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Cain
What’s her name?
Zane
I don’t know yet.
My forehead bangs against my desk and I skip texting him back. I press call and hold the phone to my ear, not bothering to lift my head up.
“Yeah?” Zane asks over the sound of whistles and cheers.
He isn’t joking, apparently. “Are you stalking a freshman?” I hiss, pushing myself upright in my chair.
Zane laughs. “No. I’m just following her until I find the perfect opportunity to introduce myself.”
I bite down on my knuckle to keep from shouting at him. “Following someone around without them knowing is stalking.”
Zane hums. “She’s been waving at me and smiling all day, so I think she knows.”
All day? Jesus fucking Christ. “How long have you been following her?”
“Umm, well, since she and her roommate went to the coffee shop at noon today. But I was parked in front of her dorm since this morning.” He sounds distracted. “Have you ever realized how much girls’ boobs jiggle while they play volleyball?”
My teeth clench together. “No, I have not.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to keep what little sanity is left in my head from escaping. “You need to stay away from that girl. You know the rules. If you hurt anyone?—”
He cuts me off with a vicious snarl in his voice. “Hurt her? Never. I would bleed the world dry before I let anyone hurt a hair on her head. I’d rather cut my own hands off than cause her any pain.” I can hear Zane’s deep ragged breathing. “I would never hurt the future mother of my children. She’s perfect, Cain. She’ll be a better mom than mine was, I just know it.” His leap from angry to wistful is a testament to his psychopathy.
I don’t really know what I can do about this. “Look, I’ll stay out of it as long as you promise me three things.”
“Depends on the conditions.” Zane lets his curiosity speak for him.
“You don’t tell her about what we’ve done, you don’t hurt anyone around her for any reason before talking to me and the guys about it, and you cannot kidnap her or keep her against her will or for her own safety.” If he doesn’t agree to these terms, then I’ll have to start stalking him while he stalks her.
Zane barely even hesitates. “Yeah. No problem.” I can hear a flurry of activity in the background. “Look, volleyball is over. I’m going to follow her and her roommate wherever they go next. I’ll be home late.” He hangs up before I can even try to demand he come home at a reasonable time. I doubt he would listen anyway.
Viviana
The last five days have been filled with so much fun and excitement as Sandy and I did as many of the activities the school put together as we could. We spent the last hour making crafts in the library. Now we’re heading over to the Art and Design building to see last years students’ display. Sandy nudges me with her elbow. “What are you looking for?”
I freeze my apparently not-so-subtle search for the guy who’s been following me all week. I haven’t really seen him at all today. “Nothing, just wondering how close we are.”
“It should be just around that building,” Sandy says, looking down at her map. I don’t even stiffen when she links her elbow around mine like I did when she’d done it on the first day. I’m winning at this friendship thing. “There it is!” She points to a building with weird windows.
I let her tug me along as she half jogs to the building. We crowd into the lobby with a third of the freshmen in our class. We got to choose between this, a hike, and learning how to ballroom dance. I got hives when I even considered having to waltz, so we choose to come to the museum since Sandy doesn’t like hiking. Sandy and I follow thetrickle of students as we look at all the art on display covering every wall in the hallways.
Nothing really catches my attention until we’re stopped in front of a piece in the abstract expressionist section. I take a step closer. The background is white, while there are splatters of paint in three different colors overlapping each other. At first look, the splatters look random, but as I look at the pattern of each color, I realize what I’m seeing. I hum as I step even closer, not caring that I’m almost nose to canvas with the painting. “What is it?” Sandy asks, confusion clear in her voice.
“They’re splatter patterns,” I tell her.
“Well, obviously. Why is that so interesting?” Sandy tilts her head like that will show her what I’m seeing. She reaches out and pulls on my elbow to keep me from bumping the canvas with my head.
“No, they’re patterns from blood splatter,” I clarify as I turn back to the painting.
There’s a small intake of breath off to my side, but I’m too busy focusing on the painting to glance over. “How can you tell?”
I point out the wide arch of blue splatters. “This one is from an arterial bleed. From the quantity, I’m guessing, carotid artery.” I point out the circular splatter of purple paint that drips down the center of the canvas like a focal point. “Gun shot, likely a smaller caliber .22 or .38, no bigger than that.” I trace my finger over the long, thin lines of yellow splatter a few inches away from the painting. “These are from some kind of thin blade from a stabbing motion.” I demonstrated how the lines follow the natural arc of a shoulder blade.
“It’s from an ice pick,” a smooth voice says behind me.
