Page 2 of Coveted

The line of passengers waiting to get on quickly dwindles, the engine of the bus roaring in preparation to leave.

“Wait!” I yell.

A man wearing coveralls is last in line. When I reach the bus, he offers his hand to me.

“Let me help you,” he says. “Those bags look heavy.”

I gulp air into my searing lungs. “I’m fine, thank you. I don’t need help.”

His bushy brows lift, like he’s thinking I don’t look fine.

“Alrighty.” He shrugs. “If you say.”

I am fine, truly. Doing things myself is just easier.

After swiping my fare card, I haul my suitcases to the back of the bus and collapse into a seat.

As we pull away from the stop, the storm clouds break open to a symphony of thunder. Sheets of silver rain blur against the windows, obscuring the view of my hometown.

Darkbloom University is only a short bus ride north, but the elite college is a completely different world from working-class Briarvale where I grew up. A world I’ll need to navigate as a broke scholarship student with zero connections and questionable social skills.

Still, anything beats the dismal situation I’m leaving behind. This is my chance to build an actual life for myself, free from the shameful, clawing ghosts of my past.

Sweat prickling my forehead, I unzip the suitcase pocket to retrieve the stalker’s black box. May as well get this over with, before I have to face my future at Darkbloom.

He might even leave me alone now that I’ll only be at Ink & Ivy Books for my shifts instead of sleeping there every night. I figure he’s a customer who gets bored with life unless he’s harassing some unfortunate retail worker.

Randy’s my guess. He’s a local middle-aged realtor who spends his lunch breaks criticizing my book displays and the prose of bestselling female authors. Minimum wage means I’m forced to listen to him.

Wriggling off the lid, I peer inside the box.

“Oh my god,” I gasp.

Icy bands close around my heart. I throw the box, the contents clattering onto the vibrating floor of the bus. The torrential rain mostly conceals the sound, but the closest elderly lady turns in her seat to squint at me.

Scooting my chunky-heeled Mary Jane forward, I clamp my foot over the locket to hide it before she sees it.

Pursing her lips, she turns back around.

My breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh. I snatch up the necklace from the floor, along with the box. Once I’ve pressed myself into the far corner of the back seat, I open my fingers to inspect the stalker’s latest delivery in detail.

The locket on a chain is tarnished silver, engraved with the initials S.M., and is horribly, disturbingly familiar.

How the hell did he get this? How did anyone?

My blood dancing with dread and disbelief, I pry open the little hinged door. I touch the empty miniature photo frame, my heart twinging.

From inside the locket, a folded piece of paper falls into my lap. Smoothing out the note, I read the neat, handwritten script.

A gift on your first day.

My surroundings tilt with the ugly gravity of the words.

Gift of what? A heart attack? Because that’s how this feels.

I believed the locket was gone. Washed down a drain somewhere or stomped into mud, never to be found again.

My eyes rapidly switch back and forth between the note and the necklace, confusion joining my alarm.