Page 182 of Notes of Attraction

Sydney in my doorway eleven seconds later, no knock, phone held against her chest, screen in.

“Bea.”

I put the spoon down.

“Bea, they’ve—okay. Don’t panic.”

“That’s a horrible thing to open with.” I frown.

“I know. I know.” She’s still not handing it over. “There’s a thread.”

She gives me the phone.

Here is what I learn in the next ten minutes, standing in the middle of my bedroom while the oatmeal turns to cement.

Four days of the internet not knowing who she was have ended. It ended at about one in the morning, while I was asleep. But I’ve learned that fandoms don’t sleep. There are accounts dedicated entirely to loving Atlas Falling, and overnight they have assembled. Somebody remembered that Callum Fox was filmed running into a building on the UMS campus in September. Somebody else works out that the building has science labs in it. Somebody else has pulled out a photograph of Cal and me outside the Hartley building.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist.

There is an entire thread dedicated to figuring out who I am.

The reality of it crashes over me. It has over ten thousand likes. My breath quickens; I don’t even think I can picture what that many people look like.

The title is:

WHO IS THE TUTOR? A TIMELINE

Oh my God.

Fangirls are terrifying.

Also, objectively, very talented researchers.

Half these people could have careers in federal intelligence if they stopped using their powers to investigate who the singer of their favorite band is sleeping with.

I scroll.

The opening post is a photograph of the Hartley Building.