As my face heats up from the memory, another presence looms, tall and heavy. The fluorescent lights glint off a pair of thick black-framed glasses. Polo shirt (embroidered with the school’s mascot) tucked into navy trousers. HEYDUDE shoes, no socks.
Principal Callahan.
Easton and I straighten our spines like two soldiers called to attention, his easy grin turning sheepish, like we’ve been busted doing something we aren’t supposed to be doing.
“Uh, hey, Mr.Callahan.” He pauses before adding, “Sir.”
Callahan doesn’t return the greeting, his gaze unwavering. “I assume you were present earlier this week for the announcement about themascottheft?” He emphasizes the wordmascotand fails to blink.
“Yes. Um. Sir,” we both stammer. I feel the weight of his scrutiny shift toward me.
Callahan tilts his head, studying us. “You wouldn’t happen to have any information about that, would you, Ms.Conrad?”
The way he says my name makes me squirm.
Easton’s expression flickers, but he recovers quickly, plastering on an exaggerated look of innocence.
“Nope. We’re just as curious as everyone else to find out who did it!”
Callahan doesn’t look convinced.
His piercing eyes linger primarily on Easton, narrowing ever so slightly behind the lenses of his glasses. The silence stretches painfully, and Easton shifts on his heels, doing a terrible job of appearing nonchalant.
If guilt were perfume, he’d be drowning in it.
My throat tightens under Callahan’s stare, and I feel like the coconspirator I am, considering I drove the getaway car…
“Good,” Callahan says at last. “Stay out of trouble—bothofyou.”
He turns to leave but not before throwing one last, unreadable glance over his shoulder in my direction. It’s the kind of look that has me wondering if he knows everything and is just waiting for us to dig our own graves.
Or if he knows nothing and is suspicious of everyone.
As soon as he’s out of earshot, Easton lets out a loud exhale.
“Holy shit. Do you think he knows?”
“How the heck should I know?!” I practically shriek, my stomach twisting into knots. The nerves aren’t for myself—they’re for Easton, who looks like he’s one step away from chasing after our principal and blurting out a full confession.
He runs a hand through his hair. “What if he does? Like,actuallyknows?”
“Maybe if you didn’t walk around acting guilty, he wouldn’t have his eye on you!” I hiss, pulling him down the hallway toward the exit. “You looked like you were about to confess to a murder.”
He’s going to ruin this for us.
“But you saw how he was looking at me, right?” he goes on. “He could smell my fear.”
“That’s because youreekof it.” I shove through the heavy doors. “Pull yourself together, Westermann—and keep your voicedown.”
Easton groans, following behind me, muttering, “This is bad. This is really, really bad.”
“It’s only bad if you make it bad,” I say reasonably, trying to sound confident. “Just stop acting guilty, okay?”
“Easy for you to say,” he whines. “Jesus. I think I aged ten years in those two minutes.”
We walk quickly through the parking lot side by side, late-afternoon sun casting long shadows across the asphalt. The air is warm, but a slight breeze carries the lingering smell of cut grass and exhaust fumes, and I find myself unable to shake the tension that Callahan’s words left behind.
The guy has a knack for making even innocent people feel like criminals, and…well, Easton and I aren’t exactly innocent.
