Chapter 3:

#CaliforniaRoll–One Year Later

Coronado Prep Unofficial Blog Post (13 months ago): 

#VanishedValedictorian

Coronado Prep senior, Prin De Sangue, went missing hours before her valedictorian speech, causing pepper-spray sales to triple at local convenience stores. 

Four scribbled messages found on Post-it notes may provide clues:

Post-it: “I’m grateful for my friendship with Parker S.”

Post-it: “My actions have not caused someone’s death.”

Post-it: “Vibing confidence and composure.”

Post-it: “My dream schools in Boston rejected me.”

COMMENTS:

@AmazingAce33: “No sign of her for 2 days... hope she’s not at the bottom of the Pacific.”

@CSZ331: “She’s ALIVE. Just saw the police update.”

@1MeanMomma: “What a lunatic. Had us all panicked, and she ran off to Bali.”

@blingqueen77: “That psycho better NEVER show her face again 😡 #FakeQueen

—-----------------

My thumb froze as I swiped the screen, as if to protest my online deep-dive.

They were talking about me.

Every word a knife.

Maybe they were right.
Maybe I was cursed.
Because every time I let someone in—someone I loved—disaster followed.

My mother.
She drowned herself.

Zara’s sister.
She died because of me.

And Parker…
The boy who almost kissed me on my burning bed.
The one person I couldn’t let burn next.

So I left last year.

I wanted to click away the phone screen. I couldn’t.

Maybe they were right. Maybe I was cursed. 

Because wherever I went, someone ended up six feet under.

The scent of Bali still clung to my suitcase in the trunk—herbs from the monastery I thought would save me.  

Now, as I return to Pritzker after a year away, with my scholarship hanging by a thread, I could no longer avoid the truth.

If I didn’t break the curse, if I didn’t uncover why death kept following me…

I already knew who the internet would blame next.

Me.

I got back in the car and kept driving.

Thirteen. That’s how many months had passed since high school graduation—before I ghosted everyone and everything that mattered. No emails. No texts. Not even a beachy Instagram post.

Three hundred and twenty. The number of miles separating heaven and hell. I’d burned the route into memory: one side a dry wasteland, the other a lush paradise, with almost nothing in between. Counting cacti and rest-stop signs kept me grounded.

Enough time had passed to erase the Pritzker street names from my memory. Funny how the mind does that when you want it to—smearing memories like mascara after a breakup text.

The GPS blared, “1320 Shelton Street, you have arrived at your destination.”

I accidentally rolled through a stop sign—a California roll, and not the sushi kind—before parking outside the apartment building and letting Herbie, my vintage VW Bug, sputter to silence.

 Grabbing my suitcase, I glanced up at a flock of gulls. One bird veered off course, and I felt a strange kinship. The past year in Indonesia had been a series of migrations for me, too. Each place I visited was an attempt to piece together my mother’s past—but all I’d found were more questions.

I walked up to the concrete landing. No security deposit required—probably because someone moved out in a hurry. 

Their loss, my gain. That was the theme of my teenage years.

After I rang the doorbell, footsteps approached.
“One sec,” a woman’s voice called out. Must be Eleanor Lee.

After finding this listing last week, I’d Googled my new roommates. I wasn’t one for surprises. 

The door swung open, revealing a petite girl with thick glasses and a messy ponytail.

Eeeeh! Eeeeh! A loud, fire-alarm-like beeping blared as soon as the door opened.

‘A coding prodigy,’ as listed by her online presence, and without makeup, she looked ten years younger—like an undercover middle-school narc.

“Sorry!” She fumbled with the keypad. “It’s a little temperamental.”  

“Eleanor!” A tall, well-groomed guy entered, just shy of giving her the stink-eye. Gabriel Oliveira. His meticulously plucked eyebrows framed the public policy student’s serious face. 

Following vampire etiquette, I waited for them to invite me in.

“I’ve got it, okay?” Eleanor silenced the alarm. “Gertrude’s a little moody, needs a wiring tweak.”

“You didn’t have to build one from scratch on your bedroom floor,” Gabriel said, tilting his head at her. 

She rolled her eyes. “You handle the kitchen; I handle the tech.”

Gabriel extended a perfectly manicured hand. “Pleasure. I’m Gabriel, and this is Eleanor.” 

“Welcome. We argue like an old married couple, but we’re not married. His boyfriend wouldn’t go for that,” Eleanor added, wrinkling her nose.

“My sous-vide chicken is finished,” Gabriel said. “Please join us.”

Definitely not. I’ll pass on the Salmonella.

“Thanks, but I’m gonna get settled.” I headed to my room and closed the door. The less they knew about me, the better.

Seventy-three. That’s how many seconds it took for the blog comments to update.
“She’s back.”

The internet could already smell me crossing state lines.

And it was out for fresh blood.

Mine.

***

Should Prin have stayed away? If it were you, would you stand your ground or flee?

Keep reading for stalkers, slashers, heartbreakers, premonitions, and swindlers...and love (sprinkled with lust, ofc)!

XOXO, Sabina