4. Ivy League

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Strangled

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Strangled. The news comes just one hour after Tom's messages and it's immediately added to the word document...

'Sienna: killed by strangulation.'

Linda Carter–Oak Valley's only journalist–flashes across the TV screen, microphone in hand. She's stood outside the entrance of Rockaby park, updating our town on the latest and (not so) greatest. Tom–loving the attention–is stood next to her, hanging off of her every word.

"Here, we have Tom Jackson–a student at Lincoln high."

Tom gives the camera a coy wave.

Coy, my ass!

"Tom, Senior students received truth or death messages addressed to Sienna just hours before she was murdered. This afternoon, another two messages came through targeted at you. How are you feeling at this present time?"

"Pretty freaked out, to be honest," he replies, dazzling her with a smile.

I roll my eyes.

Tom is a drama student and will likely use this as a TV credit on his résumé one day. If he's not dead by tomorrow, that is.

"Police are insisting the messages are not connected to Sienna's death. Does that ease your mind?"

Tom nods. "Absolutely. But just to be safe, I've messaged the sender back."

"What did you say?" asks Linda.

I sit forward in my seat.

"Truth. I chose truth."

Holy shit!

Tom may be an egotistical dude but he's certainly no idiot.

"What're you watching, hon?" asks Mom, lowering her magazine.

"The news. They're reporting on Sienna's murder."

She nods. "Poor girl. I heard she was strangled. Some of the ladies were talking about it at yoga."

I mute the TV, suddenly more interested in Mom's customers than what Linda has to say.

"Did they say anything interesting?"

"Only that her parents are inconsolable. She just got early acceptance into Harvard. Such a shame."

"Harvard?"

That's interesting.

"Hmm."

"Studying what?" I ask.

Mom shrugs.

I'm about to dig deeper when my phone vibrates against my thigh, alerting me of an incoming picture message, armed with one powerful caption.

Unknown:
Thomas Jackson is sleeping with his step-sister–Francesca Wills.

Shit!

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