When Death Isn't the End

THE WATCHER AT MY WINDOW

CHAPTER 2

310 days before my life was caught short.

The morning after my poetry notebook reappeared, I skipped breakfast. Gloria was already halfway through a rant about utility bills and my missing laundry, but her voice sounded distant, like I was listening through water. I slipped on my uniform, stuffed the mysterious notebook deep into my backpack, and left the house before she could ask why I looked like I hadn’t slept.

Because I hadn’t. Again.

The dreams were worse now—less like dreams and more like memories I didn’t remember making. Last night, I’d found myself back in that same hallway, only now it was underwater. Everything moved in slow motion. The walls bled shadows. And there were voices—not just Brianna’s this time, but others. Distant, urgent, unintelligible. I didn’t understand what they were saying, but I knew they were meant for me.

At school, no one seemed to notice that I was falling apart.

That’s the thing about high school. You could be a ghost and no one would care, as long as your shoes matched your backpack and your eyeliner wasn’t smudged.

In homeroom, Malik sat one row ahead of me. He didn’t look back, didn’t try to talk. Maybe he could feel the wall I was building brick by brick around myself. Or maybe he was just done with me. Either way, the silence between us buzzed louder than any conversation.

“Morning announcements,” said Ms. Reyes in her singsong voice. “Please rise for the pledge.”

I didn’t rise.

I sat there, fingers gripping the edge of my desk, feeling that same itch in the back of my skull I’d had since finding the note in my locker. Like I was being watched. Not in a paranoid way—more like observed. Documented.

After the bell, I moved through the halls like I was being timed. Quick glances. Shoulders stiff. I stopped talking to people unless they spoke to me first. Every locker door that slammed behind me felt like a warning shot.

I needed answers, but nobody was offering any.

So I decided to find them myself.

⸻

During lunch, I went to the library instead of the cafeteria. Nobody would look for me there.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly as I slipped into the far back corner near the microfilm machine no one ever used. I pulled out my red poetry notebook. My heart beat too fast as I flipped to the back page again.

Some people can’t be saved. But maybe you can.

I stared at the words for a long time, trying to decode the handwriting. It wasn’t familiar. Not Lana’s, not Maya’s. It was neater than mine. Almost clinical.

Like whoever wrote it didn’t feel anything when they did.

I turned the page over, half-hoping to find more. A clue. A symbol. A fingerprint. Something.

Nothing.

So I did something I wasn’t proud of.

I snuck into the library’s staff office.

It wasn’t hard. Ms. Lindo, the librarian, always left the door ajar when she went to shelve books. I slipped inside, my palms slick with nerves, and looked for the security cabinet. Most people didn’t know this, but every hallway camera fed into a central system stored right here.

The cabinet was locked.

But beside it sat a logbook. I flipped it open. Inside were printed notes—timestamps, incidents, student names. Fights. Vandalism. Suspicious behavior.

March 4th: Locker opened by unknown student. 10:42 AM.

My stomach dropped.

That was the day my notebook vanished.

The log didn’t say who. Just that it happened. But that meant someone saw it. Or at least the camera did.

I scribbled the timestamp down and left before Ms. Lindo returned.

⸻

That night, I followed Gloria to work.

She didn’t notice me at first. Her job wasn’t glamorous—night receptionist at the coroner’s office—but it gave her just enough power to snoop, and just enough boredom to welcome a visit from her daughter, even when unexpected.

“I thought you were home,” she said, raising an eyebrow as I stepped inside.

“Needed a change of scenery,” I said.

She stared at me for a moment, then sighed. “Well, don’t touch anything. This place already gives me the creeps.”

It gave me something else—access.

While she got distracted by paperwork, I slipped down the hallway and into the records room. Everything smelled like bleach and old leather. The files were arranged alphabetically. I found Brianna’s almost immediately.

Her case was labeled: Accidental drowning.

That didn’t surprise me.

What did surprise me were the attached photos.

Her body was found at the deep end of the pool. Face up. Eyes open. No bruising. No cuts. But there was a smear of lipstick that didn’t match hers, and her fingernails were chipped—one entirely torn off.

There was no record of toxicology results.

No mention of the missing gold top and jeans.

No witness statements.

Just three clinical sentences and a file that felt too thin.

I took a picture of everything before leaving.

⸻

Back home, I locked my bedroom door and laid the photos out across my floor like a crime scene. My heart thudded in my ears.

“She didn’t fall. She was pushed.”

That note was right.

And someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure no one noticed.

But why?

Brianna wasn’t perfect. She was loud, impulsive, often cruel. But she had a fire in her. She called things as she saw them. If someone crossed her, they’d know it.

And maybe that’s why she ended up dead.

I picked up my phone and texted Maya.

Me: Did Brianna have any enemies? Like serious ones?

Maya: Lmao. Half the school. But no one that would kill her.

Me: Are you sure?

Maya: What are you doing, Jas?

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t know how to explain what I felt—that this wasn’t just some tragedy. This was a pattern. A puzzle. And I was trapped in it.

Later that night, I sat on the edge of my bed staring at my mirror. Not at my reflection—at the corner behind it.

That’s where the dreams always started.

A hallway. A door. A girl screaming.

The air felt colder than it should have. My skin prickled.

I said it out loud.

“She didn’t fall. She was pushed.”

And then—

My phone buzzed.

Unknown: You’re not listening.

I stared at the screen.

Me: Then tell me what to listen for.

Three dots. Then nothing.

Silence.

Then—another message.

Unknown: Look closer.

I didn’t know what they meant.

Until I glanced back at my mirror.

There was something taped behind the corner.

My heart stuttered.

I peeled it off slowly. It was another photo.

Not of Brianna.

Of me.

Asleep.

In my bed.

Wearing last night’s clothes.

Taken from outside my window.

My blood turned to ice.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t drop the photo. I just stood there, frozen, while a tidal wave of nausea rolled over me.

The picture was real. It wasn’t a trick of the light or some prank or edit. I recognized the wrinkle in my pillowcase, the way my left leg always stuck out from under the blanket. The photo had been taken last night—or maybe the night before. Either way, someone had been outside my window. Watching. Close enough to hear me breathe.

I checked the lock on the window, then yanked the curtain shut like that could somehow erase the image from my mind.

There were a hundred thoughts fighting to break through my skull, but one rose louder than the rest: This wasn’t about Brianna anymore.

I called Malik.

I didn’t care that he’d iced me out. That we hadn’t talked since the funeral. I needed someone, and he was the only person who ever paid attention when I needed it the most.

He picked up on the second ring.

“Jas?”

“I need to talk to you,” I said.

There was a pause. “Now?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t ask why. Just told me to meet him at Pinewood Park in ten.

⸻

It was cold by the time I reached the park. A cruel wind sliced between the trees, scattering leaves across the pavement. Malik was already there, pacing beneath the flickering streetlamp near the tennis courts.

He looked older somehow. Like he hadn’t slept either.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” I said.

He shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d call.”

I pulled the photo from my coat pocket and handed it to him.

He stared at it in silence.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

“I found it taped behind my mirror,” I said. “After I got a text from an unknown number.”

He ran a hand over his face. “You should go to the cops.”

“And tell them what? That someone’s leaving me cryptic notes and photos and somehow broke into the school security system to cover up Brianna’s death? They’ll think I’m making it up.”

Malik hesitated. “Are you?”

“No.”

“I had to ask.”

I sat on the cold bench and stared at the cracked pavement. “I think she was killed. I think they made it look like an accident. And I think someone wants me to figure out why.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “But whoever it is… they’ve been in my room.”

Malik sat beside me, not touching, just close enough that I didn’t feel alone.

“There’s something I never told anyone,” he said quietly. “About the night Brianna died.”

I looked at him sharply. “What?”

“I was at the party.”

I blinked. “You told everyone you left early.”

“I lied. I was there when she left the house. I saw her storm off toward the pool. I followed her.”

“And?”

He exhaled. “I heard voices. Two people. Not just Brianna. One was hers. The other… I don’t know. But she sounded scared.”

My skin crawled. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because a minute later, she was gone. And I didn’t want to be the guy who saw something but couldn’t prove anything. You know how this school is. They’d think I made it up.”

We sat in silence for a while. Wind rustling through the branches above us. The hiss of a car somewhere in the distance.

“Who else was there that night?” I asked.

“Half the school,” he said. “But I saw Steph leave early. Lana too. Daniel disappeared around the same time as Brianna.”

“Daniel,” I said, the name sour on my tongue.

He’d been close with Brianna once. The way he slithered between groups, never quite loyal to any of them. Always with a smirk like he knew something no one else did.

“I think I need to talk to him,” I said.

Malik raised a brow. “He’s not going to tell you anything.”

“Maybe not. But if he’s lying, I’ll know.”

⸻