On the way back to my dorm, I stop by the second-floor bathroom and wash my hands, twice, letting the water run cold and clear over my wrists. I stare at myself in the mirror. The face that looks back is almost angelic, if you don’t know how to read faces. If you do, it’s a face designed for strategy. Every line is a weapon. Every smile is loaded.
I like myself best when I am about to ruin someone.
And Amara Marcus will look so beautiful as she unravels by my hand.
That afternoon, she slips up. Tiny, but critical.
Just past three, Amara exits the library by the west corridor instead of her usual route. She’s alone, her bookbag slung low, her eyes fixed on her shoes. She’s so distracted she doesn’t see the custodial cart blocking the corridor. She sidesteps it, almost colliding with a freshman. In the shuffle, her earring, left side, sapphire stud, catches on the freshman’s shoulder. It drops to the marble in a soundless tumble.
Neither of them notice.
I do.
Bending, I grab the earring, palming it before anyone can see. I run my thumb over the back and place it in my breast pocket. The plan crystallizes.
At 3:45, I intercept her on the east staircase. I time it so that she has no escape route except past me.
She sees me at the landing, her eyes going wide, then narrowing. She checks her pace, but only slightly. I step aside, just enough to let her by, but not enough to feel safe.
As she passes, I say, “You dropped this.”
She freezes.
I hold out the earring, flat on my palm, the sapphire glinting under the halogen lights.
She takes it. Her fingers brush mine—ice cold, but they twitch at the contact.
“I didn’t realize it was gone,” she says.
I smile. “Good thing I was there.”
For a moment, she looks at me. Really looks. Not the sidelong, polite glance of the morning, but a direct stare, as if she’s memorizing every inch of me.
“Thank you,” she says, voice rough. She puts the earring in, turning her face away to shield the process.
I let her pass, but not before adding, “You’re welcome, Amara.”
I hear her footsteps echo down the stairs, too quick to be calm.
She didn’t even ask my name, but now she knows I’m watching her, which will rattle her.
Exactly what I want.
There’s a rule among predators: never interrupt another’s kill unless you want a fight.
So I’m careful when I see Eve Allen approach Amara in the east quad.
I told them I didn’t need help.
Eve Allen is Westpoint’s resident martyr—the scholarship girl with a spine like steel cable and a perpetual air of someone about to punch a hole through your rationale. She doesn’t belong in this ecosystem, which is precisely why I find her presence so fascinating. Precisely why she belongs.
She’s good for Colton.
Not so much for me. I want to track my girl in peace.
Amara is at a bench, meticulously avoiding the main dining hall for lunch today. She’s got her eyes closed, allowing the sun to soak into her skin. She doesn’t notice Eve until the other girl is standing over her, hands jammed into her coat pockets.
I watch from behind a stone column, close enough to hear but just out of sight.
