Two days later, Delilah McCord is dead. On the front steps of the gymnasium. She's dressed in white blouse, plaid skirt, knee-high socks and black shoes. Forty-eight hours went by and the investigation closed, a tragic case of accidental overdose.
Vertigo High mourns for the life lost. But there's no grand funeral. No eulogy, even by her family. Delilah McCord is a name that will disappear from their lips in a few months.
She's just another reminder of a young life cut short by her stupid mistake. The thing is, Chloe doesn't buy that last sentence for one second.
The thing that Chloe Decker remembers the most about Delilah McCord was her red-stained lip curving into the softest and most fractured smile she'd seen on a girl.
Chloe only seen Delilah a couple of times, across the school's hallways. Never alone, that Delilah. Always with her boyfriend and his friends. They're every bit of the jock stereotypes from the labels they wear up to the expensive cars they drive to school. Delilah herself fitted into the clichéd popular cheerleader archetype on appearance alone. Nice pair of rack, gorgeous curly blonde hair that seems to shine butterscotch under the sun and curves that Chloe envied.
But there's a different Delilah hiding beneath that flirty wink and carefree attitude. Secrets etched on her skin, invisible, like battered bruises of some sort. Chloe didn't figure it out until it's too late. Sometimes she wished she had noticed it earlier.
Chloe had seen that Delilah once. In the gymnasium's broom closet, of all the places. It's not exactly a broom closet, but along the lines of a space with a desk and an armchair. So, a cramped office in other sense.
Delilah sat on the chair, spine straight as a rod. A chewed pencil sticking out from behind her ear. Her blonde locks bind loosely into a bun. Books splayed open across the desk; each one was thick as a cereal box. Her lips twisting into a smile so child-like, which clashed against the revealing dress clinging to every inch of Delilah's curves.
"I take it that there's no toilet here?" Chloe asked, the end of her lips quirked upwards sheepishly.
"Nope, the toilet's at the end of the corridor," replied Delilah, directing the pencil's bud at the door.
"Ah, thanks." Chloe surveyed the room. If she was a drug-dealing teenager, where would she stashed it? The room was bare, saved for that desk and the chair. No cabinets. No shelves. Not even a tacky painting to mask the hiding spot.
"There's no drugs here. If that's what you're after. Not in LUX Club," Delilah piped up, returning her gaze to her books. But a knowing smile played on her lips, brief. And a second later, gone.
"I-I, what makes you think I'm looking for drugs?" Chloe stammered, grateful Delilah isn't paying much attention. Chloe's a fantastic liar, if she had prepared for it. Clearly, she didn't expect to be caught way ahead.
She chuckled. Propped her elbows on the desk, she set her chin on her clasped hands. "You're not the first person to try to break into the office."
Chloe lifted her brows at Delilah, "I was that obvious?"
"Not really, but you're in the Journalism Club, right? He had a few of those poking around before you came along," she laughed, not malicious in any way. But amused. "It's nothing new for him," her voice trailed off, Delilah pursed her lipstick-stained mouth, lost in thought. Her fingers drummed against the table.
Chloe walked closer to the desk. Enough to being able to read several paragraphs of the book Delilah's on. Maurizio Calvesi's Caravaggio. "Well, I'm in the Journalism Club. But I'm not looking for a scoop," Chloe smoothly countered. Lies. "I'm trying to get some for a friend." More lies.
Delilah shook her head softly. "I can't help you. I don't use that crap, need my brain at full capacity. Kevin is a different story, though."
Damn. There went Chloe's hope into the drain of dashed dreams. Kevin wasn't one to talk to Chloe. Even if Chloe twirled her hair and batted her eyelashes, Kevin's pretty solid as boyfriends go—or so Ella said. Now, she got nothing to write about.
"Thanks," Chloe replied, cracking the door wide open. Well, she stretched it as slowly as she can, "I guess I'll have to find it elsewhere."
"Wait," Delilah called out, stopping Chloe. Delilah massaged her temple once. Inhaled a large breath before exhaling deeply. "If you desperately want it, Kevin could help you score some," Delilah offered. This time, her smile doesn't quite reach up to her blue eyes.
Chloe pivoted on her heels so fast, she nearly smacked her face against the door. The end of her mouth curling into a smile. "You'll help me?"
"Kevin told me that sometimes people tampered their products. Adding things so that they could make more profit. I don't want your friend to buy altered drugs that could kill them," the concern in her voice was genuine. Delilah flipped a page on her notepad. A finger tapping against the notepad. "Your number." Held out the pen for Chloe. "And weight."
She's strangely touched by her concern—not too many kids willing to risk involvement at the cost of their potential prison life. Chloe scribbled her number on the page. Pushed the notepad back to Delilah. She questioned, "When can my friend get it?"
"Kevin doesn't sell to strangers. Only to his friends. I'll see what I can do. I promised it won't take more than three days. Meet me again at school. The girl's locker. I'll text you the time," she answered, tore the paper off from notepad and slipped it into her purse.
That was the first time Chloe spoke to her. And the last.
Honestly, this was why Chloe Decker doesn't—can't—accept the overdose verdict. Delilah McCord still had hope. Hope for a brighter future. Hope in herself that she will make something for herself. Those blue eyes of hers that held fierce determination to succeed. Someone snuffed her life. Not her own doing.
Now, Chloe Decker has a new story that needed to be told. Who killed Delilah McCord?
