Chapter Eleven - Black Sedan

My blood turned to ice.

I slid out of the booth, my legs unsteady, my hand reaching for the lockpick set in my pocket. The sedan didn't move. The dome light was off, but I could see the faint glow of a phone screen inside, illuminating the silhouette of a driver.

Watching.

Waiting.

The same car from the loading dock. The same car from the dorm parking lot.

They'd followed me here.

They'd been following me all along.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Detective Cross. She answered on the first ring.

"It's here," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "The black sedan. It's in the parking lot."

  "Don't approach it. Don't even look at it. Get inside and stay there until the bus comes."

"I can't just..."

"...You can and you will." Her voice was hard, commanding. "Whoever is in that car wants you to react. Wants you to come outside. Don't give them what they want."

I looked out the window again. The sedan was still there. The silhouette was still there. And then, slowly, deliberately, the driver's side window rolled down.

I couldn't see the face. The glare from the interior light turned the window into a mirror, reflecting the diner's neon sign back at me. But I saw the shape of a hand covered in a glove  wrapped around the steering wheel.

And then the hand lifted. Waved.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

"I have to go," I said into the phone.

"Alexa..."

"Nova." I hung up.

I didn't go outside. I wasn't stupid. But I also wasn't going to hide.

I walked to the front of the diner, to the large window that faced the parking lot. The sedan was still there. The hand was still there. And now, I could see the driver's face reflected in the window.

Not clearly. Just an impression. Dark hair. Pale skin. A smile that didn't reach the eyes.

The driver raised the hand again. This time, the fingers curled into a fist.

And then the thumb extended.

Pointing down.

The window rolled up. The sedan's engine started. And the car pulled out of the parking lot, its headlights cutting through the darkness like knives.

I stood at the window, my breath fogging the glass, until the red taillights disappeared around the corner.

---

The bus came at 2:17. Two minutes late.

I climbed aboard, took the same seat near the back, and watched the diner disappear behind me. The folders were still in my jacket. The photograph was still pressed against my chest. And the warning was still echoing in my skull.

STOP. THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING.

But I wasn't going to stop.

I knew I  was just getting started.

The bus pulled into the north gate at 2:43. I walked back to the dorm in silence, my eyes scanning every shadow, every doorway, every window. The parking lot was empty. The fire escape was still. The room, when I finally reached it, was dark.

Ashley was asleep. Her breathing was soft, the easy sleep of someone who hadn't just seen their dead sister's photograph written in blood. For a second I envied her.

But envy was useless. Revenge was useful. And revenge required action.

I sat down on my bare mattress, pulled out my phone, and opened a new note.

Madden Lighter.

Natalie Vasquez.

Professor Vance.

Helena Vance.

Myles Clay.

Ashley Grant.

Six names. Six suspects. And somewhere among them, at least one killer.

I stared at the list until my eyes burned, until the letters blurred and swam, until the pain in my side throbbed in time with my heartbeat.

The clock on Ashley's nightstand blinked at 3:00.

I closed my eyes.

Sleep came like drowning.

Not the gentle drift of exhaustion pulling you under, but the violent gasp of someone who'd been holding their breath too long. One moment I was staring at the ceiling, at the water stain that looked like a lung, and the next I was falling.

No dreams. Or if there were, I didn't remember them. Just darkness. Just silence. Just the hollow echo of a warning that had carved itself into my bones.

----

I woke to sunlight. Sharp and unforgiving, slicing through the gap in the curtains like a blade. The clock on Ashley's nightstand read 7:48 AM.

I'd slept for almost five hours.

It wasn't enough. It was never enough. But it would have to do.

Ashley was already awake. She sat cross-legged on her mattress, her cracked laptop balanced on her knees, her fingers typing furiously. The screen flickered, lines of static cutting across the display, but she didn't seem to notice.

"You're up," she said, not looking at me.

"You're awake." I said back.

"Couldn't sleep. Kept thinking about whoever broke in." She paused her typing, her fingers hovering over the keys. "I checked the door. The lock isn't broken. No scratches. Nothing."

"Maybe they had a key."

"Who would have a key to our room?"

I didn't answer. The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswered.

Ashley finally looked at me. Her eyes were red-rimmed, exhausted, but there was something else there too. Something harder. Something that looked almost like suspicion.

"You went for a walk last night," she said. "For a long time."

"I needed air."

"You were gone for hours."

"I got lost."

Ashley's jaw tightened. "You keep saying that."

"Because it's true."

She stared at me for a long moment. Then she looked away, back at her broken laptop, and started typing again.

"We have Abnormal Psych in an hour," she said. "Professor Cross. Don't be late."

Professor Cross. Not Detective Cross. Different person entirely. But the name still made my pulse skip.

"I won't," I said.

---

The walk to the lecture hall took fifteen minutes.

Ashley walked ahead of me, her pace brisk, her shoulders hunched against the morning cold. She didn't look back. Didn't wait for me to catch up. The silence between us felt different now...heavier, sharper, like a blade that hadn't been drawn yet.

I didn't blame her. I was lying to her. Every word out of my mouth was a lie or a half-truth or a careful omission. She had every right to be suspicious.

But suspicion was dangerous. Suspicion got people noticed. And being noticed was the last thing I needed.

The lecture hall was a large, tiered room with seats that faced a central podium. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and the chalkboard at the front was already covered in dense, spidery handwriting. About thirty students were scattered throughout the rows, their faces slack with early-morning fatigue.

I took a seat near the back, against the wall, where I could see everyone. Ashley sat three rows ahead, on the opposite side, her back deliberately turned.

The door opened. A man walked in.

Professor Daniel Hans

He was younger than I'd expected, maybe late thirties, with sandy hair that was starting to gray at the temples and wire-rimmed glasses that made him look more like a librarian than a psychology professor. He carried a leather briefcase and a coffee mug that said WORLD'S OKAYEST TEACHER.

"Good morning," he said, setting his things on the podium. "Welcome to Abnormal Psychology. I'm Professor Hans. Some of you are here because you're interested in the human mind. Some of you are here because you needed an elective. And some of you..." He paused, scanning the room with pale blue eyes. "...are here because you think it'll help you understand someone you've lost."

His gaze landed on me. Just for a moment. Just long enough to make my skin prickle.

Then he looked away and began his lecture.

---

I didn't hear a word he said.

My mind was elsewhere. In the parking lot of the Rusty Spoon. In the black sedan with the tinted windows. Watching a gloved hand wave at me through the glare.