My phone buzzes with a few texts from Double C members who are helping me work on setup for tomorrow night’s big Halloween event. But I temporarily ignore them and focus on speed walking back to my apartment so I can be alone with my rage.
Julia and that fucking asswipe have been together for like a month, and he’s already saying shit about moving in together next year?
What the actual fuck?
I do my best to ignore shouts from across campus, trying to get my attention. Eyes on the cement, I walk. Hell, maybe I’m running. I don’t know.
Truth be told, I have no idea what the hell I’m doing anymore.
Ace
Finding one hundred cloaks in New York City without raising red flags has turned out to be harder than smuggling a goat through Grand Central Terminal.
Which, for the record, I’ve also done. And that was easier.
It’s one thing to say “Halloween party” when you’re buying a couple cloaks. People usually nod and smile. But it’s a whole other thing when you’re hunting for cloaks in bulk, preferably hooded, all black, and preferablynotwith red satin lining or embroidered pentagrams. The more I ask around, the more I get side-eyes like I’m the leader of a local death cult.
I’ve already gotten flagged by at least one Etsy seller who messaged me:“Hi, just checking… You’re not trying to perform a ritual, right?”
No, bro. I’m just trying to host the most epic, secretly sanctioned university Halloween bash in Double C history. One where no one can know it’s me behind it—except everyone kind of does.
My arms are full—two more delivered boxes of party supplies balanced badly on my hip—and I’m half thinking about how I still need to bribe someone at the farmers market in Chelsea for hay bales when I hear a loud crash from across the hall.
It’s sharp and sudden, sounds like glass on tile, and it’s loud enough to echo off the walls of our quiet hallway.
I freeze, and my eyes dart straight to Julia’s door.
And within a second or two, I hear an“Oh shit”muttered fromthe other side of her door.
A few seconds after that, I hear a thud.
My chest tightens as the boxes in my hands hit the floor.
“Julia?” I call, already crossing the hallway, everything else but the building panic in my gut disappearing.
No answer.
“Jules, open the door.” I knock several times, my fist pounding against the wood of her door harder each time. I jiggle the locked knob. “Julia, open the door!”
Still nothing.
Something’s wrong.
Immediately, I rush into my apartment, kicking the boxes on the floor in the door as I go, and snag the spare key I still have to Julia’s place and sprint back over to unlock the door.
The living room is dim, soft light glowing from the kitchen, and I spot Julia instantly. She’s in the kitchen, on the floor, and slumped against a cabinet. Blood is dripping from her palm, and broken glass is everywhere.
“Jesus, Julia.” I’m already moving toward her, my heart in my throat. “What the hell?”
Her eyes are wide and dazed as they flick up to mine. “I dropped it. A glass. I just wanted water, and it slipped and…and…”
She sees her own hand. The blood. And she starts to sway.
“Hey. No. No, no, no.” I crouch beside her, voice steady even though my insides are unraveling. “Look at me, Lia. Not your hand. Me.”
“I think I’m gonna—”
She doesn’t finish. Her eyes fall closed and she slumps forward, and I catch her before her head can hit the floor.
