“I saw him. The night before he died.”
I sit up straighter, the back of my neck prickling. In my head, I see Sylvan at practice. Missing shots. Half-ass skating toward the puck when it was an easy possession.
What was he thinking about?
And those blue-purple bruises beneath his eyes on his pale skin. Lack of sleep, but why? What’s he so worried about? The promised freshman, what the fuck does he have to be tossing and turning over?
Then again, maybe his bruises match mine.
Maybe he’s not the only one not sleeping.
Neve keeps going. “I was talking to my brother after class. Someone bumped into me. Hard. Left a bruise, on my shoulder.”
My blood heats and I clench my fingers into fists beneath the table. I can throw a fucking punch, and right now, I’d love to do nothing more than that. Anyone who touches her could die.
“I dropped my phone.” She clears her throat. “It was him.” The next word is barely a whisper. “Mitchell.”
Did someone see her get hit?
What ifIhad seen it? Someone knocking into her that hard? What wouldIdo for her?
And what if I’d already murdered two people?
It wouldn’t be a big deal, would it? To hurt someone who hurt this girl I can’t stop thinking about? The one who ordered sugar free hot chocolate with skim milk, and I know that had to taste like water dipped in cocoa. The one with soft hair, hazel eyes, a hoop in her nose, fire in her personality. The girl who sagged in my arms as she came, like she trusted me.
Who let Sylvan touch her, but not like she trusted him.
I have this feeling I’m the one who made her brave enough to let him get her off.
And maybe she’s right to feel that way.
Because she’s not done confessing, is she?
“I didn’t think too much of it. Kept talking to my brother. Then I was starving…” She glances away as she says that.
For some reason, I don’t like it.
She should never be fucking starving, and I’m not so sure it was just a figure of speech.
“So I went to the Greek place. And when I sat down, got off with Nolan, Sylvan texted me.” Her voice is a whisper. She’s still not looking at me. “He knew I was there. But he wasn’t.” Slowly, she meets my eye again. “That means he was out, on campus, when… Mitchell,” she says the victim’s name like it hurts her, “ran into me. And maybe when he was murdered.”
I prop my elbows on the table and clasp my hands together as I turn to look at that wall. If I keep my eyes on her, I’m going to break something.
Sylvan thinks that between us, he’s got the hot temper.
He has no fucking idea.
If he’s stalking her, playing some sort of sick fucking game with her,he’ll die next.
But is he really capable of that? Three murders in between practice and conditioning and lifting and scrimmage and brand deals and games? Not to mention we’ve all got to maintain a pristine attendance record for classes and a B average, or else we risk getting cut from the team.
How the fuck does he have time to stalk Neve and whack people off?
In my head, I see his dimpled smile. The easy way he always has something to say to every guy on the team. How bizarrely respectful he is to me, to Coach. He’s never one we need to have a word with. Wynon has never singled him out to yell at him—even I can’t say that. He shows up early, usually leaves second-to-last.
I think of him standing outside the shower. In the shadows.
Creepy, handsome fucker.
