Page 48 of Dark Little Game

It’s four photos, I see as I get closer to the doors.

My chest tightens.

No.

The photos aren’t tacked onto the doors.

They’re nailed.

Each picture is in black and white, and they’re pictures of me, taken from various moments throughout my week.

My heart is still pounding from my run.

I reach for my phone and navigate to my text messages, my fingers fumbling a few times in the process.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.

Rayne: You guys still in the house?

Weston: Have been all afternoon. What’s up, Rayne?

Come to the front door.

Soon, half of the members of Onyx are gathered around the door.

As the other guys gather around it, everyone is confused: none of us have evenseennails like the ones that are pushed through the photos, which are a brassy, bronze color, and the pictures themselves seem like old-school manual photography, maybe even developed with chemicals in a darkroom.

Red Row is quiet otherwise.

The tree-lined street looks like it always does, and at the edge of the sky, there’s a layer of grey clouds now, blotting out the sun.

Nothing seems different.

Other than the fact that I don’t know where the fuckheis.

Hunter doesn’t keep the same schedule as anyone else. Not even close. But trying to pin him down is always an exercise in futility, anyway.

“The first attack on me came from out of nowhere,” I tell Weston. “But this one just confirms everything.”

“James and Ethan were only attacked once each,” Weston says.

“I’m the first person to be targeted twice.”

Wes squeezes my shoulder. “We’re going to figure out what the fuck is going on. Do you want to stay somewhere else? I know someone with a house in town.”

“No. Honestly, I just need some fuckin’ food,” I tell Weston. “Colossus?”

“Since when do you want to go to Colossus Dining Hall?” Noah asks from behind us.

“Since somebody is clearly tracking my routines and needs to be thrown off course. I always go to the Kettle, so tonight, let’s do the Colossus. If I’m going to die, at least let me confuse my attacker a little bit.”

“You aren’t going to die,” Weston says, but he looks angry.

“You sure you’re okay?” Noah asks. “We can just stay home.”

“No. I want to go out. I’m starving, anyway.”

As we walk across campus toward the Colossus Dining Hall, Weston’s head is on a swivel, like he’s taken it upon himself to be my personal bodyguard.