Page 17 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth (The Blackridge Reapers #4)

She grimaces slightly before quickly morphing her expression into a grin. “Oh, nothing! If you’re going for the whole ‘90’s grunge look, then you nailed it.”

I roll my eyes. “Behavioral Psychology class isn’t the New York fashion week.”

She shrugs dramatically, throwing her hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright, I’ll leave you to your cozy vibe. But one day, I’m getting you into something short and tight.”

I glance down at her outfit–a fitted crop top that shows off her toned stomach, paired with high-waisted jeans, ankle boots and a matching leather jacket. Her look is effortlessly stylish, like she just walked off the set of some chic magazine shoot.

I shake my head, grabbing my bag from the edge of my bed. “Yeah, maybe when pigs fly.”

Cassidy laughs, hooking her arm through mine as we head for the door. “You say that now, but we’ll see!”

As we step outside, I try to shake off the lingering thoughts of Thatcher. But no matter how hard I try, it feels like his shadow stretches far beyond the frat photo, hanging over me as we walk toward campus.

Professor Miller’s nickname is ‘Slave Driver’ and now I know why.

I watch as he adjusts his blazer and steps out from behind the podium, grinning up at the exhausted class.

“Don’t look so glum, everyone! Remember, pressure makes diamonds.

Or…it makes you drop out of my class.” His grin widens as a few students groan, and he claps his hands together, dismissing us.

“Enjoy the rest of your day–and don’t forget the assignments due next week.

I’m looking forward to your case analysis papers. ”

After two straight hours of intense case analysis, my brain feels like it’s been put through a blender.

I stifle a yawn, shoving my notebook into my bag and glancing at the clock. Relief washes over me as I realize I have a small break before my next class.

Cassidy groans as she rises, stretching her arms above her head like a cat.

“I swear, this class is going to kill me,” she mutters, her face scrunched in exhaustion.

“Which is harder, being spanked by a puck boy or this class?” I tease, hiking my bag onto my shoulder.

Cassidy snorts, giving me a playful push. “Definitely this class. At least with Dylan, there’s some fun after the pain,” she quips, her eyes glinting with mischief.

I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re crazy.”

She slips on her backpack and loops her arm through mine, pulling me towards the exit. “You say that like you didn’t ask.”

As we step out into the hallway, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and glance at the notification

A text from an unsaved number.

Time is running out, Dove.

My steps wound to a stop, my breath catching in my throat as I stare at the screen. The message is simple but loaded, the words sinking like stones into the pit of my stomach.

I swallow hard, my fingers tightening around the phone as a cold chill crawls up my spine.

“Who is it?” Cassidy’s voice cuts through my thoughts, her arm still linked with mine as she pulls me toward the exit.

I force a smile, quickly locking my phone and sliding it back into my pocket.

“Just spam,” I lie, my voice too casual. “Ready to grab some coffee before the next class?”

She looks at me skeptically but doesn’t press. “Yeah, I need something strong after that torture session.”

We turn in the direction of the quad cafe but stop as a figure steps into our path. At first, I think it’s another student, but then I see the badge clipped to his belt.

“Rhea?” The officer’s voice is low but firm, his expression unreadable as he meets my eyes. Behind him, another officer waits, his gaze sweeping over the crowd.

My stomach twists, and Cassidy shoots me a curious look.

“Uh, yes?” I reply, my voice tinged with confusion.

“I’m Detective Ryan Sanchez,” he introduces himself. “We need to ask you a few questions about a party at the Sigma house last weekend,” the officer says, his tone making it clear this isn’t a casual chat.

I freeze, my pulse quickening as the memories flood back, The masked stranger––Thatcher, blood, Jack’s limp body…

Cassidy’s grip on my arm tightens, her carefree expression giving way to concern as she looks between me and the officer.

“Is everything okay?” she whispers, her voice laced with worry.

I nod, but the motion feels robotic. My throat tightens, and the weight of Thatcher’s text presses down even harder now. Time is running out, Dove. Is this what he meant? Did he know the police would approach me? Is he behind this? Did he finally report me?

The officer in front of me clears his throat, drawing my attention back to him.

“As you’ve heard by now, Jack Parker unfortunately was found dead at a Delta Sigma Rho fraternity house party and we’re making rounds, questioning all the people present.

A few people reported you interacted with Mr. Parker briefly at the party, so we’d appreciate your cooperation in answering a few questions for us. ”

Shit. People saw me with him? Oh, fuck. This isn’t good. But I must keep my face as neutral as possible, offering a slight nod. I try to look sympathetic even as my pulse races.

I feel Cassidy’s eyes on me, her grip on my arm tightening like a lifeline. I want to speak, to say something, anything, but my throat feels like it’s closing in on itself.

The detective watches me closely, probably noticing the sympathy I’m trying to portray.

It’s either this or prison. Fake it till you make it.

“I…I didn’t know Jack well. We only spoke briefly.” My mind flashes to the party—the noise, the crowd, Thatcher in his mask, and the sudden chaos that followed.

“We just need a little more clarity,” Detective Sanchez says, his voice steady but firm. “Can you recall the nature of your conversation with Mr. Parker?”

Cassidy’s grip tightens further, and I can feel her tense beside me. “Rhea, you don’t have to do this right now. You can get a lawyer or something, right?” she says, her voice shaking slightly.

“I-It’s okay,” I stammer, though everything about this feels anything but okay. I meet the officer’s gaze, and for a moment, I wonder if he can see the whirlwind of panic I’m trying to hide.

The detective’s eyes narrow slightly, watching me with a mix of patience and expectation. My heart pounds in my chest, and I feel like I’m on the verge of cracking.

“I—um, we didn’t talk much,” I start, my voice shaky. The lie stumbles out of me and I can feel Cassidy’s gaze burning into the side of my face, waiting for me to say more, but all I can think about is Thatcher. How he said he would protect me.

The detective nods, his expression remaining neutral. “Anything you remember could be helpful. Did Mr. Parker mention anything unusual? Did he seem upset?”

I swallow hard, my throat dry. “No… I mean, not really. He seemed normal. He was just talking to people. It was a party, you know?” My words tumble out, awkward and unsure. My mind races, trying to piece together what I can say without digging myself deeper into a hole I can’t get out of.

As I finish speaking, something catches my eye in the distance.

I glance past the officer’s shoulder and freeze.

Thatcher. He’s hovering near the edge of the quad, leaning casually against a lamppost like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

His lips curl into a sly, knowing smile as he raises a hand and waves at me.

My stomach tightens, my pulse quickening.

His green eyes lock onto mine, and a sudden, bone-deep realization hits me like a freight train. This isn’t just some mind game. This is a warning. His warning.

He’s getting impatient. The text, the police, the shadow he casts over every part of my life—it’s all part of his plan, and he’s reminding me just how much control he has.

Nausea creeps up, threatening to spill over, and I fight hard to swallow it down.

My breath comes quicker, shallow, as the feeling of a phantom noose tightens around my neck, pulling me further into his snare.

He did this.

The detective tilts his head, oblivious to the unease clawing at my insides. “Alright. If you remember anything else, here’s my card,” he says, holding out a small, crisp card. I take it with trembling fingers, the weight of it feeling much heavier than it should.

“We’ll be in touch,” he adds before stepping away.

As he walks away, I can feel Cassidy’s arm slowly slide away from mine, her expression confused and concerned.

“Rhea, what the hell is going on?” she asks, but I barely hear her.

I glance back toward where Thatcher had been standing, but he’s already gone. Disappeared, like a ghost. And I’m left with the gnawing dread that this is far from over.