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I have so many questions, and there’s no one around I can ask.

“Hey,” a soft voice says, and I blink up to meet the hazel-brown eyes. “Class is over.”

My gaze flits around the room at that revelation. What felt like only a few seconds was actually twenty-ish minutes.

“Thanks,” I reply, gathering my belongings. I stand and then exit the lecture hall.

Parting through the sea of students in the hallway, I absentmindedly step out into the cool air. Now that it’s November, the temperature is far more forgiving.

“There she is,” I hear someone mutter.

Peering over my shoulder, I try to understand what the fuss is, but I’m only met with gawking and pointing as people whisper.

Are they looking at me?

My mind immediately goes to the scene that night, assuming that what the four of us did is making its rounds.

But why would anyone care?

No longer interested in the dog and pony show, I shrug and continue my trek toward the gym. We have a game this week, and I want to practice my jump serve. So, I can’t be bothered with investigating what everyone’s focused on. And if it is about what we did at the party—so what? It was basically an orgy in there that night.

Strolling past another crowd, I reach for my AirPods.

“She got into a big argument with Candace.”

I momentarily freeze in place. Curiosity about who that cunty-troll got into it with wins. She’s not the most pleasant onthe best of days, so it’s not surprising that she got into a fight with someone else.

“Yeah. They’ve had more than a few terrible interactions,” another person stage whispers.

“What if she killed her for revenge?”

Killed?

Whirling around, I blink as if the motion would answer all of my questions. “S-s-someone die-died?” I stutter, bewildered by the idea that someone was murdered on school grounds.

“Of course you don’t know. You were too busy banging in the middle of the floor,” some dude chastises, incredulously, causing my hackles to rise.

Narrowing my eyes to slits, I hiss, “What does who I fuck have to do with someone dying?”

His eyebrows arch in surprise at my acidic response. He probably anticipated the docile Eva, but after about a month with Colt and Coop, fissures in my self-imposed prison have turned to cracks.

“Now, who died?” I challenge, growing impatient with their continual staring without answering me.

A throat clears, and I turn toward the sound. A tall brunette with a pixie-cut bob states, “Candace.”

Those seven letters. That one word. My stomach roils, and I swallow the bile pushing to escape my throat.

“C-C-C-Candace?” I squeak and she nods.

How could it be her?

The words from early slam into my chest like a sledgehammer.

“She got into a big argument with Candace.”

Realization dawns on me, and the questions swirl like a tilt-a-wheel, threatening my very existence.

How did she die?