Twelve

The second-floor hallway of Paxton Hall stretched long and dark before Rowen. His shoes were loud and echoing against the marble floors—no doubt having long alerted whoever was inside the building—but it didn’t matter. He wanted his presence known, and for that girl to prepare herself the moment he found out who she was.

Rowen gripped the phone tighter in his hand. You know who I am, she’d said. It meant only one thing. She had to be a former student of his, and yet Hayleigh’s descriptions of a girl with long, dark hair brought no one to his mind whatsoever.

He stopped in front of Room 212. He would find out soon enough.

It could be Hayleigh all along. She could’ve figured it out on her own, did research, pretended to be someone else. It was the much better alternative. He would readily face her wrath, her quest for vengeance, over the thought of her figuring out the truth from someone else.