hadn't even realized how hard it would be to come back to this place. Everywhere reeked of her; her favorite flowers grew up vines on the side trellises, the ivy archway she'd begged her parents to put up added a colonial feel to the old mansion, and through every stolen glance between chinks of a curtain I could remember things I'd done with her and memories we shared.

I shook my head, hating how now every place I looked at held a new memory of Camila and I. I couldn't walk to the grocery store to get milk without remembering the time we shoplifted candy bars and got drunk on gin that night. There was no escaping her, no matter where I turned. The post office corner was where I would go to post letters to her when she went to Spain for three weeks. The water fountain in the town square was where we got drunk and splashed around in there, before running down the cobble-stoned alleys away from the cops. Every memory was fun and filled with laughter, but it only brought a fresh wave of pain now.

From beside me, I felt Jeremy reach out and caress my hand. "You okay?"

I swallowed and shook my head. "It's Cam. It's like... She's gone, but she's everywhere."

"We don't have to do this," he told me.

I took a deep breath to strengthen my resolve. Cam never let her emotions rule her decisions, and I had to be the same way if I was ever going to do her justice. "No, I have to do this. Let's go."

I slowly walked up the front path, and could already see that in Cam's absence the place had fallen to disarray. The yards were overgrown, the flowers were dying and the windows were dirty. The place had always been immaculate with its own gardener, cleaner and housekeeper, but it seemed grief had overtaken the need for spotless appearances.

I knocked on the door and listened intently for noise inside. First I heard the sound of sniffling. And then glasses coming into contact with one another. I hated to bother Cam's mother at such a difficult time, but I didn't want to sneak in.

The door slowly creaked open, and there appeared Mrs. Stryker, looking so different to the ex-runway model that I knew. Her hair was greasy and graying at the roots, her skin was sallow and paper-thin, and she wore a simple silk sheath and held a glass of bourbon in one hand.

"Perrie?" she croaked.

"Hi, Mrs. Stryker," I said gently. "I'm sorry to bother you. May we come in?"

She opened the door wider, and I stepped into the cold interior. It felt foreign now to me, without the usual sounds of loud music or Cam's laughter. Though it usually always smelled of fresh cotton and sandalwood, it now smelled of alcohol and not much else. It was incredible how much an empire could fall in a week. I wondered if Cam knew that her mother loved her enough that this was the kind of chaos she had caused in her departure.

"Who's your friend?" she inquired, gesturing to Jeremy.

He stuck out his hand formally, a polite look on his face. I'd never seen him look so formal, and something about it struck me as oddly attractive. "Jeremy Quagmire, ma'am. I'm so sorry for your loss."

She frowned and tapped her lip with her index finger. Her nails were chipped with nail polish and bitten down to the quick. "The mayor's son? I didn't know you knew Camila."

"They've been friends for a while," I cut in, forcing a smile.

"It's nice to have you, anyway," she murmured, and we followed her into the parlor. Jeremy and I exchanged looks filled with trepidation, but knew that it was only respectful to humor her and follow her. "But then again, it's nice to have anyone here who had a meaningful connection to Cam. Everyone is always bringing casseroles and lending condolences, but they don't really know the pain, do they?"

"If this is a bad time, we can come back," I told her gently. Maybe this was an insensitive idea. I couldn't imagine the loss Mrs. Stryker was feeling, and felt horrible for interrupting her grieving time.

She took a long drag of bourbon and shook her head. "No, please. I want you to stay. I could really use someone to talk to now. How are you?"

"I'm okay. It's hard, but I think now it's just healing time," I told her.

She nodded and stood up from the barstool, moving to a cabinet and opening it to produce a leather-bound book. She held it up. "It was Cam's favorite. It smells like her." She breathed in deeply and clutched it to her chest, shutting her eyes. "I can't count how many times she read it. Told me if you were ever going to experience love, it should be like this."

"She always did love the classics," I responded, smiling and thinking of the first edition sitting in her room that was currently collecting dust. I wondered if her mother knew about the small fortune her daughter had accumulated through trickery.

"So, what can I help you with?" Mrs. Stryker asked. "I'm sure you didn't drop by just to see the grieving mother. What did you need?"

"I was wondering if maybe we could go to her room, please?" I asked politely. "I'd just really like to see it again."

"Of course," she told me. "Take your time. You can have anything of hers you want. I haven't been in there since..." She cleared her throat and stared into her glass. "Well, I can't remember, honestly."

In a completely uncharacteristic movement, I stood up and wrapped my arms around her. She stood trembling in my arms, one hand tightly wrapped around my torso and the other clutching the glass of amber liquid to her chest. She let out a staccato breath and stepped back from my hold, wiping her eyes. "Thank you for coming, Perrie."

"Of course," I replied, and stepped back. After bidding her adieu, I led Jeremy up the staircase and into the dark corridor filled with oak wood and unsightly oil paintings. Cam always hated them and said they made her feel like she was walking through a tacky museum. We passed her father's office and a bathroom and a few other doors, before making it to hers.

I pushed it open and gasped as a blast of wind hit me. I looked around, and felt tears welling in my eyes. Everything felt so alive and so distinctly Camila. One of the doors to her closet stood partly open, revealing a glimpse of blouses. Across the back of a chair was an olive-colored jacket, and in the corner stood a pair of brown suede boots. Her laptop was also on the desk, and a science textbook stood open on an article about natural selection. The room smelled like her; a mixture of her perfume and lavender soap.

My hand flew to my mouth, and Jeremy pulled me into his chest, running his fingers down the length of my hair. "Oh, my God," I whispered.

"I'm so sorry," he told me, planting the lightest of kisses on the crown of my head. I was eternally grateful for it.

"It's like she's still here," I whispered. "I can't believe she's gone."

"It'll get easier, I promise," he told me gently.

I pulled back and looked around, wiping a tear off on the sleeve of my sweater. I blotted my hands on my thighs and started around the room. Jeremy shut the door silently behind me, and I walked over to the desk. I was surprised the police hadn't seized the laptop or ransacked the room, but maybe that was a clear indication of their lack of effort in finding her killer.

I opened the lid of the laptop and was surprised to see it was still on. I wiggled the mousepad, and frowned when I noticed it was password protected. I frowned and typed in a few combinations. A wave of disappointment washed over me, and I shut the lid again. I opened the doors to the desk, while Jeremy looked under her bed. Inside her desk were a few pens, a bottle of black nail polish, a paperclip and some school essays. The other desk drawers didn't turn up much else.

I shut the last drawer with more force than necessary and sighed. "If I were Camila, where would I hid something?"

"I don't know," Jeremy replied noncommittally, flipping through worksheets. "Underwear drawer, maybe?"

"She's not that tacky," I replied, but walked over to the closet, anyway.

I sighed and pulled it open, unsure of what I would find. What if there was nothing and Jeremy and I were just chasing our tails?

I stepped into the closet and flicked on the light, prepared to search through lingerie drawers and jacket pockets, but not hopeful of finding much.

I especially wasn't expecting to find what I did.

"Holy shit," I whispered, looking around in awe.

"What is it?" Jeremy asked, and I heard him make his way towards me.

I stepped to the side and allowed him to see what I had found. Taking up residence on one of her closet walls was a massive board. On it were pictures with little post-it notes, and some were connected with thumb tacks and strands of yarn. It looked like something that might be found in a police station or a murderer's house.

"What the hell?" Jeremy asked, stepping forward and examining the notes.

"I don't know."

"No, seriously, what the hell?" he repeated more angrily, spotting himself and his father on the board.

"I don't know," I repeated emphatically, stepping forward and running my finger over an orange string. On it were pictures of teachers and police officers and politicians and students—all with connecting yarn and secrets written neatly on square notes.

"This is incredible," Jeremy whispered, shaking his head. "How does she know this stuff?"

"She ran a tight business," I replied. "Guess I never really knew just how tight she kept her ship."

"There's gotta be stuff on every person in this town," he pointed out, reading Mr. Solomon's note on gambling troubles and student-teacher affairs. "What did she do with all this stuff?"

"She waited," I replied. "Waited for the perfect opportunity to use it. Either to trade it in for a better secret, or to use it for personal gain. It wasn't ethical, but it was effective."

"Why would people tell her things like this?" he asked, pointing to a particularly scarring scandal on the board.

"Because they're desperate. She could do anything in this town, and everyone knew it. She used them, but they used her right back."

"Some of these things could send people to prison," he replied. "Some of these could fire people or get them exiled or sent to mental hospitals. And she had them all sitting in her closet the whole time."

"Jeremy," I said. "You're not going to tell anyone, right? We can use this."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that someone in this town knows something about what happened to her. Put it all together and we could crack the case and avenge her death. And these secrets are the perfect way to do it."

"We can't just keep them hidden," Jeremy replied. "People need to know about this stuff. There are things ranging from fraud to who knows what on here. We need to tell the police."

"Jeremy," I replied, grabbing his arm and digging my fingers in. "We can't tell the police. Not yet. We need to use these for our own gain first."

"That's what Cam did, and look what happened to her," he spat out, an di stepped back, shocked and hurt by his callous words.

He sighed and ran a hand through his overgrown hair. "Okay, wait, I'm sorry. That came out wrong."

"I thought I could trust you with this. I won't make that mistake again," I told him, turning around so I didn't have to look at him.

He reached out and grabbed at me, turning me to face him and planting his hands on my shoulders. "I'm sorry. I just think that someone of a higher power deserves to know about this. We're in way over our heads here."

"Jeremy, you're a dealer and I'm an addict. We're not exactly saints," I told him. "If they go down, we could go down with them. Who knows what some of these secrets can be tied to." I reached up and pointed at a picture of a jock on the football team. "Look, Tyler. Serapax needed for a game. Who do you think the police are going to turn to once they realize teenagers are taking drugs? You're gonna go to the slammer with them."

"They can't just sit here like this," he replied.

"And they're not, because we're going to use them. We can use these secrets to figure out who killed Cam. Then, if you still want to give these to the police, we can. Come on, Jer. Say you're with me on this." I stepped closer to him and cupped his jaw with my hand, staring intently into his eyes. "Please."

"Fine," he replied. "But only because I know you're going to do it whether or not I help you, and I don't want to see you get hurt. But if things look too dangerous, we back out. You got it?"

I nodded and pecked him lightly on the lips. "Thank you, Jer. Now, come on. We gotta get this stuff outta here and start sorting through it. Let's go."

I emptied out a pair of leather wedges still swathed in tissue paper and produced a shoebox to put the photos in. Being careful to keep the post-it notes attached, and writing into my phone which strings of yarn connected whom, Jeremy and I put everything into the box quickly and efficiently.

Once we were done, I went back into the room and tidied everything that we had misplaced, putting desk drawers back into place and straightening up a few things Cam had left lying around.

"You ready to go?" Jeremy asked, appearing with the shoebox tucked under his arm.

"Can you just give me a sec?" I asked, once again overcome with emotion. "I'll meet you in the car?"

He nodded and left, shutting the door behind me. Finally left alone in a place that held so many important memories for me, I felt more tears forming in my eyes, and swallowed past a painful lump in my throat.

"I'm sorry, Cam," I whispered, running my fingers over the oak of her desk. "I'm sorry I didn't get to you in time. But I'm gonna find who did this, okay?"

Of course there was no response, but I pretended for a second that Camila was standing there watching over me, as beautiful and ethereal as she had always been. I'd looked up to her and aspired to be like her for so long. I could hardly believe that all of our time together had come down to this.

"I have to go, but I'm gonna get you justice," I promised her. "Even if it kills me."

I made my way slowly down the stairs and into the foyer, tracing my pale hand over the banister and trying to shut out the memories trying to seep through the cracks of my mind. It made me itch for another hit, something to make the pain lessen. Something to release me from the hell I was trapped in.

"Are you leaving?" Mrs. Stryker asked, appearing behind me. She still wore the sleek nightgown, and held a fresh glass of bourbon in her hand. It seemed we were all getting lost in our vices as a way to forget.

"Yeah," I replied. "Thank you for letting me come over."

"I'm just glad you decided to come," she replied. "No one really comes by anymore. It's just me and this big old house." She looked around, and I realized that you can be surrounded by hundreds of people boasting condolences and casserole dishes, but still be completely alone.

I walked over and hugged her tightly. She felt so frail in my arms, like a china doll. "If you ever need anything, call me."

She nodded. "I will. Don't be a stranger, Perrie."

I smiled and stepped out of the door and into the brisk winds. The sky was overcast and gloomy, and thunder rumbled in the distance. I kept my head down and walked over to Jeremy's car. He sat obediently behind the steering-wheel, the box sitting on the backseat.

I stepped inside and shook off the cold, shutting my eyes and falling back until I was against the headrest.

Jeremy turned the key in the ignition and set the heater on full blast. "So, what now?"

I looked over at him. "Now, we fight back."