Jack,

She has everything she needs.

Be careful. Act wisely.

There was something my grief counselor had said to me before my father had whisked me away on a holiday in an effort to help me forget about my dead best friend. It wasn't particularly useful or reassuring, but it stuck in my head because it was true.

You can't keep pretending she's still here, Chloe. She made bad decisions. She didn't mean to hurt you.

The footage wasn't much, but the few flitting scenes of her bright red hair and the wide grin on her small mouth had brought with them a heavy lump in my throat.

Eight people had entered that hidden bathroom. I'd seen a split recording of Mike walking through the room, and its unedited footage showed them entering in clusters. Monica and Maddy. Lola and Sophie. Max and Li and Zach, followed by Piers.

Then they left, in the reverse order to as they'd come. Only Monica never did. She never left that room again.

But Lola and Sophie had returned. I didn't know what happened, or what they did or what they didn't do. But it didn't matter, it was their fault. If they'd never messed with Monica, she'd never have become reckless or mean.

Or dead.

I shut the laptop. I'd watched the footage at least a hundred times. I'd seen snippets of the party, of the elaborate nightclub stuffed with people. A brief encounter with Francis outside. The red and blue flashing lights reflecting throughout the crystalline decor inside as paramedics stormed towards the exclusive bathroom where my best friend lay dying.

My hands were trembling, and I couldn't stop them as they reached forward and opened my top drawer, almost pulling it to the floor with the force. I grabbed the stack of letters inside, covered in scribbles of ink on pretty paper with tear drop stains.

I hated them. I hated that they weren't real. I hated myself for not letting her go, and I hated myself for losing her. With one motion, I tossed them into the paper bin where they joined the crumbled lists. My failed attempts at connecting with her. Of pretending she was still here.

Our last conversation was an argument. She was supposed to be my best friend, but the last thing I ever said to her was that she was turning into a monster. That she was losing control. That she'd gone insane.

And I'd never be able to take it back, not any of it. I couldn't save her from them. They destroyed her.

Which was why I needed to destroy all of them.

I screwed my eyes shut, pressing my palm into the space between my eyebrows. I was losing it. I was feeling nothing and everything at once. Watching the footage had loosened the lid on the jar I kept hidden deeply in my mind, the one full of voices constantly screaming at me that my best friend was dead. It felt better not to think about it, to pretend she was still here somewhere, if not by my side like she should have been.

It was quiet in my bed room. I hadn't bothered to turn the light on, so it had slowly grown dark. My parents weren't home. My stomach was rumbling. I couldn't think straight, or even see straight. My eyes were glazed with a layer of tears. Not for my best friend, or for my grief, but because I just didn't know what to do.

So I called him.

Weak, a voice hissed in my brain. An ice cold tear overflowed and slipped down my cheek, too fast for me to stop it.

"Hello?" William answered. Then he must have remembered what was happening. "Chloe, did you get into the hard drive? Did you watch it?"

I nodded, but then I realized that wasn't enough. My voice was shaking, and distant, as if it were muffled by a thick blanket. "Yeah, I watched it."

The line fell silent, and my vision fixated on the letters in the bin. Would I ever write to her again? It would feel so stupid, now that I'd seen her last night of existence. The last night before her body fell cold and her funeral started to be planned.

"I'll be there in ten minutes," he said. And then the line went dead.

"Okay," I said into the quiet space.

My skin was cold, and my lips were dry. Every time I blinked I was confronted with a red-headed girl blowing kisses at a camera. But every time I didn't, the tears kept coming. So I started counting to distract myself, focusing on each syllable which made up each number which made up each minute.

The doorbell chimed downstairs, and it took a moment for me to work out how my mind controlled my actions and I could rise to my feet. I didn't know why the video had so much of an impact on me. I already knew the ending. It was nothing new.

Maybe I was still clinging to the fairy-tale fantasy that she'd walk out of that room. But now I had no way to escape it. She hadn't.

I opened the door timidly, not sure whether to tame the feelings of desperation that were pulling at my chest. Things had changed lately, in a way that I couldn't control.

It felt good when his arms wrapped around me, his warmth seeping through to even the coldest fibers of my body. "I'm so sorry, Chlo."

I reluctantly shrugged him off. The more we made a big deal about her the harder it became to stay stable. It was so much easier to shove everything out of my mind. To pretend.

"Come in," I said, not wanting to attract any suspicion from my neighbors. When we were safely inside, the front door closed behind us, I let out a breath, holding the tears within. "How are things?"

He eyed me cautiously. "Okay. I think I've found an agreement with Dad. It's just, the level of control he expects is ridiculous. I'm a little nervous with how closely he watches."

I frowned. "What is he watching?"

"Everything," he said. "He's obsessed with fashioning me into a younger version of himself. He's terrified of leaving the business, and so he wants to make sure he never truly does."

"So you don't have any choice but to take it over eventually?" I asked, the words helping to clear the lump from my throat. It replaced the heavy weight in my mind with an erratic feeling, leaving me giddy. I led us into the kitchen and strolled to the wine rack against the far wall.

"No. I mean, there's my sister, but he's a sexist asshole who insists it has to be a man. I'm the only one carrying on the Bishop name, after all," he said with sarcasm. Then he raised an eyebrow as I pulled a bottle of red wine from the case. "Really?"

I examined the label carefully. Pinot noir. Monica had loved the stuff when we used to sneak it out of her mother's basement. With a shrug, I put it on the counter and leant upwards to reach the cabinet for wine glasses. It wasn't that high up, but I was on the other side of the counter and had to lean across. I stretched my arm momentarily before a body pressed against the back of mine, trapping me against the marble. William's arms found the cabinet door instantly.

"Where are your parents?" he asked, taking down the two glasses without acknowledging our proximity. He stepped away from me, leaving my heart racing unevenly.

"I don't know," I said honestly, trying to think back to the morning as I fished for a corkscrew in the drawer, acting nonchalant. "I think Mom was going to see my grandparents, actually."

"And your dad?"

I waved one hand at him, the other attempting to pull the top off of the bottle. "Probably won't be home until at least ten."

"Chloe," he said hesitantly. "What are you doing?"

"I'm having," I said, grunting a little as I pried the cork out successfully. I smiled with triumph. Monica had always been the one to open the wine. I'd never managed before. "A glass of wine. It's been a long day, William."

"Will," he muttered under his breath, taking the bottle from me. "Chloe, just tell me what was on the hard drive."

"Nothing useful," I said sourly as I watched him pour two glasses half full. I had no idea the etiquette of drinking wine, my mother wasn't very good at drinking unless she was trying to get drunk. But William seemed to.

"But it's obviously shaken you up," he said carefully.

I gritted my teeth together, ignoring the change which had been triggered in my mind. It was a change that told me I could no longer keep up the denial I'd been holding. Before it was easy to pretend my best friend was still here, but now it was like something had snapped.

I could paint a picture of her sitting crossed-legged on her bed, writing to me eagerly every day. But now, after seeing her at the level one party dancing in the club, wrapping her arms around Lola and Sophie as if they were the most magnificent people on the Earth...

"I just want a drink," I said, my voice cracking. I didn't want to feel so mixed up. I wanted it all or nothing, and I knew that was a peace that alcohol could bring.

"We need to talk about her," William said with solidarity, pulling the glasses away just as I reached for one. The sternness in his mossy eyes made me obey as he nodded for me to sit in the woven stool by the breakfast bar.

"What is there to talk about?" I asked hopelessly, my grimace showing my distaste at being told to sit.

"A lot, clearly," he said, taking the seat beside me, the wine still out of my reach. "You're losing it lately, Chloe. You're fragile, mentally, and that's okay. It's natural to grieve—"

"Just—just don't talk about grieving," I said, my words coming quicker than my breath allowed. I was sick of people telling me I had to grieve.

"Okay," he said slowly, his thoughtful gaze trying to work out the right angle to work. I scowled at him. I knew he was only trying to help, but I wasn't ready. After looking thoughtful for a moment, he slid the glass across the countertop towards me.

I took the glass in my hand, bringing it to my lips and taking a large gulp. The bitterness was welcoming on my throat. After watching the videos, there were now thoughts demanding to be addressed spiraling through my mind.

"Monica changed level one," I said, my voice wavering slightly. "I want to know how. She had an impact on everyone, and you all—you can't be so heartless as to have moved on from her."

William's jaw pulsed as he traced his finger around the base of his glass. I didn't even know if he'd wanted a drink, but I'd prepared two anyway. "Of course she had an impact."

I took another sip, my eyes fixed on him, waiting for him to continue.

"I think everyone changed at least a little after that night," he said, his eyes fixing on a point out of the window instead of meeting mine. "Max was close with her. He was... quiet for a while. They had a bond, and after she died he got reckless. Less caring."

I thought about him making out with Claire in the courtyard and cringed. Did Monica know about him and Zach? Or had she been a victim to him too?

"And Maddy," he said, his voice catching a little. "She hasn't always been so crazy about illegal substances. It doesn't make sense. You'd think she'd be careful now, or that she'd stop altogether. But it's like she's... taken her place. She tests all of the things Mon did. I mean, she gets with Francis, she pushes Lola's buttons. She's trying to mute something."

"What do you think she's trying to mute?"

"Guilt," he said.

She was the last one in the bathroom with her before Lola and Sophie returned.

"And Sophie," he continued, "Ever since Monica she's become obsessively protective over Lola. I'm sure you've seen it."

I thought back to the way she threatened me in Maddy's bathroom. She was definitely possessive that night. Had Monica threatened her position? Or bonded her to Lola with the secret death?

"And, Dela," he said, his voice quietening. "Lola. She didn't talk for over a week. To anyone. Not even to me. She was completely tormented. I still don't even know what happened that night. I was helping Max and Francis sort out some argument and... then I just didn't see Mon or any of the girls again. Lola took a long time to come around, and then it was as if she snapped back to normal in an instant. She returned to being completely loyal to Francis, and it was like she'd wiped her memory clean."

I took another drink. A long gulp. I felt angry. It felt wrong that Lola could be tormented over my best friend. I was even jealous, that up until her last moments, Lola had known her better than I did. Than I ever would.

"Francis has gone off of the rails. But he was heading there anyway," he said with a sigh. "I don't think he's made it to even half of his classes this semester. And it's senior year."

In a way, I felt a pang of satisfaction that they had at least suffered in some way. But, they weren't suffering for the same reason I was. I was suffering because I lost the person who had learnt to ride a bike by my side, who had stuck dorky photos of Zac Efron in my locker as a joke throughout freshman year, and who would wake me up in the middle of the night just to tell me with hysteria that her favorite band member followed her on Twitter.

And they were suffering out of guilt. Because they didn't tell anyone they were at the party. Because they flashed their money whenever they needed to justify themselves. Because they corrupted a girl to the point that she overdosed.

"Chloe," Will said, "Are you okay?"

I looked at him, and then his handsome features started to blur. "I've been writing to her."

His expression softened, and I felt his hand clasp to mine. I couldn't bear it.

"I keep hoping she will reply somehow, and when she doesn't..."

Tears spilled with no control, and I couldn't find the energy to hate them for it. He was by me in a flash, his arms scooping me against his chest in a way that made me feel even more helpless to my feelings.

"I keep thinking there was something I could have done," Will said. "I told you about the others, but she changed me too, Chlo. I'm guilty too. All the times I tried to help her, like when I dropped her home from parties or tried to convince her that she was too good for them, I could have been more insistent. Or more convincing."

His chest was raising now, the pace of his breathing increasing and his arms tightening around my shoulders as he spoke.

"But she still made those choices, Chloe. She wasn't always the victim. She was calculating too."

An anger swelled in me. He was trying to tell me who my best friend was. I knew her, and I knew her better than him. He couldn't tell me this. A sob cracked in my throat.

"Monica would never—"

"The Monica you knew might have never been like that," he finished, his breath against my hair as he spoke, his lips softly brushing my forehead. "But the Monica I knew wasn't the one you did."

I didn't respond to that. Even if I could, and my throat wasn't cloaked with tears, I wouldn't have. It wasn't worth the effort of fighting. I pulled away and straightened in my seat, not stopping the tears as they made wet tracks down my cheeks. Instead, I took another mouthful of wine, enough to finish the glass. For Monica.

I had a lot of footage to sift through. There was probably days of video recording to watch, and hopefully enough clips to string together some form of revenge compilation for all of level one. Or, alternatively, there would be nothing, and my time would be wasted. But I had to try.

When Will didn't move, I reached in front of him and finished his wine too. Then I glamorously wiped my lips with the back of my hand and stood. He was watching me.

"I'm going to watch whatever's left on that hard drive," I announced, as if our conversation hadn't shifted in depth dramatically. As if we hadn't been talking about a girl who was long dead.

"I can help you," he insisted, straightening.

"Only if you promise no allegiance to them," I stated. It felt as if I'd spoken the words a thousand times by now. "You're on my side with this."

"You already know I am," he said, his tone not exactly ecstatic with his words.

I gave a nod. That was enough for now. My mind was racing too fast to push it. "Let's go then."

Grabbing the wine bottle and the glasses, I led him up to my room. The laptop was where I left it, and so was the overflowing paper bin. I grimaced, before resuming my seat against the pillows. I hadn't even changed out of my school clothes.

"I watched everything in that folder," I told him after unlocking the laptop and showing him the contents of the hard drive. "And I have all of this to go."

William nodded as I gestured to every other folder on the drive. I had to give it to him, he was dealing with my mood swings well, as well as my crazy break down. Today was not good. She was too raw. Tomorrow would be better. That was how this was working. Some days I could pretend, and some I could not.

I clicked on the first folder in the drive. New Year's Day last year, an after dinner soiree at Li's house. Mike had just bought a new camera, and he had a thing for zooming in on Sophie's ass. Her hair was colored a pastel pink back then. Her smile, though hostile, was admittedly not as evil.

"Do you want something to eat for dinner?" William murmured into my ear about half an hour into watching a particularly long clip of a beer pong match.

I wanted to shake my head and keep watching. But a growl in my uneasy stomach answered for me.

"I'm ordering food," he said. I didn't look away from the screen as Piers celebrated an epic shot and Max groaned dramatically. I felt Will's weight lift from the bed.

Minutes felt like seconds, and it wasn't long before the smell of Hawaiian pizza drifted into my bedroom. I felt like stuffing my face and gagging at the same time.

But I was weak today. So I ate with William and drank more wine while we chatted about how stupid it was that they were playing beer pong at a soiree.

And then he offered to stay the night again. And even though I knew my mother and father would both be home in the coming hours, I nodded. Because I didn't know if I wanted to be alone again.

AN: so you've met Monica now. And you know the truth. What are your opinions on Chloe's choices?

How do you feel about Monica?

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