Maybe she checked the messages on his phone, as that’s the only explanation I could think of. Either way, I wasn’t eager to make an effort for her, but I will put in effort for my father because that’s what good daughters do.
Me: Fine.
Dad:
Classes didn’t start until Monday next week, so I had time to search the libraries for old records of her. She said she played volleyball in high school and college and thought it was strange that I had no interest in sports, even though I like to run. So, looking through the volleyball team photos would be a good place to start.
I scrolled through the map and discovered that the main library was on the first floor of the castle. This library held historic records, while the texts I needed for business studies were in the business school. I had to go back to the business school to pick up my books that had been purchased and paid for, but I wasn’t eager to do that today after running into the Warwick. What’s his name? Ezrah.
I could still feel the burn from his hands on my wrists and cheek, and the scent of cologne and natural sweat embedded into my senses, which urged me to take a shower to wash him off. The heat from his skin and incredible strength in his grip. I couldn’t compete strength-wise, but I had a gun and a knife to fight him off with, and it only takes one squeeze of the trigger to fell that enormous oak.
With my handgun snug under my mattress and a knife in my underwear drawer, I grabbed my keycard and ran down to the kitchen and social room to look for a poster or leaflet with contact info in case we had a problem. I’d say someone entering my room and leaving a dead rat was enough reason to change my locks.
Again, the whole hall felt empty, not because students were out exploring, but because it lacked life. Empty rooms without bags, clothes, or perfume. Empty of spirit.
There was a community corkboard in the kitchen, and as I searched it, I noticed that most notes were outdated from last season. I then stepped into the common room where old, worn sofas sat looking as if they hadn’t had an ass sit in them for weeks.
The front door swung open and shut, accompanied by quick footsteps and excited, breathless chatter. I peeked out to see two students who looked panicked, as if this hallway was unfamiliar to them.
“Can I help you?” They had no luggage with them, so I assumed they weren’t new residents, unless they had moved in without my knowledge.
“Mila,” the girl with blond hair and large almond eyes said, panted, hand pressed against her chest. “Her room?”
“I don’t think she’s here,” I assumed, even though she was two floors above me, so I might be mistaken.
“No,” she shook her head. “She’s in the medical chambers, cut her mouth. She gave us her keycard to get her asthma inhaler and a change of sweatshirt because she got blood all over it.”
I pointed skyward. “Third floor. How did she cut her mouth?” I asked, concerned as it sounded as if she had lost a lot of blood.
The girl with the pixie haircut answered as they backed away to go upstairs, “Razorblade,” she said, only for the blond girl to hush her.
“A razorblade? Gosh, I hope she's okay,” I was perplexed because how do you cut your mouth with a razorblade?
The pixie cut tugged on the blond, trying to stop her from talking to me as if they saw me as evil. As they ran up the stairs, I heard the pixie cut say, “I think that’s her. I think that’s the one that gave Mila the cupcake.”
What?
I ran back up to my room and found my phone resting on my bed, so I messaged Mila:What happened? I heard you cut your mouth.
Mila:
About ten minutes later, I heard the girls' footsteps coming back down the stairs, and I went out to confront them.
“Please, have I done something wrong?” I was begging because they seemed to be accusing me of something.
The pixie rested her hand on her hip and shot me a dirty, snappish look. “Mila said you swapped cupcakes,” she hissed at me, and I was taken aback by the venom in her tone.
“Yes,” I replied, confused, shrugging. “It was her idea to swap flavors. I received two chocolate cupcakes, and she received two raspberry cupcakes, and we swapped one each. I’m failing to see what the problem is.”
“Don’t act dumb,” the pixie argued heatedly as she barged past me, moved out of the way for them, knocking me against the stair rail. “Your cupcake, the one you gave to Mila, had the razorblade in it.”
I was aghast, horrified. “Oh my, that’s terrible,” but they ran down the bottom of the stairs, dodging a dark, sullen figure who was coming up, as his dark, narrowed eyes were fixed on me at the top of the stairs.
But I ignored him as the floor beneath my feet seemed to wave.
The metalhead spoke, but I didn’t hear what he said as my head spun.
“It was supposed to be for me,” I breathed, almost passing out. “That cupcake was supposed for me.”
