Page 18

I almost trip over it.

A plain white envelope, halfway under my door. No name. Just paper.

My stomach drops.

I pick it up slowly, like it might explode in my hands. It’s thin. Light. One sheet.

Inside, only a sentence:

I know what you did.

That’s it. No signature. No demand. Just a fact.

My hands start to shake.

My gaze flicks toward the windows. Locked. Then the hallway through the peephole. Empty.

I press the paper to my chest, like I can smother it there, like it’s not already carved into me.

Someone was here. Close enough to touch my door. Close enough to leave this. Close enough to watch.

This is no longer just a threat I can convince myself I imagined. It’s real.

The message plays over and over in my head like a broken loop.

I know what you did. I know what you did. I know what you did.

I should tell someone. Cassidy. But the only person who really knows the truth—the whole, ugly truth—is the one who’s playing this game. Thatcher.

And I don’t think this was a warning. I think it was an invitation.

When I first came to college, I had made a pact with myself to not do anything that would bring too much attention to me.

Fresh off a widely publicized murder trial where my dad’s face was plastered all over the news, where my mom and I were put under a microscope…

I thought it was a reasonable goal. Just skate through college under the radar, not standing out.

To achieve this, I had to avoid a lot of things but at the top of my list was to avoid any affiliation with any Sorority or Fraternity as if my life depended on it. And yet, here I am, standing outside the Delta Sigma Rho house, about to walk right into the lion’s den.

The frat house looms in front of me, loud music thumping from within, the scent of beer and something else I can’t quite place hanging in the air.

My stomach twists into knots as I stare at the massive oak door, contemplating my next move.

The last time I was here, it was all a blur of chaos, masks, and blood.

Now, it felt like walking into a trap, one Thatcher had carefully laid for me.

Do I just walk in?

Am I really doing this?

My mind screams at me to turn around and run.

I’m not at fault until proven guilty, and I want to avoid any more trouble.

Walking in there means I break the pact I made with myself.

This will quickly turn into the exact opposite of the quiet, low-key college experience I promised myself.

But Thatcher’s text, his threat…it feels like a ticking bomb.

I don’t think I have a choice. Not if I want a shot at a normal life.

This is my only shot.

I don’t want to go to jail. I can’t go to jail.

Taking a deep breath, I shove my hands into my pockets and start towards the door, mentally steeling myself for whatever comes next. Slowly I climb the porch steps and press the doorbell, scraping the tip of my boot against the aged wood as I wait.

A few seconds later, the door flies open and a familiar face greets me.

“Rhea?”

Wait. I know this guy.

Recognition courses through me and heat floods my cheeks despite myself.

Connor.

I immediately recognize him from the picture Cassidy showed me. Despite fixating on Thatcher at that time, I vaguely remember him standing at the edge of the group, flashing that same easy smile as he’s giving me now.

I swallow, taking him in properly this time–slightly long, dark brown hair that curls around his face, framing his sharp jawline and giving him a laid-back charm that’s hard to ignore. His eyes are a striking hazel that glints with something unreadable as he studies me, one brow raised.

Cassidy was right. He is a looker.

“Didn’t see you in class today. Did something happen?” he asks, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the doorframe, slight curiosity in his gaze.

Right. I skipped class today because I didn’t feel like listening to Professor Jennings drone on about social influence when I was this riled up.

I shrug, the seemingly nonchalant gesture jolting the thousand-pound weight on my shoulders. I try to keep my expression neutral as I answer. “Just…wasn’t feeling it today.”

Connor raises an eyebrow, that curious glint deepening as he watches me. “Really? Not like you to miss a lecture.” His tone is light, but there’s something behind it, like he’s trying to piece something together. I shift under his gaze, hoping he doesn’t see through me.

“Yeah, well,” I say, attempting a half-hearted smile, “guess there’s a first time for everything.”

He smiles too, a soft lift of lips that brightens his face, and straightens. “So, what are you doing here? Here to borrow my notes? I know Cassidy didn’t write shit during class.”

Typical Cassidy.

I laugh despite the tension in my chest, shaking my head. “No, I’m not here for notes. I actually came to find someone.” The words slip out before I can think better of it, and Connor’s expression shifts, his easy grin falling.

“Oh? Okay. Who?” he asks, his hazel eyes narrowing.

I hesitate, balling my hands into fists in my pockets “Uh, just a friend,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I thought he might be here.”

“I’m sure your friend has a name, right?”

“Thatcher,” I swallow and glance away, embarrassment flooding my cheeks.

Connor’s jaw clenches, his expression hardening as he repeats, “Thatcher Van Doren?” The warmth that had softened his features a moment ago vanishes, replaced by a flicker of something darker.

Cassidy’s words echo in my mind, “Plus, he has a massive crush on you…”

I shift uncomfortably, forcing myself to meet his gaze, but the disappointment in his hazel eyes makes my throat tighten. “Yeah,” I manage, the word feeling oddly heavy.

He lets out a small, humorless laugh, glancing off to the side as he shoves his hands into his pockets. “Figures,” he mutters, almost to himself. His voice is strained, and the bitterness lacing his words stings more than I’d expected.

I shift on my feet, feeling the weight of the awkward silence stretch between us. “I…I…um didn’t–” I start but stop when he flashes me a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

He shrugs as if it doesn’t matter. “You don’t need to explain.” His gaze flicks back to me, but the warmth and easygoing charm are nowhere to be found. “Just… be careful with him, alright? Thatcher’s not really an upstanding guy.”

His words linger and I feel an urge to correct him.

He thinks Thatcher and I are involved…

Well…we kind of are now, aren’t we?

I open my mouth, but no words come out. I want to say something, anything, to break the tension, but everything feels like it would come out wrong or will further fuel the misunderstanding, so I don’t.

Instead, I just nod. “Thanks, Connor. I appreciate that,” I finally manage, trying to ignore the gnawing guilt creeping in.

He nods, but the disappointment in his eyes doesn’t fade. “Yeah. Just…be careful,” he repeats, his voice softer this time, as though he’s already resigned himself to my decision.

We stand there in silence for another heartbeat before he speaks again. “He’s probably upstairs in his room.” He doesn’t meet my eyes as he says it, and it’s painfully clear the conversation is over. “I can walk you over if you want.”

I nod, swallowing down the lump in my throat. “Thanks again,” I murmur, watching as he pushes off the doorframe and steps aside to let me in.

I step into the house and the door closes behind me. The smell of stale beer and cologne hits me, mingling with the muffled sound of voices and laughter drifting down the hallway. My heart hammers in my chest as I glance around, feeling a mix of dread and anticipation knotting in my stomach.

I haven’t been in this house since the night of the Halloween party.

That night still haunts me—mask-wearing strangers, blaring music, and flashes of Jack’s face illuminated by strobe lights before everything spiraled into chaos.

Now, standing here in the dim light with the eerie quiet of midday hanging in the air, it’s almost unrecognizable.

But the memories remain, threading a chill through my veins as I walk deeper into the hallway, following Connor’s silent steps.

The hallway stretches out in front of me, lined with photos of past frat members and faded banners from parties long since over. For a moment, I hesitate, acutely aware of the quiet tension that filled my last exchange with Connor. His warning echoes in my mind— Just…be careful.

But there’s no turning back now.

Connor turns towards the staircase, and I hesitate, memories of that night flood me, making my steps falter.

Jack’s smile as he leads me upstairs, the warmth of his hand in mine—it all comes rushing back in a wave, freezing me mid-step.

I can almost feel the pulse of the bass beneath my feet, hear the distant laughter and cheers from the crowd below, and catch a glimpse of his carefree expression before everything went wrong.

The familiar scene of the hallway now feels tainted, steeped in the events that unfolded, and the cold reality of what brought me back here stings.

I take a deep breath, grounding myself as Connor looks back at me, eyebrow raised. “You good?” he asks, his tone casual but his eyes still carrying that shadow of disappointment.

“Yeah,” I murmur, forcing a nod, though my legs feel like they’re wading through quicksand.

Just as I climb the first step, the double doors to my left slide open, revealing a group of guys mid-laughter, all holding red plastic cups.

Their voices fill the quiet hallway, the sudden noise making me jump slightly.

One of them, tall with tousled hair and a backward cap, spots me and nudges the guy next to him, a grin spreading across his face.

I recognize him from the party, he was one of the drunk, horny idiots that were catcalling from the porch as Cassidy and I arrived.

Still drunk I see.