Double Vision

Chapter Four

                  Later that evening, when I returned to my bedroom still clutching the folder, I’d already come to a decision.

                  It hadn’t exactly taken years of thought; in fact, my mind had been made up somewhere between climbing the stairs and making it to our room. The obvious seemed clear: what I held in my hand belonged to Reese, and Reese only, regardless of whether she was still around to make use of that privilege.

                  So, after the door clicked into place behind me, I shoved the folder into her now-empty drawer and tried not to think about it.

                  On that front, however, I failed miserably. The harder I tried not to dwell on the fact my sister’s unread possessions were idling six feet away from my bed, the more I thought of exactly that. Sitting cross-legged on top of my duvet, as I buried my head in that day’s homework just to try focusing on something else, the curiosity only swelled.

                  What if it’s important? The voice in my head was taunting, drawing me away from my own resolve. What if it’s something you need to find out, and you never know?

                  It doesn’t have my name on it, I pointed out, though it was only to myself. It’s not my business.

                  So? Just do it anyway.

                  I can’t.

                  Only then did I remember the back-and-forth exchange was going on inside my head, and that had to be a sign of madness in itself. I stopped straightaway, shaking my head and trying to return my attention to the page of buffer calculations in my lap.

                  Ten minutes. That was all it took: ten minutes spent glancing up and down, eyes flitting between chemical formulas and Reese’s closed drawer, before I cracked. All of a sudden, the weight got the better of me, pushing down on my shoulders, until I couldn’t take it any longer. I jumped up from the bed with slightly unnecessary haste, headed over to the bedside table and retrieved the folder.

                  It didn’t contain anything earth-shattering – not that I expected it to. Most of it was random: forgotten sheets of A-level notes that had got muddled into my own; a to-do list dating back to three weeks before her death; login details to her UCAS application. Though it still hurt to see the handwritten words on the page, coupled with the striking normality of everything, none of it really meant anything. The only thing that jumped off the paper was her blissful ignorance: how she’d written down facts for exams she’d never have to take, applied for a university place she’d never fill, listed tasks that never mattered in the grand scheme of things. Her unawareness now seemed so ridiculously out of place, but of course at the time we’d all been as clueless as each other.

                  The pace of my heart slowed before I reached the end of the pile; I’d already realised there was nothing significant amongst it all. Whatever Mitchell might’ve seen hardly mattered. But just as I allowed myself to be lulled into a sense of relief, I uncovered the last piece of paper.

                  It looked unassuming at first; a folded sheet, it was creased all over, like it had been well-thumbed or carried around in a pocket. I expected to find a shopping list, or something else that had long since lost its relevance, but instead was faced with something quite different.

                  Suddenly, my heart started thumping again.

                  It was a list, but not of anything as disposable as a week’s shopping. Composed of ten items, written in vibrant purple ink, it was headed by a title that had my stomach doing a somersault.