Chapter 3

The hallway stretched before me, a narrow river of faded linoleum teeming with a familiar species of adolescent angst. Lockers, adorned with a palette of bright stickers and Sharpie-drawn graffiti, stood along the banks, their metallic doors slamming shut like the jaws of indifferent beasts. I was back in high school. I never dreamed in my worst nightmares that I would be back as a student in one.

I clutched my books tighter to my chest, a makeshift shield against the curious and indifferent glances cast my way. The air was thick with the scent of cheap body spray and the faintest hint of sweat—a pungent reminder that despite the change in scenery, the essence of high school remained unchanged. But it was the smallness of it all that unnerved me the most. The closeness of the walls, the way everyone seemed to know each other, or at least, know of each other. This was a different world from the bustling city schools I remembered.

As I navigated the crowded halls, I felt the weight of eyes upon me, the whispers trailing in my wake like a shadow I couldn’t shake. It made my skin crawl, and my teeth sank into the soft skin of my cheek.

I rounded the corner, and there he was: Blaise Rivers, the undisputed king of this small-town jungle according to Scarlet’s journals and yearbooks. His curly hair, streaked with a rebellious blue, fell just above eyes that sparkled with mischief and concealed secrets darker than the ink that stained his skin. He leaned against a locker, surrounded by his court of sycophants, their laughter echoing off the walls like a taunt.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t our little goth princess,” Blaise sneered, his voice a melody that somehow managed to be both charming and cruel. “Did you spend the weekend worshipping Satan, or did you just forget to shower again?”

His entourage erupted into laughter, a chorus of yes-men and women eager to please their ringleader. I felt my face flush with a mix of anger and embarrassment, emotions that weren’t entirely my own but ones I could understand all too well. Scarlet’s life had been a gauntlet of such humiliations, and now, it was my turn to run it.

“Funny,” I retorted, my voice steady even as my heart raced. “I was too busy trying to find a cure for your personality disorder.”

The laughter faltered, replaced by a collective intake of breath. Blaise’s eyes narrowed, the playful glint replaced by something harder, something dangerous. “Careful, Scarlet,” he warned, pushing off from the locker and taking a step toward me. “You wouldn’t want to end up like your precious plants—wilting under a little heat.”

Plants?

I stood my ground, meeting his gaze with a defiance that surprised even me. “Maybe I’m more resilient than you think,” I said, my words a silent vow to myself, to Scarlet, to the life I was determined to reclaim.

Blaise leaned in, his voice low and threatening. “We’ll see about that.”

Before I could respond, he sauntered away, his followers trailing behind him like the tail of a venomous comet. I watched them go, my heart pounding in my chest.

The sound of a heated conversation seeped through the half-open door of the guidance office. The voice must belong to Dr. Colin Jennings, the high school’s guidance counselor, a man whose name was scribbled more than once in the margins of Scarlet’s journals. His tone was stern, a sharp contrast to the sympathetic facade he presented to the world.

“You need to understand the consequences of your actions, Eli,” he said, his words slicing through the air like a blade. “This isn’t a game.”

Eli, a lanky boy with a mop of unruly hair, stood on the other side of the desk, his shoulders hunched as if trying to fold into himself. I recognized him from the yearbook—he was in Scarlet’s grade.

“I…I didn’t mean to—” Eli stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You didn’t mean to?” Dr. Jennings interrupted, his voice rising in pitch, a dangerous edge cutting through his feigned calm. “Do you know how that sounds, Eli? Like an excuse. And in this world, excuses are like quicksand—the more you struggle, the deeper you sink.”

Eli’s eyes darted to the floor, and I could see the resignation settling over him like a cloud. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

Dr. Jennings leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. “Sorry doesn’t cut it, Eli. Not anymore. You need to take responsibility. You need to be better.”

The words hung in the air, a silent indictment that seemed to echo down the hallway. I felt a chill run down my spine, a sense of unease that I couldn’t shake. There was something off about Dr. Jennings, a darkness that lurked beneath his professional veneer. It was the kind of darkness I had encountered before, in my previous life as a detective. It was the kind that thrived in shadows and whispered terrible things when no one else was listening.

I knew I had to tread carefully. There were pieces on the board that I couldn’t see yet, moves being made in the dark. But I was determined to shed light on the secrets that lingered in the corridors of this high school, to uncover the truth hidden beneath layers of deceit.

As I turned to walk away, I caught a glimpse of Eli exiting the office, his eyes red-rimmed and his posture defeated. I made a mental note to find a way to talk to him, to understand the dynamics at play. There was a story there, buried under the weight of Dr. Jennings’ words, and I was going to uncover it.

The bell’s shrill cry ushered me into the sanctuary of English Literature, a classroom that smelled of paper and worn wooden desks. It was a scent I found oddly comforting, a reminder of a time when life was simpler, and my biggest concern was passing my exams. I slipped into a seat near the back, a strategic choice that allowed me to observe without drawing attention.

As the students settled into their seats, a hush fell over the room, and a peculiar energy slithered through the air, a palpable shift that spoke of anticipation and something else—something far more complex. It was then that I saw him: Mr. Dante Cromwell, the man whose name was often underlined in Scarlet’s scribblings, accompanied by hearts and stars and an array of emotive adjectives that bordered on poetic.

I could understand Scarlet’s attraction to him.

He stood at the front of the class, his presence commanding yet not imposing. His dark hair, with its artful disarray, framed a face that was both rugged and refined. The sleeves of his button-up shirt were rolled to his elbows, revealing the edges of a biomechanical tattoo, a stunning display of monochrome artistry that snaked its way along his muscular arm. His eyes were the color of a storm-tossed ocean, piercing and intense as they scanned the room, and when they landed on me, I felt a jolt of electricity that threatened to unmoor me. It was a look that saw beyond the facade of Scarlet’s sullen exterior, a look that seemed to peel back layers to expose the soul of a detective trapped in a teenage girl’s body.

“Good morning, class,” Mr. Cromwell began, his voice a rich baritone that resonated within the walls of the classroom. “Today, we’re going to delve into the world of Edgar Allan Poe—a man who knew the darkness of the human heart and the beauty of its expression.”

His words stirred something within me, a spark of kinship. Poe was a kindred spirit, his tales of mystery and macabre a familiar language to my investigative mind. I found myself leaning forward, my attention riveted to Mr. Cromwell’s every word.

As the lesson progressed, I was acutely aware of his gaze finding me time and again, as if he too felt the strange connection that seemed to hum between us. When he called on me to read a passage from “The Raven,” my heart thrummed in my chest, but my voice was steady, betraying none of the turmoil beneath the surface.

“‘Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary…,'” I recited, letting the rhythm of the words carry me away.

When I finished, the room was silent, the haunting verses echoing in the stillness. Mr. Cromwell’s eyes held mine for a moment longer than necessary before he cleared his throat and addressed the class.

“Thank you, Scarlet,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching in a ghost of a smile. “Now, let’s discuss the themes of love and loss in the poem.”

As the class erupted into discussion, Mr. Cromwell approached my desk, his movements fluid and deliberate. He leaned against the edge, crossing his arms in a way that made the fabric of his shirt stretch taut across his broad shoulders.

“Scarlet,” he said, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “I noticed you didn’t participate in our last class discussion. Is everything okay?”

The concern in his eyes was unexpected. I knew I had to tread carefully, to maintain the delicate balance between the truth and the facade I was forced to uphold.

“I’ve…had a lot on my mind,” I replied, my words measured, my gaze never wavering from his.

Mr. Cromwell’s expression softened, the lines of his face shifting into an expression of understanding that reached into the depths of my borrowed heart. “If you ever need someone to talk to, my door is always open,” he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate with the hidden parts of me that still ached for connection, for recognition.

For a moment, I allowed myself to acknowledge the undeniable pull of his attractiveness, a realization that felt like a betrayal to the girl whose life I had inherited. But it was more than just physical appeal; it was the sense of safety that seemed to emanate from him, a beacon of hope in a world that had shown Scarlet nothing but cruelty and neglect.

I nodded, a silent promise to myself that I would take him up on his offer, that I would find a way to bridge the gap between who I was and who everyone thought I should be. “Thank you, Mr. Cromwell,” I said, my words a soft murmur that was swallowed by the hum of the classroom.