The tickof the clock torments me over the drone of my professor’s voice. For the billionth time since my acceptance three years ago, I curse my parents. I’d believed that escaping from under my parents’ roof would mean my decisions would finally be mine. Eighteen had felt like freedom, but unfortunately, my parents’ grip is far longer and more strangling than I knew.
I wanted to do an art degree to meet interesting people with interesting ideas. To spend my days discovering and playing with creativity. Instead, it’s all economics and business. Money. My father’s driving force.
My handwriting is near illegible as I hunch over my notebook while Professor Hargreaves flicks throughthe final slides of the lecture, my pen racing to keep up with the last few bullet points before they vanish.
Graphs. So many numbers. Something about market somethings and growth modelling.
Kill me now.
My father salivates over this mind-numbery. Despite trying to drill it into me since I hit my preteens, it’s all gobbledygook to me. It’s not that I’m stupid, I just don’t care enough to keep hold of the information.
Chairs scrape around me as the lecture ends. Bags zip as students chat. I desperately keep scribbling, trying to hold the ghost sentences of the last slide in my head.
Students make for the exit in the usual surge.
I keep writing until I get down the last of the words. And, of course, I’m the last one still scrabbling to finish.
Typical.
By the time I shove my notebook into my backpack and stand, the room is almost empty. The overhead lights hum as I stand, shouldering my bag with a sigh.
I make my way down the steps, already fantasising about the coffee Ellie promised to drag me to between lectures. After this snooze fest, I’ll need a coffee strong enough to revive the dead.
Sleep hasn’t exactly been on the cards the past few nights.
Ever since the note.
No matter how many times I tell myself it’s justsome stupid prank, I can’t shake the nerves it’s uprooted in my stomach.
The prickling sensation between my shoulder blades hasn’t left me all week. That creeping certainty I’m being watched.
Yet every time I scan my surroundings, no one is watching. It’s pure paranoia.
I push the lecture theatre door open and bump into Greg. He’s leaning against the frame like he’s been practising his best thirst trap, arms folded and dark eyes tracking my movement as I step backwards.
Professor Hargreaves’ teaching assistant. He’s tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed. Should be attractive, really, but he makes my skin crawl.
Intense in that unsettling way some academics are. Like they spend a little too much time on their own and don’t quite fit in their skin.
‘Miss Elliott.’
I force a polite smile, despite the way his voice scrapes against my brain.
‘Greg.’
His hand plants flat against the doorframe beside my head as I try to step around him.
I glance from his arm to his face, knitting my brow.
‘You seem to be struggling a bit with the course content, so you need some extra tutoring?’
Something about the way he says tutoring makes myshoulders tighten. Why does it sound more like a threat than a kindness?
‘I’m fine,’ I say.
His gaze flicks downward, to the necklace resting against my chest. Or maybe just my tits. Hard to say.
The stone heart shifts as I move from one foot to the other, the cord warm where it rests against my skin. Greg’s eyes follow the movement.
