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“If anyone could murder someone and get away with it, it would be Damian Cross.”

A chill runs down my spine. I ought to be scoffing. Just a second ago, he was poor Damian. Now he’s a murderous mastermind? The rumors that Thornecroft is secretly a cult are so silly, or at least…

They used to seem silly, but lately, I’ve had a bad feeling.

Rhett’s reaction to Ben’s death was off. There’s no other way to put it. I’ve known him since we were ten, and his behavior just didn’t fit. He liked Ben. I don’t think he knew him super well, but I gathered from what little he’d said that he admired Ben as the fraternity president.

Rhett’s been so tight-lipped about the overdose. When I texted him to ask how he was feeling, he didn’t even respond. The one time I’ve seen him since—when he came by my dorm a few days ago—he cut off all my attempts to talk about what had happened.

It’s not like him. He’s not an overly emotional guy, but he opens up to me if I probe him when he’s sad. At the very least, he lets me give him a hug.

But that night, he’d been weird.

Muted. Evasive.

The door bursts open, making me flinch.

“There he is,” the girl behind me whispers.

Damian Cross strolls in, his tall and broad-shouldered posture languid, like he has nowhere better to be. His hands are buried in his pockets, and he lets the door swing shut behind him without a glance. Typical.

He’s forty-five minutes late, for crying out loud.

I don’t know why it irritates me so much. I ought to have compassion for him. He might really be grieving.

Then again, punctuality is practically my love language, and Damian doesn’t seem like he’s grieving.

I hate how all heads are turned toward him, like every step he takes is worth studying. No one even pretends to be annoyed. They just watch him.

Damian doesn’t notice—or pretends not to. Everyone might as well be furniture.

He makes his way to the back—where he always sits—taking his time like he’s got all day. When he gets there, someone’s in his seat. Damian stops and stares at the guy. Silent.

The guy scrambles to grab his laptop and backpack, muttering, “Sorry,” as he practically trips over himself getting out of the row. Damian doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even look at him. Just drops into the seat like the guy was never there.

The audacity of this man.

I take a steadying breath and face Professor Moore. The last thing I need is to be caught glaring at Damian Cross.

He’s one of Thornecroft’s Big Five—or four now that Ben Cartwright’s dead. If Thornecroftisa cult, he’s one of the leaders.Theleader now that he’s president.

Why am I giving credence to these wild stories? Thornecroft likely fuels them, wanting to seem dangerous. And how could someone like Damian Cross—who can’t even make it on time for class—possibly have the intellect or discipline to lead a cult?

But Ben is dead. Damian is his replacement as the fraternity president. Rhett is behaving strangely.

And it just doesn’t feel right.

Oh God. What if it all really is true? That would mean Rhett could be in serious danger.

I snap my laptop shut. I can’t focus on this lecture anyway. If Damian Cross can saunter in forty-five minutes late, I can leave forty-five minutes early.

The thought sends a little thrill of rebellion through me. What will Sienna say when I show up at her dorm in a few minutes?

She’ll probably tease me for living dangerously.

I push back my chair and stand. After throwing my bag over my shoulder, I walk toward the exit. The back of the room is dimmer, the overhead lights leaving parts of it in shadow.

Then I feel it.