Chapter 3

I was back at school, sitting in the same seat I always did, taking a surprise pop quiz I had already studied for.

Everything was normal—as if I hadn't just seen a man get killed in cold blood the other day.

I finished my quiz but didn't feel like handing it in yet, so I waited for the bell. When it finally rang, I got up with the rest of the class and dropped my paper on the teacher's desk before heading out.

Mondays were never interesting. In fact, they were the worst day of the week.

"Did you hear?" Bella's voice rang out as she approached me.

"That you don't have friends? I already knew," I said, smirking.

She rolled her eyes before continuing. "Some random guy was murdered," she paused dramatically, clearly savoring the moment, "and turns out he was a rapist. You wouldn't believe what he was into—little boys. Disgusting bastard."

"Why do you feel the need to tell me about murders every time you see me? And how are you so informed?"

"Isn't it obvious? I talk to you out of pity. And there's this thing called the internet," Bella replied. But there was no way she was getting this much detail just from browsing online.

"You must really not have friends if you've got the time to pity a loner like me—and to prove my point, you spend your free time digging into murder cases. Later." I slammed my locker shut and walked away.

What now? I had seen a man get killed. Shouldn't I do something—like call the police? But it wasn't my business what happened to a rapist. Even if he wasn't one, what if I snitched and ended up in a ditch? It was always the hero type that died meaningless deaths.

Besides, the murderer wasn't bad-looking—not that I'd ever see him again. Or want to.

Whatever. I was tired of thinking about this. The library would clear my head. Something about being surrounded by books just did it for me.

Of course, the classic cliché had to happen: boy bumps into girl, sending her flying to the ground. But today, I wasn't in the mood. Or any other day, for that matter.

"Are you blind?" I half-shouted, crouching to pick up my glasses and the books that had scattered like my patience.

"I'm sorry," someone said.

I froze mid-grab, my fingers brushing the edge of a book. That voice—I recognized it instantly.

Slowly, I looked up and locked eyes with our not-so-masked murderer.

"You," I said, standing so fast I nearly knocked my head into his chin. "Can you back up? Damn, you're mighty close. And what the hell are you doing here?"

"I go to school here," he replied, scratching the back of his head like this was a casual conversation. His hair was tied into a messy bun that suited him. "I'm honestly surprised you didn't recognize me. We've got, what, three classes together?"

"No, we don't," I snapped. "And even if we did, you shouldn't be here. Let's talk. Somewhere private."

Without waiting for his approval, I grabbed his arm and yanked him toward the library, ignoring his half-hearted protests.

"But I have class," he said, dragging his feet but not resisting.

"Well, I have trauma," I shot back. "Fair trade."

We reached the back of the library, where the shelves were lined with books older than the librarian herself. It was silent, dusty, and so secluded it might as well have been a crime scene waiting to happen. Fitting.

I spun to face him, lowering my voice. "So, what's your deal? Are you stalking me? Did the school just not check your references before letting a murderer waltz in?"

"At this point, you're just making things up," he murmured, voice perfectly calm—annoyingly calm.

"If you're going to be a serial killer, at least make it entertaining," I said, crossing my arms.

"And if you're going to interrogate me, maybe pick a spot that doesn't scream 'bodies in the basement,'" he shot back, finally showing a hint of irritation.

"We're leaving," I said, grabbing his arm again.

"I want to go to class," he protested, but he still let me drag him.

"Well, we're skipping," I snapped.

"How are we going to get out of here?" he asked, skepticism dripping from his voice.

"I'm sick, and you're my ride home. Obvi." I rolled my eyes like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Obvi?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Short for 'obviously,' genius."

As I hauled him toward the exit, one thought lingered in my mind: was I making a huge mistake?

Absolutely.

But if I was going to get murdered, I might as well skip Algebra first.

"So where are we going?" he asked as we walked.

"I don't know. I didn't think that far ahead."