I Can Dream of You Killing Me

【Claire's POV】

Cold rain pounds against my face. My hands ache from gripping the shovel, but I can't stop digging. Won't stop.

The apple tree looms above me, its bare branches twisted like skeletal fingers against the storm-darkened sky. The hole grows deeper with each desperate thrust of the spade into the muddy earth. Something putrid mingles with the scent of rotting fruit—sweet decay that turns my stomach. But the hands keep moving. Not my hands. Someone else's hands using my body.

Deeper. It has to be deeper.

The rain soaks through my jacket, my jeans, but the chill doesn't matter. Nothing matters except finishing this terrible task. The metal blade strikes something soft, yielding. My stomach lurches, but the digging continues.

Lightning splits the sky.

Suddenly I'm running. My legs pump beneath me as I sprint down a rain-slicked sidewalk, sneakers splashing through puddles. The streetlights cast sickly yellow pools that do nothing to cut through the darkness ahead. My lungs burn. My glasses—when did I put on glasses?—fog with each panicked breath.

Behind me, footsteps. Getting closer.

I risk a glance over my shoulder and my blood turns to ice. A figure in a dark hoodie follows, moving with predatory purpose. I stumble, nearly falling, and push harder. The dormitory lights shine ahead like salvation. Almost there. Almost safe.

A hand crashes across my face.

The impact sends my glasses flying into the wet grass. The world blurs into impressions—streetlight halos, the dark shape of my attacker, rain-soaked concrete rushing up to meet me.

Then nothing.

I jerked awake, my hand instinctively flying to my cheek where the phantom slap still stung. The familiar ache of a hangover immediately crashed over me like a second wave of punishment. My mouth tasted like someone had poured battery acid down my throat, and the dorm room spun lazily around me despite my best efforts to focus.

Designer clothes lay scattered across the floor—a tailored blazer crumpled beside my bed, expensive heels kicked off carelessly by the door. The lingering scent of high-end perfume couldn't quite mask the stale alcohol that seemed to seep from my pores. My luxury handbag sat open on my desk, credit cards and cash spilling out like evidence of another wasted night.

God, what time was it? And more importantly, how had I gotten back here?

The memory came in fragments. Blue Moon Bar. Shots of something that burned. A guy with a motorcycle jacket who kept buying rounds. After that... nothing. Just the familiar black hole that swallowed the end of most of my nights.

I pressed my palms against my temples, trying to squeeze out the pain. That dream—it had felt so real. More real than the sheets I'd woken up in, more real than the hangover currently turning my skull into a construction site. The rain, the terror, the air...

The door burst open, making me wince at the sound. Riley Patterson stumbled in, her sensible rain jacket dripping onto the already-damp carpet. She looked like she'd been running through the storm outside—her brown hair plastered to her head, cheeks flushed from the cold.

"Claire!" She seemed genuinely relieved to see me conscious. "Thank God you're awake. Samantha brought you back around two AM. You were completely out of it."

Right. Samantha Cruz, the babysitter my mother insisted on calling a "personal security consultant." She'd probably found me passed out in some corner booth again, credit card still running a tab that could feed a small country.

"I'm fine," I mumbled, though my voice came out as more of a croak. "Just the usual Tuesday night special."

Riley shook her head as she peeled off her wet jacket. Her laptop sat open on her desk, surrounded by LSAT prep books and color-coded study schedules. At least one of us had their life together.

"It's Wednesday morning, Claire. And this can't keep happening. You're going to—"

"Where are Jade and Stella?" I interrupted, not in the mood for another lecture about my "self-destructive behavior." I'd heard enough of those from my mother's parade of therapists.

Riley paused in toweling off her hair. "Stella's out with her boyfriend again. I swear, she spends more time at his place than here. And Jade..." She frowned. "She's still working, I think. Whatever that job is. She left around ten last night and I haven't seen her since."

Something cold crept up my spine. "Working? What kind of job keeps someone out all night?"

"That's what I've been wondering. She's been so secretive about it lately. Says it pays well, but..." Riley shrugged. "I'm worried about her. You know how desperate she is for money with her mom's medical bills. I just hope she's not doing anything dangerous."

Riley moved to her laptop, probably planning to dive back into her Constitutional Law notes.

"Oh my God." The words came out as barely a whisper.

"What?" I sat up straighter, ignoring the way it made my head pound.

"Claire, you need to see this." Riley's voice shook. She turned the laptop toward me, and I saw the headline that had drained all color from her face:

TRINITY STATE STUDENT FOUND MURDERED AT MIRROR LAKE

Police Investigating Death of Female Student Discovered on Campus

The words hit me like a physical blow. That dream—the rain, the running, the terror. The glasses flying through the air. It crashed back over me with startling clarity, every detail suddenly sharp and urgent instead of just another alcohol-hazed nightmare.

"They found her early this morning," Riley continued reading. "A jogger discovered the body near the lakeside trail. Police aren't releasing the victim's name yet, but..." She looked up at me with wide, frightened eyes. "Claire, what if it's someone we know?"

I couldn't answer.