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I could only stare at him for a moment, my ears ringing. He knew. I didn’t know how, but he knew.
“I appreciate it,” I said with numb lips.
His smile was nothing short of sympathetic, and genuine enough that I was confused. Was he cursed too? Was that why he cared so much about Halloween?
“Right well, I’ll leave you to recover. If you’re not up to classes for a while,” he added, half turned away, “have a chat with Erika about taking online classes. We’ve got enough online material to keep you busy for a month or so.”
Some of my anxiety lifted at that practical solution. I didn’t have to leave my room, but I could still learn, could still do my coursework and avoid letting everyone down. “Thank you,” I said and genuinely meant it. “I’ll do that.”
He gave me a nod and headed down the hall.
I closed my door feeling cold and scared but the tiniest bit hopeful. Maybe everything didn’t have to be ruined. Maybe I could have this one good thing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CAT
My phone buzzed on my bedside table, one text after another. I barely glanced at them, but they were all of the same ilk.
I know what you did
How long will your secret stay secret?
What happened to the body, Cat?
Poor Darya
I flipped it over so I couldn’t see the screen and dragged my hands down my face. Someone knew what I did, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out who. Nightmare’s cult. Her followers. It was probably Alastor Carmichael texting me, pushing me to breaking point.
That was the one good thing about hiding in my room for a week—I hadn’t seen his vicious face in days. I’d ventured out today to use the shower, but only because Tor was with me and my death god promised to kill anyone who so much as looked at me.
I was alone for a few hours now. Death would come soon, and spend the night with me. Maybe Misery would come too, and they’d use their magic to make the bed big enough for three. I wished someone were here to take my phone away, to hide the awful texts from me or—in the case of Tor—reply with threats so viciously detailed and bloody that he never got a message back.
I’d blocked every number the texts had come from, but they always returned. Every time my phone buzzed, I saw Darya’s empty eyes, and a spiral of thorns cut deeper into my chest. But it wasn’t just fear and grief now—I was angry. Not only had Nightmare forced me to murder my friend in cold blood, she’d made her followers harass me, as if the whole thing had been my choice.
I didn’t deserve this. The pain, the anguish, the guilt? I deserved those. But I didn’t deserve to be hounded by a cult for it.
I laid there for an hour, my mind racing fast but my breathing faster, this time with anger instead of panic. She did this. She killed Darya, and now she was torturing me over it.
“Fuck you,” I whispered into my silent room, and then snapped louder, “Fuck you!”
Two days later, I was just as angry, and I found the anger gave me enough strength to get me dressed, clean, and out of my room. I stalked to the staircase and up to the third floor, rapping on Erika’s door before I lost my nerve. All week, I’d gone over and over Dean Fairchild’s words, holding them like a life raft while guilt and grief tried to drown me. He’d never realise just how much his kindness had saved me when I was at my lowest.
When there was no answer from within, I knocked again, and jumped when the door swung open, not fully closed.
“Erika?” I asked tentatively, peering into the room.
Her bedroom had a lot more personality than mine, probably because she’d been here for two years to my six weeks. Her books were on a neat shelf above her desk, a poster of a punk band beside it, and her room was decorated in shades of pink and grey. Erika sat in a swivel chair at her desk, her back to me.
“Hey, it’s Cat. Do you remember me from orientation? Dean Fairchild told me to come speak to you about changing to online classes.”
I took a step inside when she didn’t reply, figuring she had earphones in. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” I said, tapping her shoulder and startling when the chair spun.
“Oh god,” I cried, jumping back when I saw the slack scream on her tanned face, and the gaping cut across her throat. Blood soaked into her baby pink shirt, a fatal amount.
She was dead.
Someone had killed Erika.
