The next morning, Blackridge feels colder than usual, even though the sun filters pale and gold through the tall glass windows. Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm too wired, too restless from the little sleep I managed after what I found in the archives. My mind keeps replaying Noah's name stamped in black ink, those photographs of him hunched over files, the way the doorknob twisted like someone was about to walk in.
Now every locker clang, every laugh, every echoing footstep feels sharper, like the whole school knows I've seen too much.
I walk faster, clutching my bag against me, rehearsing calm in case anyone looks too closely. When I reach my locker, the hallway is already buzzing, a tide of designer shoes and whispered gossip. I spin my combination, the metal stiff under my fingers, and tug the door open.
Something slips out.
At first I think it's just one of my notebooks, but then I see the stark white sheet flutter to the ground.
I pick it up.
The words are typed, blocky and precise.
You don't belong here.
That's it. No name. No signature. Just the kind of message that plants itself in your chest and grows thorns.
My mouth goes dry.
I glance down the hallway, scanning faces. A couple of girls in plaid skirts are giggling by the water fountain. Someone slams a locker shut. Two boys shove each other, laughing too loudly. Nobody's watching me—or maybe everybody is.
I shove the note deep into my pocket and force my face into something blank. Smile if someone looks, frown if it makes sense. Don't let them see you panic.
Because whoever left that note wanted exactly this. For me to panic.
In first period, my pen scratches nonsense across the page. Numbers blur, formulas slip through my brain. All I can hear are those words echoing back at me. You don't belong here.
They could mean a million things. Maybe it's just Victoria's brand of hazing. Maybe it's a joke that isn't funny. Or maybe it's worse. Maybe someone saw me last night. Maybe someone already knows who I am.
By lunch, my nerves are stretched thin, frayed at the edges. The cafeteria feels louder than usual, the chatter bouncing off the walls, trays clattering like cymbals. I grab an apple and a bottle of water, but the thought of sitting with Liam feels impossible. I can't fake casual right now.
Instead, I slip outside into the courtyard. The air is crisp, heavy with the smell of rain waiting just above the clouds. Students sprawl on benches and stone steps, their laughter mixing with the rustle of autumn leaves. I pick the farthest bench, tucked against the wall, and sink into it, pulling my jacket tighter.
For a few minutes, I let myself breathe. The sky looks like it could split open at any second. The air tastes like metal on my tongue. Maybe I can convince myself the note was nothing. Just some spoiled kid's idea of fun.
But then his shadow falls across me.
"Skipping the fan club meeting?"
My stomach drops before I even look up. Jace.
He stands there like a storm on legs, hands shoved in his pockets, tie loose, eyes scanning me with too much focus.
"Didn't feel like fighting for a seat," I say, biting into the apple to give my hands something to do.
He doesn't smile. He doesn't move. He just watches, and it makes the air heavier. Then, slowly, he drops onto the bench beside me. Too close.
"You know," he says, voice low, "people are starting to talk."
I force my gaze to stay steady. "About what?"
"About you."
I laugh lightly. "I've been here, what, a week? Must be a slow news cycle."
His eyes narrow, sharp as glass. "They're saying no one's heard of you. No old friends, no history. You just… showed up."
My pulse jumps, but my expression doesn't. "Maybe I'm just that boring."
His jaw tics. He leans closer, enough that I catch the faint burn of cologne and smoke clinging to his jacket. "Boring isn't the word I'd use."
I meet his gaze, forcing a smirk. "Then what word would you use?"
He doesn't hesitate. "Liar."
The word slices straight through me.
I grip the apple tighter, skin splitting under my fingers. "That's a pretty strong accusation."
"Not an accusation." His voice is steady, deadly calm. "A fact."
My throat tightens, but I won't let him see it. "And what exactly am I lying about?"
He tilts his head, studying me like he's peeling back layers. "That's what I'm trying to figure out."
Silence stretches. The courtyard hums with background noise, but it feels like the world shrunk down to just us, locked in some invisible battle neither of us is willing to lose.
Finally, he shifts, leaning back a little, though his eyes never leave mine. "You walk in here like you've been here before. Like you know where the cracks are. Like you've been waiting."
I arch an eyebrow. "Waiting for what?"
His lips curve—not into a smile, but something darker. "For me."
The words slam into me, colder than the note in my pocket.
I laugh, sharp and false. "Wow. That's a little narcissistic, don't you think?"
He doesn't blink. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm right."
He stands, shadow spilling long over me. "Be careful, Eva Sinclair. Blackridge eats liars alive."
Then he turns, walking back toward the cafeteria like he didn't just carve open every wall I built.
I sit frozen, apple forgotten in my hand, heart hammering so hard I swear it might crack my ribs.
Because he's not just suspicious. He's circling. Closing in.
And if I'm not careful, Jace Langston is going to figure out exactly who I am—before I get the chance to destroy him.