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“I agree.” And I’m not only talking about Matteo and Nash, either. There’s a score to settle that’s even more personal for me. I’ll never get back the time he stole, locking me away like he did. I’ll never forget the helplessness, pain, and fear.
It’s those memories I can’t help but go over in my head, even though I know I’m supposed to be paying attention to the lesson. I should have known this wouldn’t be a typical math class.
It’s more like a class on how to make illegal business revenue look legitimate. I don’t think I’ll ever need anything like that, anyway. I’m not here for the same reasons all of them are.
If Marcel is on my side, I wonder how many others might be. Until he approached me, I figured I was the only one who even missed Nash. Matteo? I still can’t bring myself to care much. But at least somebody remembers him. At least somebody remembers why he’s not around anymore. At least somebody wants to hold Quinton accountable.
Class is about to wrap up, judging by the way everybody starts getting their stuff together. Marcel nudges me when the instructor isn’t looking. “Do you need anything?” he whispers and continues, “Is there anything I can do for you?”
It’s been so long since anybody actually cared about me that I might cry. The only thing that stops me is knowing how stupid that will look, not to mention how other people might misinterpret it. I don’t want word to get around that I broke down sobbing on my first day of class.
“You could do one thing,” I whisper back. “Can you get word to Nash’s brother, Preston?”
“Sure thing. What do you want me to tell him?”
“Just let him know I’m here, and I didn’t talk. Otherwise… yeah, that will do it.” I can’t think of anybody else who would care or go out of their way to find me. But Preston was always all right. We got along well. And he’s my last connection to his brother.
“No problem. I’ll do that.” The instructor dismisses the class, and we both stand, with Marcel winking at me as he gathers his things. “Don’t worry. You have friends here, even if we can’t come out and announce it. Just keep an eye out and hang in there.”
“I will.” After all, what choice do I have? At least now I don’t feel so hopeless.
I wonder if more people like Marcel will introduce themselves and rally around me in support. I’m not asking for parties, parades, flowers, or any of that shit, but it would be nice to feel less alone.
“Bitch,” someone sneers. I don’t know who said it, but the word crashes into me and reminds me that even if I have a few allies, I have a lot more enemies. I can’t let myself get lazy. Like Marcel said, I have to keep an eye out.
Unfortunately, the first people my eye lands on once I’m out of the classroom are the only two people here who know exactly what I went through when I was locked up.
It’s like everybody parts to let them walk through the hallway. Like there’s a special light shining on Quinton and Aspen. They walk hand in hand, Corium royalty.
I wouldn’t be surprised if people bowed or curtsied or whatever people do to show their respect. Their appearance is enough to bring a sour taste to my mouth.
Do they even know who they’re looking at? The guy is a murderer. I’ve seen firsthand what he’s capable of. He’s cruel, heartless, brutal. And he’s worshiped. What hope does somebody like me have against that kind of bias?
Aspen spots me first. She nudges Quinton a little bit, bringing his attention to me, too. His dark gaze narrows to slits, an expression I remember well. It’s like a total mindfuck, seeing him here when I spent so long dreading him showing up at my cell.
Now I have to pretend that didn’t happen.
Why couldn’t she keep walking without giving him the heads-up? Just another reason for me to hate her. This whole thing is her fault, even if her husband is the one who destroyed my world as a result of shit I had no hand in planning.
They come to a stop in front of me, blocking my way. Of course. I feel the curious stares of more than one student as they filter past us, not to mention a few giggles. I’m surprised they don’t all whip out their phones to record this in case something interesting happens. Knowing my luck, it’d be used against me at a later date.
“They look nice on you,” Aspen offers, and I realize she’s looking at the sweater and skirt I’m wearing.
I look down at them. “Thanks,” I mutter. Is that her idea of an opening line?
