Page 31 of Wicked Little Secret
Nyssa Oliver was—is—the rare pearl you find amid a beach of empty seashells.
So when she forgot to log off the library computer and I’m lurking in the background, I couldn’t resist the opportunity that arose. I gave it a beat or two, ensuring she was gone, before I casually strolled over and sat down at the computer desk.
That easily, I had access to her login information, including her iCloud.
An overreach? Perhaps.
Necessary? Absolutely.
A British philosopher by the name of Edmund Burke once said the only thing necessary for evil to triumph is when good men stand by and do nothing.
This was what had to be done. This was what I had to do in order to make sure Nyssa went unharmed and evil wouldn’t prevail. Some would claim it’s character assassination to categorize Wicker as evil, but given everything I know, I’d say it’s perfectly justified.
I logged onto her iCloud and skimmed through many of her files. I grew curious and found her social media accounts.
It was a deep rabbit hole to fall down. So deep, at home I hardly noticed Atticus whining for his morning kibble.
It was Saturday and I had gotten so distracted, I forgot to refill his bowl.
“Alright, alright, Atty. Here you go.”
I set the bowl down for him and then returned to my investigation.
My heart leaped inside my chest when I came across her Instagram profile.
She was beaming at the camera, mouth open in a laugh, brown skin luminescent under the shimmering sunshine. The photo had to be from summer break.
There was sand in the background and ocean waves crashing against the shoreline.
Was she on vacation?
Bikini top. Giant sunglasses. Her usual curls were gone for twisty braids that accentuated her face.
The same heart-pounding thrill that had pushed me to drive in the rain to look for her returned in spades.
Over eight hundred posts. Five thousand followers. A witty blurb for her bio that read, ‘Living life on the sunny side up’, punctuated by a sun and paintbrush emoji.
Her entire life was captured in photographic form.
My biggest peek into her world yet.
Parties. Birthday dinners. Outfits of the day. Vacations to Montbec Island and Las Vegas. Throwback photos of her freshman year at a different college. Photos of her artwork that she proudly—and somewhat shyly, in some cases—posted.
I scrolled down to the beach photo that’s her profile picture, enlarging it on my screen. It was one of an entire collection. A slight grin twitched at the corner of my mouth as I swiped through the photos.
She built a sandcastle. She wore a ridiculously huge, floppy sun hat that blew away in the wind and the photographer of the photo snapped her chasing after it. At some point, she gave up, collapsed in the wet sand, her head thrown back in wild laughter.
Then I made the mistake of swiping to the very lastphoto, where I discovered who must’ve taken all the other pictures.
It was a two-person selfie of her and Wicker. He had pointed the camera toward himself as she squeezed in from the side to kiss him on the cheek.
An irrational hatred unlike anything I’ve ever felt flooded me. It came on strong, cascading over me like a tsunami wave that washed out all reasonable thought.
By the time ten p.m. hit, I had practically pored over every photo on her account. I had read entire comment sections and gone to posts where she had been tagged on.
It eventually led me to Wicker’s profile, where my worst nightmare had been confirmed.
He had photos of her on his profile.