Chapter 5: Ghosts Don't Stay Buried

Delaney

By Wednesday morning, I had officially decided that college was a scam. A very expensive, emotionally exhausting scam.

Between missing two days of classes, getting creepy texts from an unknown number, and apparently attracting the attention of Greyhaven's most suspicious group of attractive seniors, I was starting to wonder if a degree was worth the trouble.

I was also starting to wonder about my sanity, because last night, after spotting that figure across from my dorm, I'd done something incredibly stupid.

I'd gone outside.

By the time I reached the sidewalk, whoever had been standing under the trees was gone. So was the guy with green eyes. I'd spent twenty minutes wandering around in the dark looking for two men I didn't know, all because some anonymous asshole wanted to play mind games.

Excellent decision making, Delaney.

No new messages had come through since. After three hours of tossing and turning, I'd finally fallen asleep sometime after midnight, and now I was running on coffee, determination, and the overwhelming urge to punch something. Preferably something cheap. I couldn't afford to replace university property.

"Miss Mercer?"

My head snapped up. Professor Whitmore stood at the front of the lecture hall, watching me expectantly.

Shit. "Yes?"

"Would you care to answer the question?"

Absolutely not. I'd been too busy planning my nervous breakdown to listen. I glanced at the projector. Behavioral Responses to Environmental Stressors. Painfully appropriate.

"Could you repeat it, please?"

A few students snickered. Professor Whitmore sighed. "What are some common responses to prolonged psychological stress?"

Oh, that one I knew. "Hypervigilance, avoidance, emotional suppression, irritability, and trouble regulating responses to perceived threats."

His eyebrows rose. "Very good, Miss Mercer."

I gave him a small smile. If only he knew. I could have written his textbook from personal experience.

My next class wasn't until one, so I headed for the dining hall. I barely made it through the doors before the smell hit me. Bacon, eggs, sausage, toast, coffee, and something sweet drifting from the bakery counter. My stomach growled so violently I actually looked down at it.

I'd eaten a large breakfast less than three hours ago. Yet I felt like I hadn't eaten in days. I loaded a tray with two breakfast sandwiches, hash browns, a bowl of fruit, and three strips of bacon, then added a third sandwich, because apparently I was preparing for hibernation.

As I turned toward the seating area, someone said my name.

"Delaney?"

My blood went cold.

No. Absolutely fucking not. I knew that voice. I'd have recognized it anywhere.

Slowly, I turned around. She stood beside the drink machines in designer jeans and expensive boots, wearing the same cruel little smile I'd spent four years avoiding.

Camille Prescott. My personal nightmare from high school.

"Oh my God!" she said. "It really is you!"

For one beautiful moment, I considered pretending I didn't speak English. Or that I was dead. Anything, really.

"Camille."

"Wow. Look at you!"

I resisted the urge to check for a second head. "What are you doing here?"

"Transferring, obviously. I got everything sorted out yesterday. My dad knows someone on the admissions board, so it wasn't exactly hard."

Of course he did. Camille's father knew everyone. Teachers, coaches, the principal, half the fucking town. It was one of the reasons she'd gotten away with tormenting people for so long.

"That's nice," I lied.

Her eyes traveled over my faded sweatshirt, my old jeans, my worn sneakers. Then they dropped to my tray. "Jesus, Delaney. Are you eating for three?"

My grip tightened on the plastic. "I'm hungry."

"Clearly." She laughed. I didn't, and her smile slipped a little. She leaned closer. "I heard you moved out right after graduation. Your parents must have been devastated."

I said nothing.

"Oh, come on. Don't be like that."

Like what? Uninterested in discussing my childhood over breakfast? How unreasonable of me.

"I have somewhere to be."

I tried to step around her. Camille slid directly into my path. "Are you living on campus? With a roommate? Does she know about you?"

There it was. The real reason she'd come over. She hadn't wanted to say hello. She'd wanted to remind me that she knew things I didn't want anyone else to know.

I forced a smile. "Have a good day, Camille."

This time she let me go. For about three seconds.

"Hey, Delaney? Does everyone here know what happened at your house?"

My stomach twisted. A few nearby students glanced over, and Camille noticed, because she always loved an audience.

"I'd hate for you to start over with everyone thinking you're some innocent little angel."

I turned around, and my face stayed perfectly calm. It had taken years to learn that expression. My father could scream until he turned purple, and I'd learned to stand there without crying. My mother could say the cruelest things imaginable, and I'd learned to smile politely. Camille was nothing compared to them.

At least, that was what I told myself.

"Are you finished?"

She blinked, then laughed. "Wow. College really changed you."

"No. I'm just not interested in doing this again. We're not in high school anymore. You don't have to pretend we're friends, and I don't have to tolerate you."

Someone nearby made a quiet noise, maybe a laugh. Camille heard it, and her cheeks flushed red.

"Oh please. Don't act like you're better than me."

"I never said I was."

"Your family couldn't even stand you."

There it was, that old familiar twist of the knife. But something hot moved through my chest, and it wasn't a normal flash of anger. It was deeper. Sharper. Almost physical. My heartbeat grew so loud I could hear it. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Don't react. That was the rule. Always.

"Have a nice day."

Camille stepped closer. "Did your daddy finally kick you out, or did you run away crying like you always threatened to?"

My vision sharpened. I could see tiny clumps of mascara on her lashes, a loose thread at her sweater collar, the faint pulse moving beneath the skin of her throat.

What the hell?

I blinked. The details stayed. Somewhere behind me, a fork hit the floor, and the clang rang through my skull. I needed to leave. Immediately.

"I'm not discussing my family with you."

She smirked. "Still scared of them, huh?"

She reached for my arm, and I moved. Fast. Much faster than I'd intended. Her hand closed around empty air, and Camille flinched. One second she'd been inches away. The next, I was standing beside another table, and I had no idea how I'd gotten there.

Really fucking weird.

"Don't touch me," I said quietly.

"Whatever, freak."

She turned away. Then, just when I thought it was over, she slammed her elbow into my tray. The whole thing tilted. Food slid sideways. My coffee toppled, and I grabbed for it and missed. It splashed across my sweatshirt, and a sandwich hit the floor with a wet slap.

"Oh my God!" Camille gasped. "I'm so sorry!"

She wasn't. Not even a little.

People were staring now. Someone laughed. Heat rushed through my chest again, and my fingers trembled.

I looked down at the coffee soaking into my clothes, at the food scattered across the tile. Not all my meals were covered by my dining plan. I was budgeting every dollar I'd saved over the summer, and Camille knew exactly what losing something I'd paid for meant to me.

"Oops," she whispered.

Something inside me twisted, and for one horrifying second, I wanted to hurt her. Not slap her. Not shove her. Actually hurt her.

The thought was so sudden and vicious that it scared me. I stepped back. No. I wasn't my father. I wasn't going to become someone who lashed out whenever they got angry.

I set the ruined tray on the nearest table. "Enjoy your first week at Greyhaven."

Her smile vanished. I walked away. Behind me, someone muttered, "What a bitch." I didn't know who they meant, and I didn't care.

I needed air.

I made it outside before my hands started shaking.

The courtyard was crowded with students soaking up the afternoon sun. I found an empty bench at the edge of the walkway and sat. My sweatshirt was wet, my second breakfast was gone, and the one person I'd hoped never to see again had followed me all the way to college.

Just fucking perfect.

I pressed my palms against my knees. Breathe. In. Out. Again. The awful heat in my chest slowly faded. For years I'd counted the days until I could move somewhere nobody knew my name, or my parents, or the rumors. And now Camille was here, ready to ruin it all over again.

"Fuck." My voice cracked. I cleared my throat. No crying. Not here.

A strange smell reached me, pine and rain and something earthy I couldn't name. I looked up.

Across the courtyard, near the cafeteria windows, stood several familiar faces. The seniors. Of course. My humiliation clearly hadn't drawn enough attention already.

The tall one with cropped curls was speaking into his phone. The gray eyed one watched the cafeteria doors. The blond wasn't smiling for once. And a few feet away stood Black Hoodie, the guy with the green eyes, staring directly at me.

Again.

"Unbelievable," I groaned.

Varsity Jacket stepped outside behind him and said something. Black Hoodie shook his head. Then Varsity Jacket looked my way, and his face softened with what looked like real concern, which was strange, considering we'd never met.

The redhead appeared next, followed by her friend with the long braids. The redhead spotted me and started across the courtyard. Black Hoodie caught her arm, not roughly, just enough to stop her. They traded a few tense words. She yanked free, clearly irritated. Then the muscular guy joined in, and whatever he said settled it. The redhead stayed where she was.

What the actual fuck? Were they talking about me?

I stood, my sweatshirt clinging to my stomach. I needed to change before class and avoid every attractive senior on campus for the rest of my natural life.

As I walked off, I glanced back once. The whole group was still watching, except the redhead. She looked less suspicious than the others. Almost sympathetic.

I turned away before she caught me staring.

Sloane was gone when I got back to the dorm. Thank God for small miracles. I peeled off my sticky sweatshirt, tossed it in the laundry basket, pulled on a clean shirt, and stopped in front of the mirror.

Something looked different. Again.

My hair seemed thicker than yesterday. My eyes were unusually bright. And despite everything I'd eaten, my stomach was still growling. I leaned closer. No dark circles. No trace of Monday's brutal hangover. Even the little scratch my razor had left yesterday morning had vanished. I touched my cheek.

Weird. Maybe I needed vitamins. Or a doctor. Probably both.

My phone buzzed. I sighed. "If this is another creepy message, I'm throwing you into traffic."

Unknown number. Of course.

You handled that well.

My blood went cold. Whoever was texting me had seen what happened in the cafeteria, or someone had told them. My thumbs flew.

Stop watching me.

Three dots appeared and vanished. Then:

She knows how to hurt you.

My hands began to tremble. Who are you?

The dots came and went again. Finally the reply arrived.

Someone who knows you deserve better.

I swallowed. There was something deeply unsettling about that sentence, because it sounded kind. Almost comforting. But whoever wrote it knew things they had no right to know, and I was beginning to feel like there wasn't a single place on campus where I could be alone.

Leave me alone.

Then I blocked the number and tossed my phone onto the bed. For several seconds I stood there breathing hard. Then I grabbed my backpack.

I had class. Actual responsibilities. Normal things to worry about. I wasn't going to let Camille Prescott or some anonymous creep wreck the life I'd worked so hard to build.

At the door, I caught my reflection again. My face was calm. Perfectly calm. But deep in my chest, that strange heat flared once more, just for a moment, and then it was gone.

I shook my head and stepped into the hallway.

I didn't notice the ceiling light flicker behind me. I certainly didn't notice the tiny crack spreading through the bulb's glass.

Not until it shattered, several seconds after I'd closed the door.