“You were… you were—”
“Your teacher? Someone youtrusted? The harmless man in the corner of the room?” he finishes for me, voice lilting with amusement. “Yes. All of those things. And not one of them, really. Why do you think recommended you to the school?”
My breath shortens. My knees want to give out.
“Why?” I ask, barely audible. “Why would you do this?”
He just watches me, head tilted slightly, almost thoughtfully. “You really don’t remember me, do you?” he asks, and there’s something almost playful in his voice. Teasing. Like this is some kind ofgameto him.
“I—what?” My voice breaks, and he laughs.
It’s not a loud laugh. It’s not even cruel.
Worse.
It’spleased.
“I knew your father. In fact, I was his friend,” he says, but the way he says “friend” sends a shiver down my spine. “I rememberthe first time you walked into our shop. Fresh from school, still all softness and starlight. I was… intrigued.”
He steps closer, and I can’t move. I can’t breathe.
“You were beautiful in your grief,” he says, his voice low. “You still are. Watching you squirm, watching you run… it was art.”
My stomach turns.
“Your father got a call a few weeks later,” he continues, unfazed, almost conversational. “From you. An emergency. School-related, wasn’t it? Naturally, I followed. And I saw what happened.”
My pulse drums in my ears, as I watch him slowly exhale… casually. Like he’s remembering it fondly. Like he’s remembering something thatisn’tthe day of two people’s deaths. “Wren Angelina Steele died that night. It’s awfully tragic, isn’t it? Your father being the cause of the death of someone so young. And all she wanted to do was help her mother.”
My breath catches.
What?
Does that mean…
Wren wasn’t buying drugs for herself that day. She was buying them for her mother.
All this time. All this time, I thought—
Oh god.
Hot, traitorous tears spill over before I can stop them. They burn down my cheeks, faster than I can wipe them away.
I shake my head slowly. “You’re lying.”
He smiles, and it’s almost pitying. “I have no reason to lie. Besides… the truth has always been there. You’ve just been too afraid to open your eyes.”
He steps closer. His voice drops to a near whisper.
“I was enjoying our little game, you know,” he continues, tone almost mournful. “But then you had to go and ruin it. Sterling. Really? After everything we built together?”
He reaches into his coat pocket. Something shifts beneath the fabric. Metal, maybe. I don’t know. I don’t want to know.
“Unfortunately,” he says, voice suddenly sharp, “our interests no longer align.”
I inch sideways, eyes locked on his hand.
But Anderson just smiles again. A different kind of smile now. A colder, emptier smile.
