For a beat I just stood there, palms on the wood, the cold of the metal handle under my fingers. “Where the fuck are you? It’s five a.m.,” I muttered to the door, the words more plea than threat.
Then—like a stupid little beacon in my skull—I remembered the tracker app.
I pulled my phone out, my thumb fumbling over the screen. Of course it took me three taps to get to the right app, because technology was the fucking worst.
I stared at it in disappointment.
There was no blue dot.
Just a grayed-outLast known location: 11:47 p.m.
Her phone wasn’t on. She’d probably forgotten to charge it again.
She hated her phone, never even glanced at it when we were together. She let it die all the time without a second thought. I’d loved that about her, but at the moment, it was not my favorite thing.
I leaned back on the door, debating what to do.
I’d just have to wait inside her room. Which meant I needed to figure out how to get in.
I walked down the hall to the common area and stood in the shadow near the little desk, watching the R.A. like she was a sleeping animal I didn’t want to spook. The girl behind the desk looked younger than I expected—hair in a messy bun, hoodie swallowed by the chair. She startled when I stepped forward, eyes going wide, but not with recognition, just surprise at seeing anyone on the girls’ floor this early in the morning.
Thank fuck. She didn’t seem to know who I was.
I forced an easy smile. “Hey, sorry to bug you. My girlfriend’s downstairs trying to do laundry, and it’s a mess. I think one of the washers exploded or something.”
Her mouth parted. “You can’t be—This is a women’s residence?—”
“I know, I know.” I lifted my hands like I was trying to calm her down. “But I think you need to come help—there’s water everywhere. Everything is flooding. It’s already all over the floor, and my girlfriend’s freaking out.”
Her eyes went wide. “Flooding?”
“Yeah,” I said quickly, adding a note of urgency. “Like, bad. I tried to turn one of the washers off, but I think it’s still going. You should probably come take a look before it hits the hallway.”
She glanced down the corridor, chewing her lip. “I—uh—I’m supposed to stay at the desk.”
“It’s five a.m.,” I reminded her. “But seriously, if that water reaches the outlets…” I let the sentence hang, eyebrows raised.
That did it. She scrambled up, grabbing her lanyard and muttering something about maintenance.
“Thanks,” I called after her as she hurried down the hall.
The second she disappeared around the corner, I reached over the desk and snagged the universal keycard from the holder, sliding it into my pocket. Then I headed for Ophelia’s room, heart thudding, already half convinced this counted as an emergency, too.
I slid the card in, and the lock clicked. I was finally in Ophelia’s room for the first time.
The air was faintly sweet, like her perfume lingered in the walls. I shut the door quietly behind me and flicked on the light. My hand brushed along the edge of her desk, over scattered notebooks and something that looked like a ticket stub. Then I turned—and stopped cold.
For a second, I just blinked in shock. My pulse stumbled, my mind trying to catch up with what I was seeing.
Now I understood why Ophelia had never wanted me to meet her here.
One entire wall wasme.
A shrine.
Photos ripped from websites, news articles, grainy candids someone had snapped at practice…dozens of them, pinned in overlapping layers like a collage of obsession. Some were torn straight down the middle and taped back together, jagged scars running through my face like she’d rescued them from the trash, refusing to let go. Ticket stubs from every game I’d ever played. My name was circled in red, over and over, bold and possessive. Game programs, wristbands, a folded-up roster with my stats highlighted in neon yellow.
My breath caught.
