"Hey," Damon said, catching her as the earth shifted under her feet. "It's okay." He looped an arm low around her back, stabilizing her. "You have to breathe, Gilbert."

Blinking away the darkness took effort, and her breaths continued jagged and heavy, chest heaving as the panic threatened to consume her again.

"You have to breathe or you're going to pass out," he said, squeezing her arm with his free hand. She only nodded, trying again to regulate those breaths, a deep inhale and then a long exhale, unsteady. All the while, he led her away from the scene. But despite the distance, she could not get the sight of the contorted neck out of her brain. The blood, caked on neck and torso, dried and thick.

Elena allowed him to lead her, not paying attention to where exactly they were going or, again, why he was showing her such kindness. In the moment, it didn't seem to matter. No matter where she looked, she saw red. Saw the faces of other shocked students, felt her chest constrict so tight it felt like death.

But then he was guiding her into a house she'd never seen, motioning for her to sit down in a comfortable chair, handing her a glass of water, sitting down across from her. And in that moment, the world started to slow back down. Her heart stopped racing and her breaths normalized once more.

"Did you see—?" she started, but he nodded before she could finish. "I've never seen so much blood."

Words didn't come as easy as she hoped, her mind still turning though the panic in her body settled.

"His face," she said, squeezing her eyes shut tight as if it would erase the imagery playing on a loop. It didn't. "You don't seem… affected." His cool composure was both comforting and concerning.

"Unfortunately I've seen quite a few bodies." She gave him an odd look at those words and he quickly amended. "Former soldier."

"Right. That was my first."

"A traumatic experience, indeed," he said.

And for a second, they just looked at each other. And still, she kept asking herself, why? Why was he being so nice, why did he care, why did Damon Salvatore do any of the things that Damon Salvatore did? She had to be missing something vital, something important. An aspect of him that she hadn't seen before.

Then, she cleared her throat, tearing her eyes away from his in an instant as she stood up and walked across the room, admiring the dark wood paneling, the books strewn about on every surface, messy in a comfortable way.

"Gilbert," Damon said, and she could hear him stand up, take a few steps closer to her. She wanted to scream, to put more distance between them. Every time he got closer she became more confused, like he muddied her brain by proximity alone. And it made her feel insane because there were so many thoughts she couldn't reveal. Not as Jeremy Gilbert. That was how he saw her, really, right? As some strange man in his Ancient Greek course. Some odd classmate who was overly competitive and squeamish? He couldn't possibly have had the same complicated, confusing thoughts that she did. Not unless she'd gotten something very wrong about Savlatore's, well, preferences.

Maybe that was why she preferred his mean, rude, standoffish, ignorant disposition. Because when he was kind when he looked after her like she was truly one of his friends, when he extended a hand to help her to bed when she'd had too much to drink, when he was nice, the thoughts were harder to push away. Because he was handsome, she'd known that from the start. But it had always been he's handsome and he's intolerable.

She didn't know what to do with he's handsome and he cares about me. Besides, what was she to do about it, when she was dressed as her brother and enrolled at a men's college? What was she to do about it when she couldn't trust him with the truth but wanted to just spit it out more than anything else? And when, oh, when had that become true? When had keeping the secret become so difficult?

"Gilbert?" he asked again, coming to stand next to her. "Everything okay in there?"

The brunette turned to look at him, brows drawn together and lips pressed into a tight line, trying to read him, trying to figure him out for the first time since they'd met. Who was Damon Salvatore? Finally, the words left her lips, "Who are you?"

Here's what she knew about him so far. He loved to read, was fond of Ancient Greek, and knew more Latin than she did. He'd likely read every book in the country house and then some. He'd chastised James and John for inviting her into their circle. He'd yelled at Dr. Bartlow and stated that there was no way she could win the society spot. He'd been nice to her, almost told her something on more than one occasion. He'd been standoffish. He'd been rude. He'd been kind, caring, compassionate. He'd walked her home. He'd come home early from vacation. You could have killed him. There's a lot you don't understand. What was he hiding? Was he as curious about her secret as she was of his? He had to be suspicious of her by now, did he not? Her disguise was good, but it wasn't that good, and he was smart. Perhaps he'd even figured it out. Maybe she should just tell him and get it over with.

"That's a loaded question, isn't it?" he asked, breaking off her trailing thoughts. His eyes pulled away from her and she blinked rapidly.

What was she thinking? Even if he did know, and how could he, why would he? She couldn't risk telling him a thing. Sure, he'd been nice, but he'd also looked for a reason to get rid of her, hadn't he? No, she was much better off keeping the secret to herself. And if she needed to dig around to find out his, she would. No exchange of personal information required. It would be better that way.

"Sorry, I just—" she trailed off, looking at the spines of the books before her. "I suppose I don't know any of you all that well. The twins. The Wicklaws. You."

"Not much to know. We're not especially interesting."

She let out a huff of laughter, exasperated by him as always. "Right."

"You're not exactly forthcoming about yourself either, Gilbert," he said.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Well perhaps if you shared something about yourself first."

He let out a similar huff of air. "You can sleep in the guest room. Get some rest and recover from tonight."

"I feel perfectly recovered, and I think I should just go." She turned on a heel and walked toward the door, opening the latch and pulling the handle.

It was halfway open when Damon opened his mouth. "My mother used to read me and my brother tales of Greek myth when we were young."

She paused with her hand on the doorknob.

"That's why I love it so much, why I chose to study it."

It wasn't much, but an olive branch. She stood frozen. "My mother, too." Then, quickly, before she could think and without turning around to look at him, she pulled the door the rest of the way open and disappeared into the dark night. Best save those complex feelings for another night, when her mind wasn't already reeling.

When she made it back to campus, policemen and detectives swarmed every inch of available grass. They'd set up lanterns along the paths and a large canopy covered the section where the body had been found. Damon had scrambled her brain so much, she'd nearly forgotten about the disturbing sight from earlier in the evening. It was only when she was back in her dorm room with the door firmly locked behind her, that she pulled her legs to her chest, remembering that twisted face again.

Because she knew that face. Had seen it before. Multiple times. He must have lived in The Mac. She'd often seen him in the hall, seen him lounging in the common room on the first floor, had seen him in class. The same class in which she'd received those threats.

When the pieces started falling together, they didn't stop, and her hand was over her mouth again covering a gasp that fell off her lips. Gregory Lithander was dead. Knowing that fact, knowing that he'd only just recently threatened her, it was impossible to sleep for the rest of the night. She could only see his scrawling penmanship, his face in her mathematics class, his twisted scowl and blank eyes, bloodied and terrified. The vision haunted her like a ghost.

Because here's the thing about someone dying who just threatened to take away everything you care about. It makes you a suspect, along with everyone you told.

And when the sun came up the next morning, still she sat in bed, pressed into the corner of her room, wishing she'd stayed with Salvatore, clutching her legs to her chest, not letting her eyes close for too long, worried.

After a quick shower in the wee hours of the morning, Elena Gilbert headed back out into the sun on minimal sleep, desperate for any answers she could find about Gregory and his death.

Answers, it seemed, would be easy to find, as a group of students had already set up a memorial in his honor. A photograph of him in a gilded gold frame sat a few feet from where the body had been found, a section of campus that was now roped off and monitored by the local policemen's unit.

Gregory Lithander's entitled face seemed to follow her movements. Saying what did you do? Despite knowing that her conscience was clean, she couldn't help but feel some sense of guilt. His death had to be a coincidence. It had to be. But if that were true, why were her hands so clammy? Why did she feel so nervous?

She approached one of the officers standing near the site. "Excuse me?" Elena asked, trying to get his attention.

"We'll be conducting interviews at a later date. Unless you have information about Gregory Lithander's last whereabouts, we're not interested in what students have to say at the moment."

"So you don't know anything yet, then?" she asked, raising a brow, not expecting the man to be so off-putting.

He only shook his head and gestured to a sign a few feet away. The sign read as follows:

Harmon College mourns the loss of one Gregory Lithander. Mr. Lithander was a third-year student in the mathematics department. Our thoughts go out to his family during this time.

Classes will be canceled for all students for the foreseeable future while we allow the Harmon police department to conduct a thorough investigation of this most unfortunate crime.

As she read over the sign, someone approached from behind. They tapped her shoulder, making her nearly jump out of her skin, still on edge from the night before.

"Did you know the victim?" an officer asked as she turned around to face him. He wore a long dark brown trench coat with a fitted suit underneath. The most well-outfitted police officer she'd ever seen, though she didn't have much experience with law enforcement except for in the stories she'd read. In fact, this whole investigation felt out of a novel.

Did she know the victim? She couldn't exactly explain their relationship in a way that wasn't suspicious. Not only would she have to out herself as Elena Gilbert, but she'd also provide a strong connection that would likely place her as a suspect in the case. And while she wanted to learn more about what happened, she'd prefer to do it from a few more steps away than inside a jail cell.

"Not particularly well. We shared a class together," she said, finally, taking too much time to think and overanalyzing every aspect of their conversation and her word choice. "How did he die?" she asked, looking away from the detective for a moment. "I saw the body, and it looked, well, strange."

"Yes, well, we're thinking some kind of animal attack, but it's too soon to tell. We're encouraging students to follow a curfew, ensuring that no one is out after the sun goes down, as well as to travel in pairs whenever possible."

She nodded.

"Could I get your name?" he asked, looking at her curiously.

She nodded again. "Jeremy Gilbert," then spelled her last name. Maybe it would have been better to give some sort of fake name and then hide in her room for as long as possible, but Elena had never been much of a good liar. And while this whole ruse was a lie, lying directly to an officer felt like an unnecessary risk.

The detective scribbled her name down on a piece of paper and then offered her a kind smile. "Thank you. We'll be in contact if we need anything, Mr. Gilbert. Stay safe out there."

Upon dismissal, Elena turned on her heel and walked in the direction of the twins' apartment. The group spent the most time there, so it was her best chance of finding them all in the same place. So much for distancing herself from these people. So much for not being involved in such a complicated friend group. She had questions, and she was going to find answers. Because, as unfortunate as it was, she didn't believe that Gregory Lithander had died of an animal attack. The coincidence was simply too great. But what was the alternative? Could one of her friends be capable of murder? And what was she to do, march over there and ask them directly?

Certainly, that wasn't the best of plans. But she couldn't stop her feet from carrying her in that direction, her mind whirring, cogs turning, questioning piling up—what did they know about Gregory Lithander? Had they seen him in the short few days between their payoff and his death? And if it was truly an animal attack, what kind of animal went for the neck? Left the body in the state she'd seen?

As it turned out, and she was correct to guess they'd all be together at the twin's apartment, only Damon Salvatore was aware of the current state of campus.

"Poor Lithander," Salvatore said, his voice nearly devoid of emotion. "Didn't know the man, but what an unfortunate end. Saw the body myself, can't say it was too pretty."

John piped up from his spot next to James on the couch. "Heard he was a right asshole. Good riddance, honestly."

"You shouldn't speak ill of the dead," Elena said, drawing her brows together.

"Or what, Gilbert?"

She only shrugged, wrapping her arms tight around her stomach as she sat with a glass of scotch in the corner of the living room. John and James shared the couch, Marcus sat on the settee by the window with a book, and Salvatore stood in the door frame, a pointed expression on his face, eyes often finding hers. What do you know? She wanted so badly to ask. What are you hiding? Because she knew it had to be something. How she longed to speak with Caroline. Longed to ask Marcus about the funds. If they'd been received. How that conversation had gone between the two gentlemen.

But her lie about Lithander had already been thin, and she didn't need more people knowing about it than necessary. Marcus and Damon were enough, John and James could hardly be trusted with the information, false as it was.

"Ask him, Gilbert. We all know you're just dying to," John said, then placed his fingers over his lips dramatically. "Sorry, too soon?"

Damon shot John a piercing glare, to which he held up his hands in defense. "Sorry. Just trying to get the man talking, that's all. He's always been suspicious of us, I personally would like to clear the air."

James looked over at her curiously. "He does look like there's something on his mind. Though, I personally wouldn't have jumped to accusing Salvatore of murder."

"I didn't—I wouldn't—" but she did, and she would. And she'd be lying if she said it hadn't crossed her mind that one of the people seated in that very room could have been somehow involved in the death of Lithander. In fact, she found it very possible. And of those seated around her, only two knew of Lithander's threats. But the dots didn't fully connect, her suspicions didn't align enough. She found these people odd, but murderers? Not exactly. However, the coincidence was beyond bizarre. But would they kill for her? She didn't think that true, either. Perhaps it was possible that the sight of the body had her mind all turned around.

"Save you the trouble Gilbert. No one here was involved in this. I know you don't like us, but you have to believe that," Damon said, looking at her with that startlingly kind glance that drove her mad. She narrowed her eyes, wanting to believe him. But something felt wrong. The way Lithander's head had been contorted, the blood on his neck, it felt familiar in a way she didn't understand.

"Gilbert," Damon said, searching in her eyes for something, understanding? "It was an animal attack. That's what they're saying. He was killed by an animal. Not a man. Not one of us. Do you understand?"

She nodded, feeling a strange sense of numbness come over her, an understanding of his words on a fundamental level, no way that they couldn't be true. "Yes. You're right. Of course. An animal attack."

And that was that. No more questions bubbled up to the surface, and her mind seemed to cool off from the idea of her friends' involvement. In that, there was relief, too. Because despite their differences, despite how much she wanted to distance herself from these people, she did find herself caring about them.