I sigh in defeat.

I’m never going to figure this out. Not like this. Notes with big erasure marks and crossing out in front of me.

I need to do this for James.

Closing my eyes, I walk through my memories of that day. The day my best friend died.

OoOoO

I left the party around 10:20 pm. I know that since my curfew was 11 and Bobby’s house was about 30 minutes away from mine.

So whoever kidnapped James did it after that.

But the autopsy said he had a drug in his system. One that was slow acting, so he must have been given it before I left.

We mostly stayed together at parties, both of us pretty awkward. He was one of those popular people that didn’t know he was. That made him even more attractive according to some girls. Many were envious of my close friendship with James, not believing it to be just a platonic bond.

There was a moment that he went to the bathroom, but I was within eyeline of it. No one intercepted him.

Before that, we danced for a bit, laughing how neither of us had any rhythm. He didn’t drink or eat anything then.

He never had a drink.

Wait. Something is nagging at the outer edge of my memory. I open my phone and tap my photos app. I scroll until I find what I’m searching for.

It’s a series of three photos taken seconds within one another. A friend of ours, Cisco, snapped these pictures of the three of us. In the first one, I’m in the middle, severely shorter than them. Cisco is on my left with James to my right. We are posing with peace signs. Cisco has a cup in his other hand. I also have a cup in my hand. I remember wanting a drink because I hadn’t drank anything all day.

Then in the next one, Cisco still has his in his grasp, but I had set mine on the table.

I swipe to the last one, and I audibly gasp.

James is holding a cup. One that he didn’t have before. My cup.

That is the only thing he drank the entire evening. I was with him 98% of the time. It has to be from that.

But if he was drugged from my cup, that means I was the target.

I feel myself begin to spiral. My thoughts are a mess and I’m practically ripping off my fingernails in nervousness.

Who would want to hurt me? Kill me even? He is much bigger than me. He wouldn’t have been out of it as much as me if I drank it. Is that why he died? Because he wasn’t out of it enough?

Oh my god. He died and it’s all my fault.

There’s one more question in my head, arguably the most important one to solving James’ death.

Who gave me the cup?