Not a stranger.
Not some anonymous face from the other side of a screen.
It’s Isaac.
He’s standing at the edge in the middle of the bridge, facing the river, the hem of his long, dark overcoat shifting in the wind. His shoulders are set, his head tilted slightly toward the water as though he’s listening to it.
He remains still for a long time as I just watch him, unmoving for so long I begin to wonder if maybe time has slowed or stopped completely. Finally, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls something out. I can just barely make out the shape of the flowers from where I stand. Three white lilies. Their petals catch what little moonlight there is as he holds them in his hands. His lips move like he’s whispering to them.
Reaching out over the stone wall, he tosses them, one by one, into the water below. The rushing current snatches them in its clutches and carries them away.
Is this what the stranger wanted me to see?
Isaac…mourning?
Or is he confessing?
I don’t realize I’m moving, stepping forward as though pulled by some invisible force, until a twig snaps under my foot. I freeze, and my blood runs colder than the breeze that blows through my hair.
Isaac turns, his gaze cutting through the dark and somehow finding me immediately.
“Who’s there?”
I should turn and run while I still have a chance, before he knows it’s me. But ever since he stepped into that lecture hall when I was there after hours the first night of the semester, something has drawn me to him. Just like it does now.
My survival instincts must be worse than a damn goldfish’s.
Stepping out of the cover of the trees, I move toward the edge of the bridge, close enough to let the moon cast its light on me so he can make out my face but far enough away that I can still escape if I need to.
His brow furrows. “Jackson?”
For several seconds, we just stare at each other, the night pressing in around us.
He looks like a damn angel of darkness in all black. Beneath the black overcoat is another of his suit vests, but both it and the shirt under it are black too. Black pants, black shoes. From here, even his eyes look black.
The river sounds louder now, rushing beneath the bridge like it’s alive. The more time that passes, the darker the shadows over his face become. Surprise and bewilderment quicklytransform into something else, something that probably mirrors the way I’m looking back at him. With suspicion.
“Why are you here?”
Because someone wants me to believe you murdered someone on this bridge.
Because I thought I could handle finding out.
Because I don’t know how to stop wanting the thing I’m afraid of.
He takes a step toward me.
I take one back.
My throat tightens. I want to say something,anything, but all that comes out is a breath that fogs the air between us.
His expression shifts again, this time into something even darker, far more dangerous than simple disappointment.
“Did you follow me?”
I can hear it in his voice, the anger. I open my mouth, but my own voice continues to fail me. It’s not like I can tell him someone told me to come or that…hey, just wanted to see if this is where you murdered a student.
At the thought, my eyes flick to the river below, and I’m suddenly aware of how far the drop is. The current is furious, thrashing against the rocks like it wants to devour everything it touches. If someone went over, it would be hours before they found the body. Maybe days.
