Downry returns his attention to his phone, and for the remaining thirty minutes of class, Dread’s blissfully silent.
But a moment before we're dismissed, I feel his breath heat the back of my neck. The little hairs covering my body stand on end, and I suppress the urge to shiver.
“I hope you did enough research, darling. You’re going to need it for tomorrow night,” he whispers. A beat passes before he tacks on, “Or maybe you can just call your daddy to help you.”
Before I can process what the fuckthat’ssupposed to mean, the room seems to explode around me as students get to their feet, packing up and rushing out the door. The sudden chaos jolts me out of my head, leaving my thoughts scattered.
By the time I turn to ask Dread what the hell he’s talking about, he’s gone.
Confused, I find him already walking out, pausing just long enough to peer over his shoulder and aim that cold stare on me, a sinister smirk gracing his lips before he turns and disappears.
Fuck.
What the hell does he have planned now?
CHAPTER 2
REVERIE
“He’s going to do something awful,” I tell my only friend in the world, anxiously biting the skin around my thumbnail.
I’ve been doing it since my history class with Dread yesterday—I’ve constantly been looking over my shoulder, waiting for the moment he strikes. I’ve already covered my left thumb in little tears, so I’ve moved on to the other.
Sable dabs her thin brush in the rose-pink lipstick on her palette, gliding it across the corpse’s thin, white lips. I’ve already seen the old woman’s finger twitch, and I’ve been eyeing her shrewdly to ensure she doesn’t magically become a zombie and eat me alive.
“When hasn’t he?” she mutters snidely, casting a disgruntled look my way before refocusing on her task.
Freshman year, I was desperately looking for a job, and the only place hiring was Eterna Requiem, a Puerto Rican family-owned funeral home in Hollow Canyon. Juan, the owner and Sable’s father, tookpity on me and hired me as an assistant. He and his wife, Isa, are funeral directors. They handle the grieving families while Sable, as their mortician, works with the dead.
I met Sabela Vázquez my first day working here, when I got lost in the sprawling building and accidentally walked in on her mid-embalming. Having seen a lot worse, I asked if I could watch, and we became best friends overnight, bonding over the fear of howwe’d die, rather than death itself.
Sometimes, when I’m really bored, she lets me put makeup on the bodies, too—though if her father found out, he’d subject us both to an hour-long lecture, and there’s nothing worse than a Juan Vázquez lecture.
I lean against the metal table the dead woman lies on, crossing my feet at the ankles, one arm over my stomach with my elbow resting on the other, aimlessly sliding my pendant back and forth on its chain as I stare off into space.
The woman died at ninety-six of heart failure, alone in a nursing home, where only the nurses grieved her death. Apparently, she has four kids, but none of them showed until it was time to make arrangements and collect their portion of her life insurance.
If people thought drama ended in death, they’re sorely mistaken.
“This time just feels… worse than usual,” I say, distracted, my eyes beginning to burn from not blinking.
The woman’s face blurs, and the pit of foreboding in my stomach deepens. “I can’t explain why. Just the way he said to call my father for help…” I trail off and shake my head, tearing my focus away from Sable’s work.
Anxiety has long since made a home in my nervous system. If I could push it out as expertly as I do the memories it feeds on, I might consider myself a functional human.
Sable sets down her makeup brush and gives me her full attention, drawing my reluctant gaze to her deep chestnut brown eyes and her perfectly arched brows, which are currently pinched with concern, creasing her golden tawny brown skin. At twenty-six, she’s only four years older than me, so the age difference is hardly noticeable—except for times like this, when she feels more like an older, protective sister than my best friend.
“First, stop torturing your lip,” she starts.My jaw stills—I hadn’t even realized I was chewing it into nonexistence. Slowly, I release it from between my teeth. “Second, I wish you would just report him to the media or something before he does something that will seriously hurt you.”
I tip my head back with a heavy sigh. “It’s not that easy and you know it,Sabela.” She gives me a pointed, unamused look. Only her parents call her by her full name, and only when she's in trouble, which is, unsurprisingly, often. “He’s literally the god of Hollow Canyon and can do no wrong. Last time I tried going to the dean, he said he’d have me expelled for spreading lies and jeopardizing Dread’s future as an Olympic swimmer.”
I roll my head back to her, where she stares at me with a disgusted look, and rightfully so. She hates Dread nearly as much as I do.
“He's also just a straight white male,” she mutters derisively.
“Exactly. Plus, something tells me the authorities would take his word over the daughter of an infamous serial killer, especially when he has an entire university kissing his feet.”
She scoffs and drops her glare to the body, her hair falling around her face as she stews over the harsh reality of my life. She’s perfected the art of styling her dark brown curls into smooth, glossy ringlets, cut into a long bob that just reaches her shoulders, parted on the side. With a frustrated sigh, she tucks the thinner half behind her ear and then refocuses on her work, her movements stilted as she picks up a brush and harshly dabs it into a palette of light pink blush.
