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I haven’t felt it in years. Not on this level, anyway. But now it’s consuming me, wrapping tightly around my throat and threatening to never let go.
For the first time since we started bullying Athelia, I’m ashamed.
Not embarrassed. Not uncomfortable. The shame hits me so sharply and takes root so deeply that I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get rid of thefeeling.
Maybe Ishouldn’tever get rid of it.
All of a sudden, the apology I gave Athelia feels laughable. It was just words—so little effort that it’s insulting to her.
At the beginning of freshman year, we saw her moving in by herself and were instantly interested. Sure, she was hot, but it was the determination in her eyes that caught my attention.
She doesn’t know we manipulated her that night—that we intentionally ignored her throughout the party. That way, when we finally showered her with our attention, she’d appreciate it all the more.
Worked like a charm.
Her mini panic attack in the pool was unexpected, but scaring her had always been part of the plan. She fell into it easily, clinging to Cal while he offered her the safety of being wrapped up in him.
From there, it took little work to push down the rest of the walls she had built up. She took a piece of each of us that night. We took a piece of her too, whether she’ll admit it or not.
But now…
Fuck, I’d change everything if I could. We couldn’t trust her yet, not back then. We barely knew her. But we should’ve given her the benefit of the doubt and let her explain her side of things. Then we could’ve taken care of this years ago.
But we were too immature. Too stupid.
I turn to Cal, who’s glaring at his phone.
“How the hell are we going to fix this, man?” I ask.
“I don’t know, but check this out.”
I peer down at his phone. It’s pulled up to a screenshot of an Instagram post. I don’t recognize the username, but I do recognize the photo. It’s our house—specifically, the front room, facing the door.
“Great, you have a picture of two girls who took a picture at the party last night. So what?”
“Look at the background,” Cal says.
I take a closer look, and almost instantly, I see what he’s getting at. Three guys wearing white masks and dark gray hoodies are in the process of leaving the house. In the arms of one of them is a painting.
Retribution.It’s the painting Wes noticed was missing from our hallway last night.
“At least we have a lead on who stole it,” I grumble.
“More than a lead,” Cal says. He points to the wrist of the guy holding the painting. “We know that tattoo.”
I snatch his phone from him and zoom in on the photo. “Fuck.”
All the guys are wearing gloves, but the sleeve of this guy’s hoodie has ridden up just enough to reveal part of a dagger tattoo I’ve seen plenty of times.
“That’s Lucas.”
Cal nods.
“Which means the other two guys have to be Colton and Xander.”
“That’s sure what it looks like.”
“Iknowthat painting was there after we kicked them out,” I say.
