People don’t act like themselves when they think they have the upper hand. Their true colors only shine brightest when the tables turn. When the other person holds the ultimate power, that’s when you see who’s hiding behind misguided ambitions and beliefs.
Not many people stand their ground when facing someone like me. But they do always knowwhothey’re facing.
The dean does not. She’s blissfully unaware that the balance of power was disrupted around here the second I arrived. She’s also blissfully unaware that she’s let a cold-blooded killer under her roof and is about to hand him his prey.
The lock will turn, click, and Hailey will be tucked away in a nightmare with a man tasked to break her mind and spirit.
Before she arrives, I have time to map out the grounds, get familiar with the routine, find out which dorm she’ll be staying in, and locate the best observation points.
It also gives me time to scrutinize the rich and insufferable attending this place. I like knowing who might pose an issue, who’ll be easily manipulated, and who could potentially stir up problems I don’t have the time or energy for.
Exiting the building I head across the courtyard toward the male dormitories. The architecture of the older buildings shows their age—Gothic designs, large looming windows, spiked towers, and ornate statues, one of which sits in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by a circle of perfectly round, trimmedbushes. A stone angel, wings outstretched like it’s a guardian holding everyone here under its protection.
Too bad for Hailey, I don’t believe in guardian angels.
Ten minutes later, I lock my dorm room behind me, almost twenty-four hours without a wink of sleep catching up with me.
Exploring the grounds will have to wait, just like wondering about that thing I’m missing and can’t quite place.
Hailey’s the target, but there’s an entire chessboard to consider... and I’m not certain all the pieces are in the game yet.
10
Hailey
As promised, a week of staying calm and mellow without the need for sedatives was enough for Dr. Phillips to discharge me.
My dislocated shoulder is still sore, tucked in a movement-limiting sling for another few days to ensure I don’t accidentally make it worse. I’m coping, which is the extent of the good news.
The bad news is I have what resembles an abstract painting on my skin. Bruises stretch from the dislocated shoulder to halfway down my back and front. Pollock must’ve flicked purple, green, and yellow paint all over me while I slept.
The older marks from the accident have turned a ghastly yellowy-green that marks my legs, chest, arms, knees, and even the side of my face. The scratches on my neck have scabbed over, flaking away slowly. I’m trying not to peel them off. That’d guarantee scars, and I already cried when Dr. Phillips removed my stitches, revealing bright red, ragged, disgusting scars.
Still, there are worse things than looking like I collided with a battering ram. What I worry about most is the brain swelling. Although mild now, it’s still there, meaning I need to take extra care of my head.
Dad suggested I wear a helmet for a few weeks. He laughed it off as a joke, but the look in his eyes said otherwise.
As if arriving on campus ten days into the semester isn’t bad enough, adding a hard hat would definitely do the trick...
I wasn’t allowed to head home or pack for college before the trip. Both Dad and Dr. Phillips decided to keep me away from my past, so Dad filled three suitcases with my clothes, shoes, and cosmetics.
The nurse brought my belongings back, though nothing but my jewelry survived the crash. The doctors had to cut me out of my clothes, but a silver ring with a blue stone my grandmother gave me before she passed away is intact.
And so is a necklace I don’t recognize. It’s a silver chain with a heart pendant. Abrokenheart. There are two little loops where the chain threads through and it looks like it could be split down the middle so lovers could each wear one half.
Or maybe friends.
Or mother and daughter.
But when I tried to pull the heart apart it didn’t budge. Still, I spent a long time tracing the delicate floral design and running my nail along the zigzagging ridge in the middle, hoping I’d remember who gave it to me.
I gave up when Dad arrived with two gift boxes, his smile bright as he watched me open a new laptop and cell phone.
“Why can’t I use my old phone?”I asked.
“You can’t face your past head-on until your memories return.”
What he didn’t buy me is a car, which, as we arrive on Lakeside College’s campus, I realize might be problematic.
