I caught a glimpse of him yesterday outside the coffee shop, that massive frame unmistakable even wrapped in a leather bomber jacket and from across the street.
I was so fucking tempted to walk up to him and demand answers. But the other part of my brain where logic is still alive and kicking knows I'm not ready for that conversation. Not when Kade's words still play in my skull like a broken record.
We want your fucking soul, Princess.
"Miss Waterson?"
My head snaps up. Professor Dodge stares at me expectantly, along with half the lecture hall.Shit.
"Sorry, could you repeat the question?" I ask.
A few students snicker. The professor's expression shifts from expectant to thoroughly disappointed, the look every authority figure perfects when dealing with the senator's space cadet stepdaughter.
"I asked if you could explain the relationship between market equilibrium and consumer surplus."
The words might as well be in ancient Greek. I've been physically present in every class this week, but my mind's been trapped in that warehouse, circling the same impossible choice like a dog chasing its tail.
"I... market equilibrium occurs when supply meets demand," I manage, the textbook definition floating up from somewhere in my scrambled brain. "Consumer surplus is the difference between what consumers are willing to pay and what they actually pay."
"Correct, if simplistic." He turns back to the board, dismissing me.
My phone buzzes.Finally.
But it's not Mom. It's Heather.
HEATHER
Party tonight at Kappa Sig. Josh will be there. He's been asking about you again.
I'd rather gargle broken fucking glass than deal with Josh's wandering hands and beer breath again.
But at least Heather's text reminds me that I still have a normal life.
A life where my biggest concern should be avoiding handsy frat boys and maybe slashing their tires, not negotiating with dangerous men who used to be my only safe place.
The class finally ends and I'm out the door before Dodge can assign whatever soul-crushing reading he's planning. My fingers tap out a panicked text on the screen as I navigate the crowded hallway.
MOM
Please text me back. I'm getting worried.
Nothing.
The message shows as delivered but not read.
That cold dread that's been building all morning crystallizes into pure fucking terror. Mom always has her phone.Always. It's her lifeline to the outside world, the one thing Todd can't completely control because he needs her to be reachable for his political bullshit.
I practically run to my car, my stupid fucking designer sneakers slapping against the pavement.
The drive to Blue River Heights usually takes forty-five minutes. I make it in thirty, blowing through yellow lights and taking corners like I'm auditioning for Fast and Furious.
The guard at the gate waves me through without question. The mansion looms at the end of the tree-lined drive, a beast made of white columns and pristine gardens that hide the rot underneath. It looks like something out of Southern Living magazine, a place where happy families have Sunday dinners and nobody ever screams behind closed doors.
What a fucking joke.
Todd's Bentley isn't in the driveway. His driver must have taken him to the airport for whatever "business trip" he's on this week. Probably fucking his twenty-two-year-old campaign manager in a hotel room paid for by taxpayers, but at least he's not here.
I hope tofuckthat's why he's gone.
