He should be walking away by now. He usually does. But instead, he shifts his weight against the lockers, settling in.
“Why not?” he asks after a moment.
“Why not what?”
“Why don’t you want a compliment from me? Most people would sell their dignity for less.”
I blink at him, trying to work out what game he’s playing. “Because I don’t think you mean it.”
His brow lifts slightly. “Who says I don’t mean it?”
I fold my arms. “So, you deny it?”
He pauses, and something flashes in his eyes—too quick to name. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t.”
I stare at him. I don’t know what I expect, but it’s not the weird silence that follows.
Whatever it is, I choose not to entertain his game-playing. “Liam said something to me, earlier,” I say instead.
Kai cocks his head slightly, curious. “And what would that be?”
I hesitate, and for once, I try not to overthink it. “This whole thing… you’re just messing with me, aren’t you?”
His expression doesn’t change.
“You don’t like me,” I add. “Because I’m not like you.”
He stares at me for a long moment, then, slowly, he smiles. It’s a strange kind of smile, though I can’t quite pinpoint why it looks so wrong.
“And what an interesting conclusion you’ve arrived at,” he says, but then he leans in and his massive frame towers over me. “Why wouldn’t I like you?” he says softly. Almost amused.
My throat dries. “I don’t know.”
He nods once. “Bye, Adeline.”
With that, he turns on his heel and walks away, not looking back once.
Not that I expect him to.
***
My stomach churns with unease as I stand in front of the door to the computer room. This feels like trespassing. Actually, no—itistrespassing. Am I even allowed in here without permission? Definitely not.
I hesitate, gnawing on my bottom lip. There’s only one computer at home, so my sisters and I are forced to share, meaning I have very limited access. And I meanvery. Unless I want to barter my soul for ten minutes of screen time, this is mybest shot. My heart races as I glance around the corridor. The coast is clear. For now.
Still, something feels off. If I go in, the person sending these messages is getting exactly what they want. I know it. And yet, here I am anyway, walking straight into their trap. Brilliant move, me. Truly inspired.
This definitely isn’t one of my wisest decisions.
As I approach the door, I notice that it’s already slightly ajar.
Okay… weird.
I’m about to talk myself out of it, but I just tell myself that I’m not really breaking in if they left the door open like this. It would be foolish to expect no one to enter. With that justification (and a silent prayer that this won’t end badly for me), I nudge the door open and step inside. I make my way to one of the empty stations, specifically the furthest one from the door, just in case someone walks in.
I log in with my student account, my fingers tapping anxiously on the desk as the screen flickers to life. I quickly type in the date that has been haunted me for months—February 4, 2014.
The results load, and the usual headlines pop up—articles about my dad’s accident. I’ve read them so many times I could probably recite them in my sleep. My fingers hover over the mouse, ready to scroll past them, when one headline stops me cold:
