“But—”
I turn to her fully then, holding her gaze, letting her see the resolve in mine. “If the university finds out about this, we’redone. Both of us. And if my mother finds out…” I shake my head slightly. “You don’t want to know what that looks like.”
She presses her lips together, the fight draining out of her as quickly as it came. I see it in her eyes—the fear, the shock, the way she’s already beginning to fold under the weight of it.
“Are you sure?” she whispers.
I swallow, then crouch once more, pressing my fingers to Stephen’s neck.
Nothing.
No pulse.
No movement.
“He’s dead,” I say quietly. The words land heavier than anything else so far. “That means we decide what happens next. So let me handle it.”
Fresh tears spill down her cheeks, and for the first time I see just how young she looks. How young we both are. Not even twenty, and already standing over something that will follow us for the rest of our lives.
But in this moment, I feel older than her.
Stronger.
Or maybe just… better trained.
Veronica Ramsey taught me well.
“Go back,” I say more gently now. “Get some sleep. Try not to think about this again.” A humorless breath escapes me. “You don’t want to be the last debutante at the ball, remember?”
Her mouth trembles as she shakes her head. “I guess we’re breaking tradition… in more ways than one.”
I don’t respond.
I just watch her go.
I stand there until she disappears down the garden path, swallowed by shadows and soft lights, until there’s nothing left of her but the echo of her footsteps and the silence that follows.
Only then do I move.
I take a slow breath, steadying myself, then reach down and grip Stephen’s wrists. His skin is already cooling beneath my hands, heavier than it should be, dead weight in the most literal sense.
I drag him through the hedge, careful to stay in the shadows, keeping low and out of sight of the path lights beyond the magnolias. The branches catch at my dress, scratch at my arms, but I barely feel it.
I never thought I’d have to dispose of a body in paradise.
But life has a way of rewriting expectations.
By the time I reach the breakwater, my arms are shaking, my feet slick with dew—and blood. It takes everything I have left to haul him up and over the edge. For a second, he teeters there, suspended between what was and what comes next.
Then he falls.
The sound of his body hitting the shallow water is muted, swallowed quickly by the bay.
I climb over after him, landing in the mud with a soft splash, my breath coming faster now. A small dinghy bobs nearby, half-forgotten, its rope frayed from years of neglect. I untie it quickly and drag it closer, then wrestle Stephen’s body into it, forcing myself not to think about the way he moves now—loose, unresisting.
The boathouse sits just a short distance away. I move fast, grabbing a paddle from the side, then return to the dinghy and push off into the bay.
The water is calm.
