Page 27 of Ghosted

I should’ve brought snacks.

I push away from the wall and head outside, cigarette between my teeth, already entertained before the cold even hits my face. The night is wet and miserable, mist clinging to everything and smearing the streetlights into dirty yellow halos. Behind me, the warehouse thumps through the brick like the building has a bad heart and an even worse therapist.

Jagger is half a block ahead, hood up, shoulders tense, moving toward old campus like he just suddenly developed a deep appreciation for wet sidewalks, gothic architecture, and poor choices with bangs.

Sure, little brother.

Very fucking casual.

Alice is farther down the path with her black bag at her hip, dark hair shifting over her shoulder when she glances back.

It’s quick. Barely there.

But enough that Jagger and I both see it.

She keeps walking, and he follows with just enough space to pretend he isn’t, which might be the funniest part. He thinks distance makes it less creepy. Like stalking becomes classy if you leave room for Jesus and a small orchestra between you and the girl ruining your life.

So fucking precious.

I trail behind them both, taking my time, because there’s no need to rush live theatre. Alice cuts through old campus, past the chapel fence and the tiny cemetery the university calls historic because “creepy as fuck” probably tested poorly with parents during orientation. Of course she takes the haunted route.

Artsy little ghost.

Jagger follows until she disappears around the chapel, then stops at the edge of the path like his self-control deserves a medal, a parade, and maybe a little treat.

Good boy.

Almost house-trained.

I wait until he finally turns away before I move again. There’s no need to catch Alice tonight. Around here, there are only so many places a girl like her can disappear, and once hunters notice you, hiding gets a lot less effective.

Sweet little Alice.

Jagger’s newest mistake.

I take one last drag from my cigarette, drop it into a puddle, and watch the ember hiss out.

“She doesn’t matter yet,” I murmur.

The lie tastes good enough to keep.

Then I smile and head into the rain, because Jagger has a new favorite thing, and I’ve never been good at leaving his favorite things untouched.

3

JAGGER

RAIN ON CAMPUS

Rain makes campus look honest.

The polished stone walkways turn slick and dark, the old brick buildings bleed rust-colored streaks down their sides, and all the pretty ivy choking the walls starts looking less romantic and more like something trying to drag the whole place into the ground. Dead leaves stick to the steps outside the lecture halls in wet clumps, plastered flat under boots and sneakers, turning to brown mush every time someone steps on them.

Everything smells like wet concrete, burnt coffee, cigarette smoke, and rot under old trees.

I like it better this way.

On dry days, the university is too clean.