I tightened my fingers along the edge of the desk as he leaned back in his chair with a smug half smile. He rolled his neck until it cracked, then pulled his phone from his pocket.
My brain started racing.
Is he Red Mask? Did he kill Jett?
Instead of the university uniform, he wore a black cashmere turtleneck, tucked into gray slacks. He leaned back in his chair, planting his leather loafers on the desk.
I turned away, shoving my hair behind my ear and forcing my focus anywhere but him. The windows. The clock. That weird-ass painting.
He popped his knuckles one by one. Then clicked his tongue. Whistling came next. Each sound he made crawled through my nerves.
He was doing Enzo’s dirty work in his absence.
I bent to grab my bag strap, deciding to ditch class, but before I could stand, students began filing into the room.
Professor Nelson shuffled in seconds later with damp hair and a scowl. He dropped his briefcase onto the desk and set down his Saint Vale mug on a coaster.
Maybe I should’ve given him the benefit of the doubt.
That thought lasted for a second before I changed my mind. I had no respect for him after he watched a male student harass a female student in the middle of his classroom and did absolutely nothing about it.
I frowned when something landed near my desk.
A single matchstick rolled to a stop in front of me.
I chewed on my fingernail, peeking at the guy beside me.
He was still on his phone, aimlessly scrolling.
Faking calm, I flicked the matchstick on my desk aside and opened my notebook.
When I reached down for my pen, another matchstick appeared. This one had a symbol scrawled across the thin wooden splint.
I lowered my gaze and squinted, but couldn’t make out the symbol. If I’d had my phone, I would’ve snapped a picture and Googled it.
With every move I made, I felt him watching me while pretending to focus on his phone.
I shoved the matchstick aside.
Since Enzo had stolen my MacBook, handwritten notes were my only option today.
Asking my stepfather for both a new phone and a laptop would be a headache. Money wasn’t the issue. He had plenty of that. He just hated any inconvenience involving me. I was surprised he hadn’t shipped me off to a school overseas. The farther away I was, the better.
The room grew crowded, but no one else sat in the back row.
By the time Professor Nelson started his lecture, Enzo still hadn’t arrived.
Good. Hopefully, the police were questioning him about his role in Jett’s murder.
Every clue led straight to him. If Jett hadjumpedout of the infirmary window, someone would have had to drag him up there first.
I anxiously tapped my pen against the desk, and out of habit, I wrote six words.
Six words that had lived inside me for years.
Six words stitched into my chest like another organ.
Words I’d tried to forget more times than I could count.
