Still, I know there has to be something here. How else could Ghost show up whenever I pop in, perfectly timed? How could he and Nora know such specific, intimate things about my life?
I’m either bugged, or they’ve got someone spying on me, and I refuse to even entertain the thought that Loni or Henry—the only people I spend time with besides Saint and occasionally Liam—would betray me like that.
“Where are you, you little piece of shit?” I hiss, throwing open the drawers of my dresser. I dump their contents and pat down the insides but find nothing.
I release a growl of frustration and sit back on my haunches for a moment, thinking of any other places a device could be hidden. My attention wanders up to the mirror over my dresser. I ignore how pale my face is and my disheveled brown hair and how there are deep circles beneath my blue eyes because it’s not my shitty appearance that I’m interested in but the mirror’s frame. There are intricate designs carved into the wood, deep nooks and crevices that could potentially hide something—if it were small enough.
Slowly, I push to my feet and start running my hands along the frame, dipping my fingers into the design, until—
There.
It takes a little bit of digging, but I manage to pry out a tiny camera that’s the size of the buttons on my uniform blouses.
I stare at it, a part of me unable to believe my paranoia is justified.
Ghost wasn’t lying—they really have been spying on me. Watching my every move and invading my privacy in the most horrific way. My cheeks heat with fury as I think about all the things they must have seen. My conversations with Loni and Henry. My phone calls with Carley. Every time Saint was inside my room. Inside of me.
Nausea pitches my stomach at that thought.
Did they watch us together? How long has this thing been in here?
I’m numb as I stare down at the little device in my palm, but the longer I hold it, the harder waves of rage crash into me. Eventually, I’m shaking all over, my face and body on fire.
“Fuck off,” I snarl down at the camera before flinging it to the floor and crushing it beneath my tennis shoe.
2
I spend the rest of the weekend hidden away in my room like a paranoid coward.
Because I’m just not capable of interacting with other people, I tell Loni I have a stomach virus and have to stay far, far away from everyone. She leaves me several cans of soup outside my door along with a Get Well Soon card featuring a pissed-off kitten that looks suspiciously like Dorito. Thankfully, Saint doesn’t come slithering up to my door. That’s a small miracle, especially because I know he wouldn’t be fooled by my stomach virus bullshit and would say some stupid shit like, “Your pussy isn’t sick. Spread your legs, little masochist.”
Despite my retreat into hermit-status, my weekend is far from restful. At some point on Sunday afternoon, maintenance shows up to replace the locks on my door after the request I put in on Saturday afternoon where I lied and said I lost my keys. And then, even with new locks, peace is still impossible. There’s just too much weighing on my brain—from Jenn and Nora and discovering that my entire life is a lie to Nora’s gangbanger minion bugging my room and setting fires on campus to Jon Eric. Whenever I try to sleep, I have nightmares about him, and even a few about James.
Each time, I wake up in a cold sweat, breathing like I just ran for miles without stopping.
When my alarm goes off Monday morning, I’m so tired I almost sleep through it. It’s only in those last seconds before it automatically snoozes that the persistent beeping yanks me awake. I groan and silence the noisy fucker before forcing myself to crawl out of bed.
Dressing quickly, I make my way out of my building, my steps sluggish and my limbs heavy with exhaustion. Crossing the quad on my way to the dining hall, I hear Laurel’s hateful voice cutting through the morning air.
“Someone looks like hot garbage this morning!” she sings nastily. “FYI, hoebilly, double stuffing yourself with random cocks isn’t a good way to spend your Sunday nights if you plan on skanking your way into college.”
It’s not her strongest taunt, and I choose to pretend she never opened her over-plumped lips. I don’t have the energy to deal with Laurel and her bullshit. I keep walking, the spiteful cackling of Laurel’s friends barely registering in my sleep-deprived brain. They don’t follow me, which is a relief, and I continue into the dining hall and grab a tray of food before going to find Loni and Henry.
I spot them, her curly head bent close to his, at our usual table, and a few seconds later, I slump into the seat next to Loni.
“Feeling better?” Henry asks as she shoots me a smile over her shoulder, doing a double take when she takes in my appearance.
“Oh, wow, you look terrible,” she says, never one for mincing words. She plucks at the hem of my rumpled green plaid skirt, her lips turning downward. “That stomach thing really did a number on you, huh? You sure you should be out and about right now?”
I nod, waving my hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, guys. Thanks for the soup, by the way, it was great.” I instantly feel like a jerk for lying. The cans of soup are still stacked by my microwave, untouched. “I’m just a little tired now. Don’t mind me.”
She doesn’t look like she’s buying what I’m trying to sell, but Henry does.
“So, what are you going to do?” he asks, attempting to bring Loni back into whatever conversation they were having before I stumbled along looking like an extra on The Walking Dead.
She darts her gaze from me to him before letting out a deep sigh. “Well, obviously tell him no. After what he did, he doesn’t deserve shit from me.”
I’m just curious enough that I cock an eyebrow and ask, “Who is he and what did he do?”
Loni nibbles on her bottom lip as she looks back to me. “It’s Brandon. He asked me to prom.”
“That’s unexpected, yes?”
“Yup. But I’m telling him no—I’m done dealing with the shitheads at this school.”
Still, something in her voice makes me think she really wants to tell him yes. If not, why wouldn’t she have just said no already?
I want to be engaged in this conversation—really, I do—but I just don’t have the energy as my friends verbally skewer Brandon for staying quiet about his teammates’ brutal attack on Nick, Henry’s brother, last year. I’m only half-listening when my attention wanders across the dining hall. I can’t help but feel a little curious if blond Satan’s around. Though I’m grateful he left me alone the rest of the weekend, it was out of character for him to do so.
Maybe he’s just gone back to ignoring my existence again. That’s become pretty typical after we’ve had any kind of sexual encounter.
We fuck. He dips. Rinse and repeat.
My eyes naturally gravitate to his usual table, and sure enough, he’s there. Gabe and Rosalind are with him, a nasty little detail that sends a pang of jealousy shooting through me, but I don’t spot Liam anywhere. That wouldn’t be so unusual, given how tense his and Saint’s relationship tends to be, except he helped Saint with Jon Eric’s body.
The fact that he’s not around makes me … nervous.