But that’s crap, because during the day, I’m nothing. I don’t exist. So neither does she, at night.

I’ll never tell Carly how jealous I am that she gets to walk inside every single day while I’m stuck outside at nighttime, looking at the shell.

I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to be outside anymore.

I’m going in.

Ha! Try to keep me out, and I’ll break in! Oh, I feel wonderful! It’s just like the old days, back in Chester with John.

You won’t believe what I found!

I broke in through one of those smudged-up dark windows of the basement where I felt saw? something someone watching me earlier. I only just fit. What will they do when they notice the broken window? Whatever, I don’t care! I’m invisible!

The cellar basement was

[A page has been torn from the diary.]

The top floor was where I made the real find. I was about to head back to the basement and return to the dorm when I spotted an unobtrusive black door in one of the long halls, right next to a tall grandfather clock.

It didn’t look like a closet.

It didn’t look like a bathroom.

It looked like a secret.

The attic, Dee, is so vast—one long, seemingly endless room. It’s full of boxes that contain glass ink pots, silver-nibbed dip pens—nibs!—notebooks, and antiquated textbooks. Stuff that is decades older than the things stored in the basement. I found a girl’s guide to etiquette, if you can believe that. Could I need anything less?

I could spend months up here, looking at every little thing. This might be a nice place for me. Hidden. Forgotten. Perfect.

4:34 am, Roof

Dee, I’m a bit of a spy. What else is there to do when everyone else is sleeping and you’re bored? I said I’d behave, and to get out of here, it’s the least I’d do.

Escapism is a window that I don’t have, but I need movement. I can’t sit still.

I have this horrible fear of turning to stone like I’m in an Anne Rice novel or something. Or that I’ll vanish, fade like a ghost. Cease to be. Then I won’t be anything, just like Lansing wants. And the thought of that, Dee, is enough to drive me up onto the roof, where I teeter on the edge and wonder why I don’t just leap.

And honestly, I don’t know what’s holding me back anymore. But of course, I do. It’s Carly.

Hurt yourself, hurt Carly.

Whatever, I digress.

Spying entertains me. The things people do when they sleep, the faces they pull and the things they say. The way they touch their bodies when they think they’re alone.

Last year I sat in the dorm room of one of Naida’s friends, Juliet. Right by her bed. I watched her face twitch while I tickled her nose with my hair. And, a secret? I stole from her. I took a pen from her desk drawer, wrote a note in the back of her diary—I forget what it was now, and she never found it, from what I can tell—and I did something else too. I’ve got to be careful what I write down…

I need to tell someone. I need to tell you.

Diary… Dee…

My confession: I cut her. I cut Juliet last year, right before summer. I took the blade out of her razor, and I sliced a little bit of her skin near her wrist. There was a tiny red line of blood, and she never even stirred.

I was horrified at myself, of course, but it was so exciting. The most exciting thing I’ve ever done, I think. What a thrill to tell someone! I felt a sensation deep in my stomach that I’ve never felt before. Can you imagine what you could do to a person while they sleep, oblivious?

I climbed out of her window, sat in the tree, and watched her. The following night, she was wearing a plaster on her wrist, but her brow was unlined as she slept—she didn’t have a care in the world. It was just another inexplicable injury, forgotten in the moment it’s found.

But it wasn’t forgotten by me. Not after all this time, even. I made a difference, Dee. I changed something in this world. I made a plaster appear on that wrist, and it never would have happened if I didn’t exist.

I’ve done other things since then. Taken things from students who leave their windows open. Read diaries. Did you know that joker-boy Scott Fromley keeps a diary, Dee? I read it and then I left a little message in the back, written with his own pen. I have no idea if he ever found it, and I can’t remember what I wrote. I think a word. Loser, maybe. I couldn’t see the effect it had on him, so I consider that one a failed experiment. But there were others. A strand of hair pulled from Brenda’s head. A stone placed under Megan’s pillow.

All of this was—is—my clever way of distracting myself from the fact that, despite Carly, I am alone.

And I always will be.

Later, Attic

I’ll keep you here. I’ll keep you safe.

Purple Post-it

You are a ray of sunshine at midnight.

Message Book Entry

Monday, 6 September 2004, 4pm

School was annoying today. Scott is always all over Naida. I think she noticed that it bothered me, though, because she sent him off and then we talked for ages. Mostly about you (in a good way!). She said she wishes you could hang out with us too. See? She isn’t bad. She says you’re feisty, and that’s not a bad thing.

The downside of today was Brett. He spent all of study period passing me notes.

Anyway, how was your night? What did you get up to? I’m planning a surprise for you, but I know you hate surprises, so this is your fair warning to not be surprised when you find it.

Also, you need to call Lansing. She’ll ask about breakfast, lunch, and dinner (cereal, lasagna, and omelet) and she’ll ask how choir practice was (I skipped because I felt weird, but I’m fine, don’t worry).

Love you, Kaybear.

C xxx

A page has been torn from the Message Book at this point, presumably Kaitlyn’s reply. The next few pages are badly scorched or destroyed entirely by the fire. It seems that the events over the following weeks prevented whatever surprise Carly had planned from coming to fruition, but mention of a need for hundreds of Post-its in what remains of Carly’s journal implies an elaborate plan. It is unknown whether Kaitlyn was aware of what Carly had in mind.

7

The following Kaitlyn journal entry is the first that can be found in which Ari Hait makes an appearance. Because of his significant role in later events, all entries pertaining to Mr. Hait have been included.

Diary of Kaitlyn Johnson

Wednesday, 8 September 2004, 11:04 pm

Hill Outside Old Chapel

The chapel is organic, like it spewed up out of the ground. Not like the school, which looks more as if it fell where it sits—a meteor crashed into a crater. One a denizen of hell, the other a celestial body. Both revolt and delight me.

It’s not too cold tonight, even up here at the top of the hill, but the night cuts deep, and I need… something. A filler for the space inside that’s like a stygian black pit and not very pretty. I’m being melodramatic, I know. I can’t help it. I guess I thought I could find something here.