“Yes, sir,” I say, slouching in the chair, proving how little I give a fuck about this visit. We both know this is a formality.
“Every single opportunity was bought for you by that man.” Dean Eberstark points to the picture of Henry and him.
“Which I appreciate, more than I can possibly express.” This is the game. Nod your head and tell them what they want to hear. We are meant to be appreciative, but not condescending.
“I sure hope so, Mr. Hawthorne, because reputation is everything on our campus.”
“Are you sure about that, Dean Eberstark?”
“What are you implying?” He reclines in his chair, crossing his hands over his large belly.
“No one, not even you, was worried about the missing girls until one of your own was accused of the crime.” I jump out of the chair and set my hands wide apart on his desk, glaring down at a powerful, yet powerless man. “What’s going on within the walls of your school, Dean?”
Without waiting for a response, I jerk my bag off the floor and head out of his office.
Out front, I rest against the side of the building, hidden in plain sight. I take the blue envelope from my bag and flip it open. Dixon wasn’t kidding when he said he’d done some digging. I’ve got everything I could ever need to know about this girl, down to her blood type.
Reagan Waterstone. Sixteen years old. Daughter of congressman Paul Waterstone. Wealthy and respected family. No juvenile record. No dating history from social media. For the most part, this girl seems like any other girl on campus.
So, who hurt her? Who had her sneaking into the dorms with a nasty bruise on her cheek?
I cut across campus, heading straight towards Rose Dorms. Once I’m out front, and the coast is clear, I punch in the code and open the door. Knowing most students are in class, I take the stairs, not expecting to have any run-ins.
Outside of Reagan’s dorm room, I debate if this is the best idea, or if I’d be better off ignoring my gut. My hand takes control before I can convince myself otherwise.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
A low rustling noise comes from inside. I pop my hand over the peephole, giving me the advantage for when she comes to the door.
“Quit fucking with me, D!” she shouts, obviously being greeted by the darkness in the peephole. “How in the hell did you get in here? I have nothing to say to you.”
“Reagan Waterstone?” I say.
“Who’s asking?”
“Marek Hawthorne.” I take my hand down. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
The door swings open. She stands there in sleep shorts and a tank top. Her bruise has lightened, although it’s glaringly obvious someone has used her as a punching bag.
“What do you want?” she barks, clearly irritated.
“We crossed paths not too long ago on the stairs, and I was wondering if you were okay.”
“It’s been two weeks,” she deadpans. Her eyes narrow, inspecting me for the truth.
“I know, and I should have come sooner, but I didn’t know who you were.”
“How’d you find me?” I eye her, begging her not to dig deeper. “Never mind. I should have known. Aren’t you wanted for murder or something?”
“They can’t charge you for murders you didn’t commit,” I answer, surprised by her candor and lack of fear. “No offense, but why aren’t you afraid of me? It would be quite simple for me to force my way into your dorm room.”
“Are you trying to frighten me? Because if you are, it won’t work. There are bigger and badder things after me than Marek Hawthorne. There isn’t a single thing about you that scares me.”
“What are you talking about? The person who did that to you?” I point at her healing face.
“That’s none of your business. I appreciate the popular train making a well-check visit, but I can assure you, I’m fine.” She shoves me out of the doorway, placing her foot in the space to block me. Defensive stance.
That she knows how to protect herself may be the reason she isn’t afraid of me. My first run-in with Reagan proved something or someone is haunting her. The look of fear in her eyes as she raced to her room reminded me of Palmer too much to ignore.
This girl standing in front of me has turned a different corner. She’s stronger, more self-aware, and unwilling to stand down and cower.
“If you need anything, Reagan—” I offer, knowing if it were Palmer, I’d hope someone would do the same for her. Damn, that girl really has done a number on me. I’m selfish as they come most days, yet here I stand, worrying about a girl that literally holds no weight in my world.
“Yeah, I got it, but what I’m dealing with is untouchable, so thanks for this visit, I guess, but I need to get going.” She reaches forward and brushes her fingers down my chest, paying extra attention to the lapels on my uniform jacket. “Unless you want to come inside?”
“I don’t think so.” I grab her wrist and remove her hand from me.
“You sure, baby?” She shifts forward, crowding my space. I’d believe her whoring ways if not for her trembling hand and bottom lip. I’ve had a lot of girls come onto me, but never have I felt the desperation and fear like with Reagan. It rolls off her in lethal waves. She behaves as if she is obligated to fall at my knees to please me.
“I’m positive.”
“Well, look at you, Marek Hawthorne. You’re the first prick on this campus who hasn’t considered my body theirs for the taking.” She shakes her head and slowly blinks. Dark circles encompass her heavy eyes, clear evidence of whatever horror she’s been living. The disheveled, greasy hair piled on top of her head proves she hasn’t bothered to care for herself in a day or two. This girl is exhausted.
“What do you mean?” I tilt my head to the side, hoping to get a glimpse inside her dorm room.
“Nothing. Don’t worry about girls like me.” She slams the door in my face, ending our conversation.
I have more questions than I do answers at this point. A girl doesn’t typically throw herself at a boy when everything else about her is closed off. She’d acted as if she owed me something, and I would have no real reason to say no.
What drives someone to believe their own body doesn’t belong to them?
*****
“Mom?” I call out, a shake in my voice that hasn’t gone away since that day I watched the paramedics attempting to revive Penelope. Two years of so many unknowns and confusion.
I walk through the house. It’s always quiet now. The hallways remind me of the museums my parents took me to when I was young. You were meant to observe, but not truly live.
“Mom?” I shout once more as I enter the kitchen.
She’s never in here anymore. It used to be her favorite place where she’d bake cookies with Penelope. Where there was once laughter is now nothing but stark white counters.
Out the large picture window, I spot her. Her long brown hair is tossed around by the wind. This isn’t where I’d expected to find her. She usually prefers her bedroom, lights off, and the sound of a thunderstorm coming from that stupid box on her bedside table.
“I’m hungry,” I announce as I walk out onto the patio.
At my age, I’m more than capable of making my own sandwich. That’s not the point, though.