Title: In the Trap
Series: Hazel & Maeve: The Campus Mysteries, Book One
Author: Jessica Cranberry
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: 05/10/2022
Heat Level: 1 – No Sex
Pairing: No Romance
Length: 67500
Genre: Contemporary, campus drama, college, contemporary, drug and alcohol use, HFN, lit/genre fiction, murder mystery, new adult, no romance, self-harm, students
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Description
For Hazel, an introvert with a knack for people watching, campus life is awkward and hard and…lonely. That is, until she starts to let her guard down around her roommate, Maeve—who’s fun and has a wicked flair for drama. Could there be more than just a friendship here? Maybe. But Hazel has a lot of family trauma to work through before figuring out the other big parts of her life. For now, she’s just happy to have someone to talk to.
All seems to go well until a night in the Trap—the university’s green space—leads to a tense encounter with some drunk guys. When one of the guys ends up dead, Hazel is implicated, and she and Maeve set out to solve the crime before police can connect either of them to it. But how can two amateur sleuths put together a solid case to hand over to the police in time? By following the campus online diaries, that’s how.
Set at the beginning of the internet age, people are just starting to share all their deepest, darkest secrets via the World Wide Web, yet the assumption of online anonymity may be a critical mistake. As the perpetrator posts their criminal diary for public consumption, Hazel and Maeve scramble to use technology to piece together the murderer’s identity. Can they hack their way out of becoming suspects? And if so, could they ever go back to their boring majors?
In the Trap
Jessica Cranberry © 2022
All Rights Reserved
I headed downstairs, armed with a heavy textbook and my travel mug filled with black coffee. Aunt Liddy had always served green tea when I pulled a late night for school. But now, the bitter bite of black coffee fit better.
White-speckled linoleum tiles and dim sconces lined the basement hall. At one end, the laundry room shimmered with a fluorescent-tubed glow. It was always quiet down here, except for the soft tumble of the jumbo-sized dryers or the occasional spraying whoosh as washers filled with water.
The space smelled of soothing lavender detergent. A chair leg screeched against the tiles as I scooted it out from under the table. I went about setting everything up: books on the left, angled precisely; notepad slanted to the left, coffee on the right; pen clicked and at the ready; highlighter… Damn, I’d left it upstairs. My coffee would be cold by the time I returned from getting one, so I forced myself to ignore its absence and get to work.
I read and copied what I thought might be important. But before long, the letters meant to explain the economy jumbled together. I hated those letters. I squeezed my temples and let out a groan.
“Hmmhm hmm hmm hm-hmm…” Someone’s humming broke through the silence of the basement.
I recognized a clear, strong voice when I heard one. Aunt Liddy had made me go to church where everybody sang, just not well. Elderly voices were tired and tinny; young ones were screamy. The songs all blended into a ghostly Sunday morning wail. But the crispness of someone who could really sing was akin to seeing a rare bird.
Screw it. I needed a highlighter anyway.
In the hallway, the laundry room singer’s shadow spun on the walls. This seemed like a semiprivate moment.
I paused at the doorway, listening to the sweet voice rise and break over a stunning melody. The air smelled overly perfumed, like warm dryer sheets. I held my breath and extended my neck enough to see my roommate, Maeve, with a set of headphones over her ears. She folded her laundry and danced. Underneath the spaghetti straps of a tank top, Maeve’s tawny-beige shoulders swiveled. Her body accentuated the beat; I could almost see the music. She wore a pair of tired-looking flip-flops, and her long flowy black pants swished over the cement floor.
Maeve turned suddenly. Her laundry basket balanced on one hip.
I wrenched myself back into the hall’s dimness, but it was too late.
“What the hell, Hazel?”
“Crap,” I muttered. Stepping back into her view, I waved awkwardly.
Maeve yanked the headphones off and tossed them on top of her neat pile of clean clothes. “Were you spying on me?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘spying.’” My fingers trembled with embarrassment as I tried to emphasize certain words. “I was studying down the hall and needed a highlighter. I heard you singing as I walked by. That’s all.”
“Well, sorry to interrupt your study sesh.” Maeve moved forward. “You wanna let me pass?”
Things had continued to be strained between us. She didn’t know I’d heard what she’d said about me, and I was fine with that. If she thought I was a pretentious bitch-loner, it made keeping her at arm’s length easier. I stepped out of her way.
The corner of her basket caught on the doorframe and knocked Maeve a bit sideways. She adjusted and kept going.
“Can I ask you a question?”
She stopped but didn’t turn around.
“Who were you listening to?” I asked.
She faced me. “Ani.”
I shook my head, hunching my shoulders toward my ears.
“Ani DiFranco?”
“Never heard of her.”
“That,” Maeve scoffed, “doesn’t surprise me.” She picked up her headphones out of the basket and headed for the stairs.
My cheeks stung as if I’d been slapped. Precious. All the easy labels people had assumed about me welled up to the surface. Bitch. Weirdo. Dyke. I forced my eyes closed. They don’t know you. It doesn’t matter.
I went back to my hidey-hole. Forget the highlighter; I’d sleep down here if I needed to. I could spend my whole college career in the basement. The way things were playing out, it probably wouldn’t last long anyway.
Back at the table, I blew out a few breaths. My mind kept reeling around how much I hated this place. College wasn’t what I’d expected. I never thought the experience would be rainbows and party hats, but I certainly hadn’t expected to be so lonely either.
I pressed my forefingers to the corners of my eyes, next to the bridge of my nose. I’d made a stupid deal with myself not to call Aunt Liddy until one month had passed. One more week. I only had to get through one more week, and then I would have proved myself to…myself. I imagined Aunt Liddy’s sugar-cookie-sweet voice urging me to keep going and stay focused on the work.
With a flip of my hand, I closed the textbook. Enough. I sat there, running my hands through my hair, gripping till it hurt. What was I supposed to do here?
Shh, slap, shh, slap, shh slap.
A shuffling sound in the hall drew near.
What now? I straightened my posture and listened.
Shh, slap, shh, slap, shh slap.
Fear bloomed out of a place of realization. I was overwhelmingly alone, with only my heart beating in my ears and a heavy textbook to protect myself. I could run. But the only way out was the way in.
Come on. Nobody’s coming after you.
The front desk didn’t let nonresidents in after a certain time. But that didn’t stop people from sneaking them in. Our neighbor across the hall had her boyfriend roaming the halls at odd hours, seemingly coming and going whenever he wanted. And still, the sound continued, growing louder with each smacking step. Someone was coming. Closer and closer.
Shh, slap, shh, slap, shh slap.
I stood; my chair slammed to the floor.
Shh, slap, shh, slap, shh, slap.
I gripped the textbook in both hands and flattened my body against the wall near the room’s entrance. I’d smack them in the face—imagined their cartilage crunching and breaking under the book’s momentum—and make a run for it.
Shh, slap, shh, slap.
The sound stopped. They were right outside. I could feel their presence in the hollow of the doorway, my sensory perception primed with the flood of adrenaline.
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Jessica Cranberry lives in the Sierra Nevada foothills and spends most days striking a balance between parenthood, teaching, and writing suspense novels or eclectic short stories. Find out more on Jessica’s Website.
