Kasia Andrews expects very little on a Monday morning. Until, whilst locked in the PE store cupboard, accompanied with basket balls, netballs, soccer balls and the guy that she doesn’t really know anymore, Charlie Allen, they both uncover the diary of the recently deceased Devin Hill.

            Devin had everything going for her, the Golden Girl of Brookhill High, no one expected that she’d be the first out of the popular crowd to fall off her throne and be the girl everyone stealthily avoided due to her college boyfriend. Whilst Kasia doesn’t want to nosy around in the life that Devin was living before, it seems like the best thing to do now that multiple theories are arising of what really happened to Devin Hill.

             In the midst of being thrust together with Charlie, a number of answers to questions she isn’t sure she wants to ask, Devin’s past not making for good bedtime reading, and it getting dangerous for both Kasia and Charlie, the only question left on the tip of their tongues is why.


            Life seems to be one vicious circle of irony, continuous and never ending. We’re required to roll with the punches, each and every one of us, life screws us all up when we finally get to the finish line, and when that happens, we either want our time to end, or we want it to go on longer so we can do everything that we postponed, or forgive the people we cut out of our lives.

            “Should we read it?” Charlie asks blinking slowly whilst looking between the diary which is within his reaching distance, and down at his shoes which are spread out in front of him.

            “It’s personal. I feel like we’d be imposing.”

            “She’s dead, Kasia.”

            I shrug my shoulders, rubbing my fingers along my lips. “Does it make it any different?” The question requires no answer, it’s so obvious, right in front of our eyes – in the sense that we can’t see it, but we can feel it enough to know that it’s there. “It just doesn’t feel right.”

            Charlie remains silent, tongue peeking out to dampen his lips. “If something happened to me,” he says, voice low, “and I had something like this—a diary, a journal, whatever, I think I’d want someone with the best intentions to read it, to try and find out what happened. I just . . . want to explore every possibility, I suppose, so it doesn’t feel like later, I could have done something.”

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