Chapter 2: Welcome to Westbridge

By Sunday evening, Cecilia Brooks had learned three things about moving away from home.

First, a suitcase with one broken wheel could turn a five-minute walk into a personal tragedy.

Second, her fourteen-year-old brother could be remarkably generous when he wanted something from her.

And third, no amount of reassurance could convince her mother that sending her only eighteen-year-old daughter to a boarding school three hours away was a perfectly reasonable decision.

“You have your phone charger?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Your medication?”

“I don't take any medication.”

“Your vitamins?”

Cecilia stopped halfway through folding a shirt.

“Mom.”

“What?”

“I packed them yesterday.”

Her mother glanced at the suitcase.

“Did you pack enough?”

“Enough for what? A war?”

“Cecilia.”

“I'm sorry.” Cecilia suppressed a smile. “Yes. I packed enough.”

Her mother returned to the kitchen counter, where she had arranged a collection of snacks inside a paper bag.

There were granola bars, crackers, two packets of cookies, and enough homemade sandwiches to feed someone who had mistaken a three-hour journey for an expedition across the Arctic.

Cecilia stared at the bag.

“Mom, I won't starve.”

“You don't know that.”

“There's a cafeteria.”

“And what if you don't like the food?”

“Then I'll eat something else.”

“What if the cafeteria is closed?”

“Then I'll go to bed hungry and wake up tomorrow.”

Her mother gave her a disapproving look.

Cecilia sighed.

“Fine. I'll take the food.”

“Good.”

Her mother folded the top of the bag and placed it beside the suitcase.

Cecilia watched her for a moment.

There was something different about her mother's face that morning. She smiled whenever Cecilia looked at her, but the smile never quite reached her eyes.

Cecilia understood why.

For eighteen years, she had been the daughter who stayed close, the one who helped with the twins, ran errands after school, and learned to recognize the sound of her mother's footsteps when she was too tired to speak.

Now she was leaving.

And no matter how many times they reminded each other that Westbridge represented an opportunity, the apartment would feel different without her.

Cecilia walked over and wrapped her arms around her mother.

Her mother stiffened in surprise.

Then she hugged her back.

“You're going to be okay,” Cecilia whispered.

Her mother let out a quiet breath.

“You're the one leaving.”

“Exactly. Which means I should be the one comforting you.”

Her mother laughed softly against her shoulder.

For a moment, Cecilia wished she could remain there forever.

Then Michael ruined it.

“Are you two going to cry all morning, or can I have the last cookie?”

Cecilia pulled away.

“Touch that bag and I'll break your fingers.”

Michael withdrew his hand.

“Violence. That's how I know you love me.”

“Get out of my room.”

He grinned and disappeared down the hallway.

Her mother shook her head.

“Your brother is going to miss you.”

“He'll survive.”

“And Martha.”

Cecilia looked toward the bedroom she shared with her younger sister.

Martha had been unusually quiet since breakfast. She had helped Cecilia pack, offered several unnecessary opinions about which clothes were suitable for Westbridge, and then disappeared into the living room.

Cecilia found her sitting on the couch, staring at the television without watching it.

“Hey.”

Martha glanced up.

“Hey.”

Cecilia sat beside her.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Martha.”

“I'm fine.”

Cecilia waited.

Her sister lasted approximately four seconds.

“I think it's stupid that you have to leave.”

Cecilia looked at her.

Martha's eyes remained fixed on the television.

“You worked hard for this,” she continued. “You got the scholarship. You deserve to go. I know that.”

“Okay.”

“But I still think it's stupid.”

Cecilia smiled faintly.

“That's fair.”

“And if you make new friends and forget about us, I'll tell everyone your childhood nickname.”

Cecilia gasped.

“You wouldn't dare.”

“Try me.”

“Martha, that information is classified.”

“Not anymore.”

Cecilia laughed and pulled her sister into a hug.

Martha resisted for a second before wrapping her arms around her.

“Call me,” Martha muttered.

“I will.”

“Not just when you need something.”

“I won't.”

“And don't pretend everything is fine when it isn't.”

Cecilia's smile faded.

That was the problem with Martha.

She noticed too much.

“I'll tell you the truth,” Cecilia promised.

Martha leaned back.

“Good.”

Then she wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt and immediately looked offended when Cecilia noticed.

“Don't say anything.”

“I wasn't going to.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I think many things.”

“Annoying things.”

“Frequently.”

Martha shoved her shoulder.

Cecilia stood before the conversation could become more emotional than either of them could comfortably handle.

Her suitcase waited beside the front door.

The morning had arrived.

There was no more time to postpone the inevitable.

---

The drive to Westbridge took two hours and forty-seven minutes.

Cecilia knew because she checked the time on her phone approximately every twelve minutes.

Her mother drove an aging sedan that rattled whenever they exceeded sixty miles per hour. The heating system worked inconsistently, and the passenger-side window occasionally made a high-pitched noise that sounded suspiciously like a dying bird.

But the car moved.

That was enough.

For the first hour, Cecilia watched the scenery change outside her window.

The familiar neighborhoods gradually gave way to smaller towns, stretches of woodland, and roads bordered by stone walls. The sky cleared as they traveled north, revealing patches of blue between the clouds.

Eventually, the landscape began to change.

The houses grew larger.

The roads became smoother.

The cars surrounding them looked newer and more expensive.

Cecilia noticed a sports car pull alongside them at a traffic light. Its driver wore sunglasses despite the cloudy weather.

She glanced at her own reflection in the window.

Her hair was tied back, her clothes were clean, and her sneakers had been washed the previous evening.

She looked perfectly ordinary.

At least, she hoped she did.

“You're quiet,” her mother observed.

“I'm thinking.”

“About school?”

“About everything.”

Her mother nodded.

“That's normal.”

“Is it?”

“Of course.”

Cecilia turned toward her.

“Were you nervous when you left home for the first time?”

Her mother considered the question.

“I was terrified.”

Cecilia blinked.

“Really?”

“Absolutely. I was convinced I would make a terrible mistake, disappoint everyone, and end up regretting every decision I'd ever made.”

“That sounds familiar.”

Her mother laughed.

“Your grandmother told me something before I left.”

“What?”

“She said that being afraid of a decision didn't automatically mean it was the wrong one.”

Cecilia looked out the window again.

She had spent so long worrying about what could go wrong that she had barely allowed herself to consider what might go right.

Westbridge represented a chance to meet people who could help her pursue her ambitions. It offered academic opportunities her old school could never have provided. If she worked hard enough, she might qualify for university scholarships and eventually secure a career that would allow her to support her family.

She wasn't going to Westbridge to become rich.

She was going because she wanted choices.

The freedom to decide where she lived.

The freedom to pursue a career without calculating every expense.

The freedom to help her mother without feeling as though one unexpected bill could destroy their lives.

She wanted a future in which the people she loved could stop apologizing for things they couldn't afford.

That seemed worth being afraid of.

Her mother reached across the center console and squeezed her hand.

“You don't have to prove anything to anybody, Cecilia.”

Cecilia looked at her.

“Not even myself?”

Her mother smiled.

“Especially not yourself.”

---

Westbridge Academy looked nothing like Cecilia had imagined.

She had expected an impressive building, perhaps a collection of modern classrooms and a library with enough books to justify the school's reputation.

Instead, she found a sprawling campus that resembled a private university.

Red-brick academic buildings stood among carefully maintained lawns. Wide stone pathways connected the main entrance to a collection of residence halls, sports facilities, and administrative offices. Beyond the campus, the Atlantic Ocean glittered beneath the afternoon sun.

Students moved between buildings carrying backpacks and iced coffees.

Some wore casual clothes.

Others looked as though they had dressed specifically for the possibility of being photographed.

A group of boys crossed the lawn, laughing loudly. Near the entrance, two girls posed beside a fountain while another took pictures with a phone.

Cecilia watched them through the passenger window.

“Are we at a school or a resort?”

Her mother smiled.

“Maybe both.”

A security guard directed them toward the visitor parking area.

As her mother pulled into a space, Cecilia felt her stomach tighten.

They had arrived.

No more imagining what Westbridge might be like.

No more reading the school's website and studying photographs of buildings she had never seen.

She was here.

Her mother switched off the engine.

For several seconds, neither of them moved.

Then Cecilia took a deep breath.

“Okay.”

Her mother looked at her.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

They got out.

The first thing Cecilia noticed was how quickly people noticed her.

Not everyone, of course. Most students continued walking, talking, and laughing without paying attention to the unfamiliar girl standing beside an aging sedan.

But a few glanced toward the car.

One boy looked at the suitcase.

Another looked at Cecilia's sneakers.

She imagined she was being paranoid.

Then she caught a girl whispering to her friend while looking directly at her.

Cecilia straightened her shoulders.

She had not come to Westbridge to impress strangers.

She had come to make something of herself.

If someone disliked her shoes, they were welcome to buy her a new pair.

Otherwise, they could mind their own business.

Her mother retrieved the suitcase from the trunk.

Cecilia reached for it.

“I've got it.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes.”

Her mother released the handle reluctantly.

Together, they crossed the lawn toward the administration building.

Inside, the reception area was bright and spacious, with polished floors, comfortable chairs, and framed photographs of graduating classes dating back decades.

A woman seated behind the front desk looked up.

“Good afternoon. How can I help you?”

“I'm Cecilia Brooks,” Cecilia said. “I'm here to register as a new student.”

The woman's expression brightened.

“Of course. We've been expecting you.”

She checked a list, then handed Cecilia a folder containing her schedule, residence assignment, campus map, and several documents she was instructed to read.

“Your academic adviser will meet with you tomorrow morning. Residence staff will help you settle in today. If you have any questions, the information desk is available until six.”

Cecilia nodded.

“Thank you.”

The woman smiled.

“Welcome to Westbridge, Cecilia.”

It was a simple sentence.

Yet hearing it made the entire experience feel real.

She was no longer the girl waiting for an acceptance letter.

She was a student at Westbridge Academy.

Her mother hugged her outside the administration building.

“Call me tonight.”

“I will.”

“And tomorrow.”

“Mom.”

“And whenever you need to.”

Cecilia laughed.

“I promise.”

Her mother held her a little longer.

Then she stepped back, adjusted Cecilia's collar, and smiled.

“Go make the most of this.”

Cecilia watched her walk toward the parking lot.

For a moment, she wanted to run after her.

Instead, she picked up her suitcase.

Then she turned toward the residence halls.

---

Westbridge's senior residence hall was called Hawthorne House.

It was a three-story brick building with white-trimmed windows, a covered entrance, and a small garden maintained by the school's environmental club.

Cecilia followed the signs to the reception desk, where a student assistant checked her name against a list.

“Cecilia Brooks?”

“Yes.”

The assistant handed her a key card.

“Room 214. Second floor, eastern corridor. You're sharing with Victoria Hayes.”

Cecilia nodded.

“Thank you.”

“Elevator's around the corner. Stairs are faster, though.”

Cecilia looked at her suitcase.

“With this?”

The assistant glanced at the missing wheel.

“Oh.”

“Exactly.”

The assistant smiled apologetically.

“Elevator, then.”

Cecilia found it and rode to the second floor.

The corridor smelled faintly of cleaning products and fresh paint. Doors lined both sides, each marked with a room number and a small nameplate.

She found 214 near the end of the hall.

For a moment, she stood outside with her hand hovering over the handle.

She had shared a bedroom with Martha for most of her life.

She knew the sounds of her sister's breathing at night, the way she kicked off blankets in her sleep, and how she sometimes mumbled entire conversations while dreaming.

Now she would be sharing a room with a stranger.

Someone who might be kind.

Someone who might be difficult.

Someone who might decide within five minutes that Cecilia was not the sort of person she wanted around.

Cecilia shook her head.

She was not going to spend the entire year worrying about whether people liked her.

She opened the door.

The room was larger than she expected.

Two beds stood on opposite sides of the space, each with a desk, wardrobe, and small bookshelf. A window overlooked the campus courtyard, where students were carrying boxes into nearby buildings.

One side of the room was already occupied.

A suitcase lay open on the bed. Clothes hung neatly in the wardrobe, and a collection of photographs had been arranged on the desk beside a small potted plant.

A girl stood near the window, examining something on her phone.

She turned when Cecilia entered.

She had shoulder-length brown hair, dark eyes, and an expression that suggested she was perpetually assessing the people around her.

"You're Cecilia."

It was not a question.

"Yes."

The girl slipped her phone into her pocket.

"Victoria."

They shook hands.

Victoria's grip was firm.

Cecilia glanced toward the empty bed.

"Is this mine?"

"No, it's for the ghost who lives in the ceiling."

Cecilia looked up instinctively.

Victoria stared at her.

Then her mouth twitched.

"I'm kidding."

Cecilia exhaled.

"Good. I wasn't prepared to negotiate with supernatural roommates on my first day."

Victoria laughed.

It was brief, but genuine.

"You're going to be fine."

"I've been here for three minutes."

"Exactly. If you were going to be unbearable, I'd probably have noticed by now."

Cecilia smiled despite herself.

She set her suitcase beside the bed.

Victoria watched her unpack a few items before speaking again.

"So, where are you from?"

Cecilia named her hometown.

Victoria nodded.

"How was the drive?"

"Long."

"First time here?"

"Yes."

Victoria leaned against her desk.

"Then let me give you some advice."

Cecilia raised an eyebrow.

"Should I be worried?"

"Probably."

Victoria folded her arms.

"Westbridge is a great school. The teachers are excellent, the facilities are ridiculous, and if you take advantage of the academic programs, you can do a lot with your future."

"That sounds encouraging."

"It is. But there are also people here who think their parents' bank accounts make them royalty."

Cecilia laughed.

"I've met people like that before."

"Not these people."

Victoria's expression changed slightly.

She glanced toward the door, as though making sure nobody was listening.

"There are families here that practically own the town. Their names are on buildings, sports facilities, and scholarship programs. Some of them have been sending their children to Westbridge for generations."

"And that means?"

"It means some students are accustomed to getting what they want."

Cecilia returned a stack of books to her desk.

"I can handle spoiled people."

"I believe you."

Victoria paused.

"But if someone tells you that James Carter is the nicest guy in school, don't take it at face value."

Cecilia turned.

"James Carter?"

Victoria studied her expression.

"You've heard of him?"

"Only his name."

"Then you're already ahead of most people. Half the girls here have an opinion about him, and the other half are pretending they don't."

"Why?"

Victoria gave her a look.

"Have you seen him?"

"No."

"That explains it."

Cecilia laughed.

"Is he that handsome?"

"Unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?"

"Handsome boys are exhausting. Especially the ones who know it."

Cecilia returned to unpacking.

"Good thing I'm not here to date anybody."

Victoria made a thoughtful sound.

"That's what everyone says."

"Well, everyone should try meaning it."

Victoria smiled.

For the next twenty minutes, they settled into a comfortable rhythm. Victoria explained the residence hall's rules, pointed out the communal bathrooms, and told Cecilia which vending machines were least likely to steal her money.

She also explained that the cafeteria served breakfast until nine, lunch until two, and dinner until seven.

Cecilia mentally filed away the information.

Food schedules mattered.

She had learned that lesson long before Westbridge.

Eventually, Victoria picked up her phone.

"I'm going downstairs to meet a friend. Do you want to come?"

Cecilia glanced at the remaining clothes in her suitcase.

"I should finish unpacking."

"Suit yourself."

Victoria reached the door, then paused.

"Oh, one more thing."

Cecilia looked up.

"If you see Rita Bennett, be careful."

Cecilia went still.

Victoria noticed immediately.

"You know her?"

"We used to be friends."

Victoria's expression became unreadable.

"Of course you did."

Cecilia frowned.

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing."

"Victoria."

She sighed.

"Look, I don't know what happened between you two, and I don't want to get involved in somebody else's history. But Rita is very good at making people feel as though she's on their side."

Cecilia folded her arms.

"And you think she's not?"

"I think she has her own priorities."

"Don't we all?"

Victoria considered that.

"Fair point."

She opened the door.

"But if she offers to introduce you to someone, ask yourself why she's doing it."

Then she left.

Cecilia stood in the middle of the room, staring at the closed door.

It was the second warning she had received about Rita in less than twenty-four hours.

The first had come directly from Rita herself.

Cecilia had no idea what any of it meant.

But she was beginning to suspect that Westbridge Academy was not going to be the fresh start she had imagined.

---

At six thirty, Cecilia decided she needed food.

She had finished unpacking, arranged her textbooks on the desk, and called her mother to confirm that she had arrived safely.

She had also spoken to Michael, who spent most of the conversation complaining that Martha had taken his charger.

Some things, apparently, remained constant regardless of geography.

The cafeteria was located in a large building beside the student center. It had floor-to-ceiling windows, long tables, and a serving area that offered considerably more options than Cecilia's previous school.

She picked up a tray and studied the menu.

Roasted chicken.

Pasta.

Vegetables.

Salad.

Several desserts.

For a moment, she simply stood there.

She could choose what she wanted without calculating whether it would leave enough money for something else.

Her scholarship covered her meals.

The realization should have been comforting.

Instead, it made her feel strangely emotional.

She selected chicken, vegetables, and a small portion of pasta before finding an empty table near the windows.

She had barely taken her first bite when someone stopped beside her.

"Is this seat taken?"

Cecilia looked up.

A tall boy stood beside the table, holding a tray.

He had dark hair, gray eyes, and the sort of face that seemed almost unfairly well put together. His navy sweater was pushed up at the sleeves, revealing a simple black watch.

He looked vaguely familiar.

Then Cecilia remembered the photographs in the school's brochure.

James Carter.

She stared at him for half a second too long.

He noticed.

"That depends," he said. "Are you going to charge me rent?"

Cecilia blinked.

"What?"

"For the seat."

She glanced at the empty chair.

"Are you planning to stay long enough to justify the expense?"

His eyebrows lifted.

Then he smiled.

It was an easy smile, the kind that suggested he was accustomed to people responding favorably to him.

"Probably."

"Then I suppose we should discuss your financial arrangements."

He laughed.

Cecilia returned her attention to her food.

"You can sit."

James took the chair opposite her.

For several seconds, neither of them spoke.

Then he glanced at her tray.

"First day?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"You look like you're still deciding whether the food is safe."

Cecilia looked down at her plate.

"I was deciding whether the vegetables were worth the effort."

"And?"

"I haven't reached a conclusion."

"Let me know when you do."

She smiled faintly.

James took a bite of his sandwich.

"I'm James, by the way."

"I know."

He paused.

"That's a little unsettling."

"Your face is on the school's basketball posters."

"Oh."

He looked genuinely embarrassed.

"Right. Those."

"Do you not like them?"

"I've never understood why people need a poster to remember what somebody looks like."

"Maybe they don't."

He looked at her.

"Maybe they want to remember you."

Cecilia held his gaze for a moment.

Then she shook her head.

"That sounds like something somebody practiced saying in a mirror."

James laughed so suddenly that he nearly dropped his fork.

"Okay. That's fair."

She returned to her meal.

He studied her for a moment before speaking again.

"So, what's your name?"

"Cecilia."

"Cecilia what?"

"Brooks."

Something changed in his expression.

It was subtle, but she noticed.

He had heard her name before.

Or perhaps he had expected it.

"You're the scholarship student," he said.

Cecilia set down her fork.

There it was.

The label she had been waiting for.

Not new student.

Not Cecilia.

The scholarship student.

"Yes."

James seemed to realize how that sounded.

"I didn't mean—"

"It's fine."

"No, I mean, I wasn't trying to make it weird."

"You didn't."

She picked up her fork again.

James looked unconvinced.

For the first time since sitting down, he seemed unsure of what to say.

Cecilia found that oddly reassuring.

"How long have you been at Westbridge?" she asked.

"Since freshman year."

"Do you like it?"

"Sometimes."

"That's a glowing recommendation."

"It's an honest one."

She nodded.

"Fair enough."

James leaned back in his chair.

"Why did you choose Westbridge?"

Cecilia looked at him.

"Because they accepted me."

He laughed.

"No, seriously."

"So am I."

He seemed surprised.

Cecilia took another bite before explaining.

"I applied because I wanted the academic opportunities. I accepted because they offered me a scholarship. That's the whole story."

"Nothing about wanting to experience something new?"

"Of course I want that."

"Then why didn't you say so?"

"Because you asked why I chose the school, not why I wanted to leave my old one."

James stared at her.

Then he smiled again, though this time there was something more thoughtful about it.

"You're very direct."

"People usually say that when they don't like the answer."

"Maybe I like it."

"Then you're in luck."

He laughed.

For the next several minutes, they talked about school.

James explained which teachers were strict, which classes required the most work, and which sports teams had the most competitive tryouts. Cecilia asked questions about the library and the university counseling program.

He seemed genuinely surprised by her interest in academics.

She was surprised by how much he knew about them.

Despite his reputation, James did not appear particularly arrogant. He was confident, certainly, and accustomed to attention, but he also listened when she spoke.

That alone made him more tolerable than she had expected.

Eventually, a girl approached their table.

She was beautiful, with long dark hair and a perfectly arranged outfit. Her expression brightened when she saw James, then shifted when she noticed Cecilia.

"James. I've been looking everywhere for you."

He looked up.

"Hey, Rita."

Cecilia stopped breathing for half a second.

Rita.

The girl standing beside the table smiled at James before turning toward Cecilia.

Her expression changed completely.

"Cecilia."

Cecilia stared at her.

"You know each other?" James asked.

Rita's smile widened.

"Oh, we're old friends."

Cecilia placed her fork on the tray.

Old friends.

The words sounded strange coming from Rita's mouth.

Rita pulled out the empty chair beside James and sat down without asking.

"I didn't know you'd arrived," she said.

"I got here this afternoon."

"You should have told me."

Cecilia looked at her.

"You said you would explain everything when I arrived."

Rita's smile faltered.

James glanced between them.

"Explain what?"

"Nothing," Rita said quickly.

Cecilia leaned back.

"Apparently, nothing is a very popular topic around here."

James looked as though he wanted to laugh but had decided against it.

Rita gave Cecilia a warning look.

Cecilia ignored it.

"You said you owed me a conversation," Cecilia continued. "You also said I needed to be careful about who I trusted."

Rita's expression tightened.

"I was going to explain."

"When?"

"When we had time to talk privately."

"Then why are you sitting here?"

Rita opened her mouth.

Closed it.

James looked between them again.

"Should I leave?"

"Probably," Cecilia and Rita said simultaneously.

James blinked.

Then he laughed.

"Well, that's encouraging."

He stood, picked up his tray, and looked at Cecilia.

"It was nice meeting you."

Cecilia nodded.

"You too."

He turned toward Rita.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"James—"

But he was already walking away.

Rita watched him go before turning back to Cecilia.

For several seconds, neither girl spoke.

Then Rita leaned forward.

"Listen to me carefully."

Cecilia folded her arms.

"I'm listening."

"James Carter is not somebody you should get involved with."

Cecilia stared at her.

"I've known him for fifteen minutes."

"That's fifteen minutes longer than you needed."

"Rita, what is going on?"

Her former best friend looked toward the cafeteria doors.

Then she lowered her voice.

"James's family has been planning his future for years. He has a girlfriend, whether he admits it or not, and half the school believes they're going to get married someday."

Cecilia frowned.

"He's eighteen."

"That doesn't stop people from making plans."

"And why are you telling me this?"

Rita hesitated.

For the first time that evening, she seemed genuinely uncomfortable.

"Because I don't want you getting hurt."

Cecilia stared at her.

She wanted to believe that.

Some part of her still wanted to believe that Rita was the girl who had once sat beside her during lunch, shared her secrets, and promised they would never become strangers.

But another part remembered the unanswered messages.

The cancelled plans.

The months of silence.

The way Rita had appeared in front of her that morning as though nothing had happened.

"Then tell me the truth," Cecilia said.

Rita's eyes flickered.

"About what?"

"Everything."

Rita glanced toward the doors again.

Then she stood.

"Not here."

Cecilia's patience finally snapped.

"Then where, Rita?"

Rita looked down at her.

For a moment, Cecilia thought she might actually answer.

Instead, she picked up her bag.

"Tomorrow. I'll come by your room."

Cecilia stared at her.

"You're unbelievable."

"I know."

Rita turned away.

Then she stopped.

Without looking back, she said, "And Cecilia?"

"What?"

"Stay away from James Carter."

This time, Cecilia did not respond.

She watched Rita walk across the cafeteria and disappear through the doors.

Then she looked down at her dinner.

The vegetables had gone cold.

She had been at Westbridge for less than a day.

Already, she had met the boy everyone seemed to know, reunited with the girl who had once been her best friend, and received three separate warnings about the people around her.

She had come here to study.

To earn good grades.

To build a future.

She had not come looking for romance, drama, or complicated relationships.

Unfortunately, it seemed Westbridge had not been consulted about her plans.

---

Later that night, James Carter stood on the balcony outside his bedroom, staring at the dark ocean.

His phone vibrated.

A message from Rita appeared on the screen.

RITA: We need to talk about Cecilia.

James frowned.

He typed a response.

JAMES: Why?

The reply came quickly.

RITA: Because she's my friend.

James stared at the message.

He thought about Cecilia's expression when Rita had called them old friends.

He remembered the way her smile had disappeared, and how carefully she had chosen her words afterward.

Whatever had happened between the two girls, it had not been resolved.

He typed again.

JAMES: You don't seem to agree on that.

For almost a minute, nothing happened.

Then Rita responded.

RITA: Just promise me you won't get involved with her.

James looked toward the ocean.

He had known Rita for years.

He had known her long enough to recognize when she was hiding something.

And he knew her well enough to understand that asking her for an explanation would probably accomplish nothing.

He typed three words.

JAMES: No promises.

Then he put his phone away.

He had no intention of getting involved with Cecilia Brooks.

She was new to Westbridge, unfamiliar with the school's social circles, and clearly uninterested in the sort of attention that followed him everywhere.

Besides, he had enough problems of his own.

His father expected him to attend the university reception.

His mother wanted him to stop arguing with his father.

His girlfriend expected him to call.

And now Rita Bennett was telling him to stay away from a girl he had met less than an hour earlier.

James sighed.

For the first time in weeks, he found himself genuinely curious about something that had nothing to do with his future.

Who was Cecilia Brooks?

And why did Rita seem so afraid of what might happen if he found out?