Daphne kept her pace. “Since we’re on the subject of bogeymen, if you see a guy wearing a mask, turn around and walk in the other direction. Do. Not. Run.”
“Why don’t I run?”
“They’ll see it as a game.”
“Who’sthey?”
She skipped down the stairs, all peppy, but nothing was lighthearted about the way she’d told me not to run.
She’d said it like it was the law, and breaking it would send you straight to prison.
No, straight to the death penalty.
“Are masked men … a regular thing here?” I asked.
She didn’t answer me.
“Daphne,” I pressed, “are they?”
She shrugged, adjusting the strap of her Hermès bag on her shoulder. “Look, we’re in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. Most of us grew up in cities with clubs, private yachts, places to always have fun and party. Saint Vale doesn’t have any of that.”
“What does it have?”
“Nothing, so we find ways to entertain ourselves. Since I’d prefer not to have another dead roommate, especially after my mom had to hire an attorneyandthe assholes here called me the Roommate Killer for a freaking month”—she stopped talking and turned to look at me—“remember, lie low, okay?”
“Lie low,” I repeated with a nod when we reached the last step.
That was always my strategy at every new university.
Stay quiet, invisible, and out of trouble.
But somehow, I always messed up.
“Oh! Let me add another piece of advice: if his last name is Marchetti, stay the hell away from him. If he’s hot here, he’s psycho.” She pressed a peck on my cheek, as if boundaries didn’t exist to her. “Have a good first day.”
I stood there, rubbing my cheek in confusion, as she skipped across the vestibule toward a group of girls waiting near a door.
All four of them turned to look at me.
None of them smiled. Their expressions ranged from curious to unimpressed. They were beautiful in that untouchable, intimidating way that made you feel like you’d wandered into the cool kids’ party that you were never invited to.
They were definitely not the welcoming committee.
New Girl Syndrome was never fun.
I turned away from them and checked my schedule before searching the campus map for my first class, American Gothic Literature.
A few students bumped my shoulder as I followed the corridor toward the lecture room. The room was already half full when I arrived. I handed the professor my paperwork and slipped into the seat in the third row beside two empty desks.
A minute later, two guys dropped into the seats next to me.
One winked. The other jerked his chin up.
I reminded myself of Daphne’s advice.Lie low.
But just like every university before this one, I messed up.
During my first class at Saint Vale, I caught the devil’s attention.
