Avia Huxley has been waiting her whole life for senior year. Her mission: take down The Elites, a group who destroyed her mother's life years ago.
Now, their children are almost adults. Avia vows to destroy the new generation so something like her d...
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It's Friday night, and I should be at the big game.
Instead, I'm hunched over my computer in my dim bedroom trying to figure out where she is. Gemma Taylor, the girl who could help me destroy The Elites, is getting harder and harder to track down as I continue to scroll.
I search through news article after news article and e-mail all the mental health facilities nearby, but nothing comes up.
They seem to not be able to give me any information, even though by law, I know they're allowed to.
They can't disclose much because of confidentiality agreements, but whether a patient is admitted isn't on that list.
At the end of the first results page, I find her Instagram account. It's undiscovered, with only 40 followers to her name. Besides the occasional selfie, there's numerous photos containing quite explicit information. Updates on her mental health, details on her psychiatrists, where she gets her hair dyed, but no hospital name.
Moving down the page, I grow more frustrated as nothing I need pops up. Selfish thoughts creep into my brain about how I should be enjoying homecoming weekend, not stalking a girl's Instagram.
I should be watching Kell and Peter score touchdowns. Instead, I'm conducting this futile search for a girl who was last seen by the general public years ago.
But I'm the only one who can take these popularity-obsessed monsters down.
I have to try harder. I have to keep digging.
Zooming in on a selfie of Gemma, I notice blurry lettering in the background. I can make out the first word, Saint, but the rest of the sign is illegible. Great, that's a good step.
Typing quickly, I search ' Nearby mental hospital Saint', and become baffled at the first result, front and center, staring at me, mocking me. Saint John's Mental Health Center, a name that I've been searching for these past few hours, but never appeared until now.
Without skipping a beat, I grab my keys and jacket as I head out the door. I should probably tell my mom I'm going out, so I lean back on the door to shout goodbye.
I get no response.
Her car's not even in the garage.
~
Looking up at the dingy place, I realize why this wasn't a featured result on Google. The place has one floor and is probably the size of my living room and kitchen put together.
Nevertheless, Gemma or whoever sent her here probably chose to come here for the secrecy. The outside reads "Saint John's Center," written in crudely plastered black paint.
It's hidden in plain sight, surrounded by strip malls and quaint diners. People would never suspect people with the most acute of disorders would be placed here.
