Thomas turned, and the stain was hidden. He started talking about the dorm renovations, but his tone felt too light,too forced, and Andrew didn’t miss the way his fingers trembled as he fiddled with his sleeve again.
The first question on Andrew’s mind wasWhose blood was that?
The second was, how was Andrew meant to pack down the heat pulsing behind his eyes, spreading through his jaw, burning him all the way down? If someone had hurt Thomas—
Breathe. Let nothing show on your face.
He fell into step behind Thomas, but in his head roared a white static.
Because here was the truth about his friendship with Thomas Rye:
Once upon a time, Andrew had cut out his heart and given it to this boy, and he was very sure Thomas had no idea that Andrew would do anything for him. Protect him. Lie for him.
Kill for him.
TWO
Andrew should be forgotten. That was what happened to the quiet ones, the wallflowers. When people like him made a friend like Thomas, there should be nowhere to stand in the wake of glory and chaos that Thomas left behind.
But Thomas always looked over his shoulder before turning a corner, always reached back to tug Andrew after him. It seemed as natural to him as breathing, that need to check that Andrew hadn’t been left behind. He dreaded the day Thomas would drop the habit, but he still hadn’t. Even after they detoured past the dorms to dump luggage and joined the stream of students pouring into the halls of Wickwood Academy, Thomas still reached back to stop them from being separated in the crush.
Andrew was drunk with relief.Let this be one thing that never changed.
Dove was already changing everything else. She should be here with them, bickering with Thomas about something inane until he shot back a quip that startled her into a laugh.
Instead, Dove’s icy war must be extending to Thomas, too. Andrew knew they’d had some massive blowup before school let out for the summer—he’d decided to stay out of it this time—but they usually smoothed things over by pretending it never happened. Andrew couldn’t live like that; if one thingwent wrong, it festered in his chest until he couldn’t bear it, and then someone would have to fix it for him before he spiraled.
Dove could be just catching up with friends. She had a dramatic academic rivalry with her roommate, Lana Lang. The kind where they battled for top of the class all day, but then as soon as 4:00 p.m. hit, they were sharing Sour Skittles and snorting over inside jokes. Dove-plus-Lana did not drift into Dove-plus-Thomas-plus-Andrew, though. They orbited separate suns. Possibly because Thomas had no time, interest, or tolerance for most people, and he let them know it, too.
Other people existed only in Thomas’s periphery, but the Perrault twins eclipsed his entire galaxy.
There was something intoxicating about meaning that much to one person.
Addictive.
But Andrew would never admit it out loud.
“I have to tell you something,” Thomas said, his words half-lost in the rising chatter of other students. “Tonight when we sneak out to stargaze—Oh. Should we still do that?” He shot Andrew a worried look. “We shouldn’t, right?”
Why, because they were seniors now? Thomas had a chronic need to fight every rule ever, so worrying wasn’t like him.
“I still want to,” Andrew said.
Lines smoothed on Thomas’s forehead. “I’ll tell you everything tonight, but you have to swear to believe me.”
“Well, that’s cryptic—” Andrew started, but Thomas’s fingers dug into his sleeve hard enough for him to forget what he was saying.
Thomas stared over Andrew’s shoulder, his eyes gone waxy with fear. Nothing ever scared him. Confused, Andrew twisted to look, but all he saw were Wickwood uniforms and bright faces.
Then a knot of students cleared and Andrew understood.
Principal Adelaide Grant stood in the foyer with arms folded and a stony expression. She looked as if she had been pulled from a black-and-white photograph—crisp pantsuit, white skin against whiter hair, piercing eyes that noticed everything. Thomas collected reprimands and suspensions from her like confetti.
It meant they knew each other well, Thomas and the principal. Their eyes locked across the room and a frown darkened her face.
“Isn’t it too early for you to be in trouble?” Andrew said, but then he noticed who the principal had been talking to.
Two cops stood at her side, stances casual as they glanced around. Wickwood did take a moment to absorb: the heavy Victorian drapes and dark carpets, the chandeliers and oil paintings and gilded cornices, the smell of mothballs and old books, of ambition and timeless traditions. One of the cops wore a cream trench coat and had just finished flashing a detective badge. She followed the principal’s gaze.
