Chapter 7: He's watching

He clicks on a button of his laptop and the grading rubric appears on the board.

“You’ll start with the case summary,” Mr. Madden says. “The victims, the location and time frames of the murders, key characteristics of the offender’s behavior, and the known details about the social and economic environment of Whitechapel in 1888.”

Another quiet click echoes through the classroom.

Nobody speaks. The room is unnervingly silent, filled only with the soft hum of the digital board and the deep, controlled voice of Mr. Gorgeous' voice.

I mean Mr. Madden, of course.

“This section should be objective and fact-based. Give me all the information I need to understand the case in five hundred words or less.” His voice sharpens slightly. “Know how to summarize. Know what information is important. Know the difference between facts and opinions. Give me the key details.”

My mind is already racing.

Ideas form almost instantly. Timelines. Locations. Victim profiles. I’m already mentally structuring the assignment, organizing the facts in neat little categories.

I love this.

Criminology has always been my favorite subject, and somehow Mr. Madden knows exactly how to ignite the room. How to push us. How to push me.

He straightens slightly and surveys the classroom with quiet confidence.

“The top six students,” he says calmly, “will join me at the International Criminal Convention.”

The room explodes with quiet gasps.

That convention is world famous. And invitation-only. Only the best lawyers, judges, investigators, and policymakers attend. It’s where careers are made. Where connections are formed. In the criminal justice world, relationships are everything. Be liked by the right people, and suddenly doors open that would otherwise remain locked forever.

I sit up straighter in my chair.

“Please me,” Mr. Madden says softly.

A ripple moves through the room.

Everyone hears the double meaning. Everyone feels the sudden heat creeping up their necks.

“And you might just get lucky.” His gaze moves slowly across the class. “Do you think you deserve a spot with me this year?”

He leans forward, flattening both hands against the desk. The movement is controlled, deliberate.

Predatory.

His eyes darken as he studies us, like a hunter deciding which prey is worth the chase.

The entire class holds its breath.

“Prove it.”

Well. Fuck me.

He straightens again, the tension snapping like a broken wire.

“I expect a precise summary by next lesson,” he continues. “Stand out. Be black and white. I want no grey areas. The grey comes later, when you start filling in the gaps.”

The pointer slams down against his desk with a sharp crack.

“You may begin. Use your time wisely.”

The classroom erupts instantly. Laptops open. Pens scrape across paper. Students whisper, exchange looks, toss their hair back with sudden determination.

The girls look particularly energized, flushed with a mix of academic ambition and something far less scholarly.

I remain frozen for a few seconds.

“I’m going to that convention,” Sam mutters beside me with fierce determination as he throws his laptop onto the desk a little too aggressively. I half expect the screen to crack, but he opens it quickly and begins typing like a man possessed.

With a small sigh, I reach into my brand-new bag and pull out my own laptop.

Before opening it, I risk a glance toward the front of the classroom.

Mr. Madden is typing on his laptop, his posture relaxed but focused, eyes fixed on the screen.

But the moment my gaze lingers on him, his fingers falter slightly on the keyboard. Like he knows I'm watching him. Like he feels it.

He swallows.

Slowly. So slowly I almost convince myself I'm imagining it.. He looks up.

Bang.

Our eyes lock instantly, like a shotgun blast across the room. The connection is sharp, intense—almost violent in its suddenness.

It feels forbidden. It feels deathly.

“What are you doing? You gotta start!” Sam nudges my arm roughly, buzzing with excitement. I lose my balance slightly and the moment between Mr. Madden and me shatters.

“Alright, eager beaver,” I mutter, nudging him back as I open my laptop.

My expensive laptop.

I actually won it in a competition I don’t even remember signing up for. On a hot day this summer, some random guy appeared at the my house with the box and announced I’d won first prize. He shoved it into my hands before I could ask any questions and disappeared before I could protest.

For weeks I left it sitting in the cupboard, convinced someone would come looking for it.

No one ever did.

Eventually I started using it, and it turned out to be the fastest, most futuristic laptop I’ve ever seen. And everything was already installed on it.

I open Word and stare at the blank document while the sound of frantic typing fills the room. Every student around me is hammering at their keyboards like their future depends on it.

Which… it might.

I quickly open a browser and start searching.

Across the room, Mr. Madden has stopped typing. He’s staring at his screen intently, as if he’s found something fascinating.

I type Jack the Ripper case and instantly drown in information.

Murders. Mutilations. Endless speculation about the killer. Profiles of the victims. The social conditions of Whitechapel. Theories about suspects. Page after page after page.

How the hell am I supposed to summarize all this in less than five hundred words?

This is one of the most famous cases in criminal history.

I return to my blank document and pause.

At the front of the room, Mr. Madden’s face is faintly illuminated by his screen. It almost looks like he’s staring at a blank document too.

I begin typing the core structure first: the year, the confirmed victims, the location, the timeframe, the essential behavioral patterns.

Across the room, Mr. Madden continues watching his screen. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the corner of his mouth lifts. Like he’s pleased with whatever he’s looking at.

Wait. Why do I care?

He’s dead to me.

I force myself to focus and start typing properly, stripping the massive case down to its most essential facts. The year: 1888. The district: Whitechapel. Female victims. Patterns of mutilation. Late-night attacks. Poverty-stricken surroundings. Public panic.

Just the key details. Nothing unnecessary.

When I finish my final sentence, I pause to reread it.

At that exact moment, Mr. Madden snaps his laptop shut.

The sound cracks through the silent classroom like a gunshot.

Everyone looks up instantly.

“Class is over,” Mr. Madden announces calmly, his tone carrying the faintest hint of smug satisfaction. “I expect the summary in my email before next lesson. No later.”

No one moves. No one speaks.

Mr. Madden raises a single eyebrow and looks at us like we’re idiots. “You may leave.”

The room explodes into motion. Chairs scrape back, bags zip open, students walk toward the door, glancing at Mr. Madden longingly.

We’re a few minutes early, and exhaustion suddenly hits me. I let out a huge yawn. I shouldn’t have taken that ridiculously long shower last night. I stand with tired legs.

“I’m going to hand mine in right now,” Sam declares beside me with fierce determination.

I stare at him. “What?” I grab my bag and laptop.

He looks at me innocently. “What? Might earn me some bonus points.”

He wiggles his eyebrows and sticks out his tongue in a ridiculous attempt at being seductive.

“Come on, girlie. If you were about to orgasm from across the room earlier, I can’t wait to see what happens when you get closer.”

“What? I—”

Before I can finish, Sam grabs my wrist and drags me along with him.

“Sam!” Delilah snaps as we march past her desk. Tessa is practically shaking with suppressed laughter.

We move through the slowly emptying classroom toward the front.

Toward Mr. Madden.

I try to yank my hand free, digging my nails into Sam’s grip, but he refuses to let go.

“Sir!” Sam calls cheerfully.

Fuck.

Too late.