1
I can’t stop watching as fire ravages the dorm building.
His dorm building.
My arms are wrapped firmly around myself, as if I’m chilled, but it’s really just to hold myself upright because physically? Physically, I don’t feel a thing. Not the early December night air wafting smoke into my face. Not my nails digging into my palms or my teeth sinking into my bottom lip, even though I can taste copper. I don’t even feel my stomach, which I know is pitching violently.
I am numb as memories from last year surface, and I’m mentally hurtled back in time to the night James died. The flames clawing at the dark sky are just like the ones that consumed my tiny house back then. I half expect there to be an explosion, but I have to remind myself there isn’t a meth lab in the basement of Angelle House. Still, a shudder courses through me, then my first physical sensation—a vicious wave of nausea that sends my world toppling over and my mind whirling with more jumbled thoughts and excruciating images.
There’s only two that seem to matter right now: Saint and Liam.
Where are they?
They should be here. They should be out here, staring up at the carnage. Saint would look unconcerned, as if all his possessions going up in smoke didn’t bother him. It probably wouldn’t, truthfully. There’s nothing he wouldn’t be able to replace.
To boys like Saint, everything and everyone is disposable.
I’d learned that tonight.
Liam, on the other hand, would simply appear annoyed at the inconvenience this would cause him, tugging at his sleeves in agitation to hide the tattoos that are against school regulations.
So why can’t I find them anywhere among the crowd?
You know why, the voice in the back of my head taunts me, its tone crueler than ever before.
Panic halts my breath. They can’t be in there. They just can’t be. I’m not done hating Saint, and I’ve just started a solid friendship with Liam.
They can’t be dead.
Please, God, don’t let them be dead.
I’m so consumed with my thoughts that it takes me a beat too long to realize that the tone of the crowd around me has started to shift. It goes from concerned and frightened to accusatory. Then enraged. And now … it’s just savage.
The whispers morph into mutters, and the noise grows louder and louder until it’s a buzzing crescendo in my ears that I can’t ignore. I catch a few words here and there, and a tendril of fear seizes me by my chest.
“…Saint actually fucked that slut…”
“…heard what she said to him, right?”
“…can’t believe the stupid bitch is actually showing her face!”
I scan my surroundings, my heart giving a harsh jolt at the dozens of eyes shining fury directly at me.
What the hell? Why are people looking at me and not the fire?
“Fuck you, Ellis!”
Something comes flying out of nowhere and hits me in the face. I cry out in shock and pain as my head lurches to the side. My cheek throbs, and I squint at the ground to find a half-empty Gatorade bottle laying at my feet, its clear blue liquid still sloshing around inside the plastic. Looking up again, I catch the second projectile out of the corner of my eye, but once again, I’m too late to dodge it.
The force of the blow sends me stumbling back—against someone who immediately shoves me away with a hissed, “Eww, slut”— and this time I’m shocked to see a glass Perrier bottle shattered on the ground.
“What the fuck is your problem?” I scream, cupping my aching jaw. If that had nailed me in the temple, it probably would have knocked me out or worse. Judging by the sneers and pointed fingers, something tells me they were aiming for much worse.
“She did this!” someone shouts.
“Cunt!”
“Murderer!”
As they close in around me, my muscles freeze, and shallow breaths explode from my mouth. I’m fucked. These people are insane, and they’re turning every ounce of their crazy on me. My heart clenches at the thought of leaving without knowing if Saint and Liam are safe, but I can’t risk another Perrier bottle to the head. I spin around, intent on getting myself out of this situation, but my path is blocked by a swarming mob of contorted faces and hands reaching toward me.
Pulling. Hitting. Their nails digging into my skin and their breaths hot on my face.
“You’ll pay for this, you white trash piece of shit!”
Now, they’re all shouting and pelting me with dirt clods and pebbles they snatch up from the ground. I try to get away as I shield my head and face with my arms and lash out whenever I can to force them away from me. Everywhere I turn, though, I’m met with more hate. More poison.
“You should be in that fire!” I recognize this voice. It’s the girl with the frizzy hair that I’d defended against Saint all those months ago. So much for his remark that all us scholarship kids stick together because I think she’d be the first to volunteer to push me into the flames.
“Someone call the cops!” Another girl shouts with a sneer. “Throw this baby-killing cunt in jail!”
“That’s too generous for the bitch! She needs that pretty face fucked up.”
Panic swells inside me, making my body feel as if it’s moving in slow motion, as I desperately search for a means of escape. There is none. I’m trapped, and my skin is growing tender and sore from the onslaught of dirt and pebbles and hands. So many hands. A decent sized rock hits my shoulder, and I swallow the cry of pain. It’s like I’m living in the sixteenth century or some shit. An innocent woman, accused of witchcraft, about to be stoned to death by an angry mob.
And the most screwed up part of all this?
Even as I legitimately fear for my own life—because this was a losing fight from the moment I stepped foot in front of this building—there’s a part of me that’s still searching for Saint and Liam. I dare to glance up now and again to try and find them, but each time I do, dirt flies into my face.
I forget my phone is in my hand until someone snatches it from my grasp. The guy who stole it is a football player that I have English with, and he smirks at me, dangling it out of my reach when I lunge forward. “Don’t—”
But he pushes me back, so hard that it rattles the air around in my chest. I watch helplessly as he slams my phone to the ground and smashes it beneath the heel of his tennis shoe. Hot tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I can’t even call for help now. I can’t let Carley know if I’m alive—or dead.
And I have the feeling that soon, I could definitely be dead.
“What the hell is going on here?” a loud, authoritative voice suddenly booms.
The abuse stops almost immediately, and the crowd goes oddly silent and shifts away from me, giving me space to breathe at last. I glance up to find a campus police officer making his way toward me, his expression a mix of concern and aggravation.
I’m so relieved, I could cry. I won’t, though, not in front of these animals.
If they sense weakness in me, they’ll attack again, and they won’t stop until they’ve torn me to millions of tiny shreds.
“Mallory Ellis?” the officer asks, his tone firm.
I bob my head, gulping down the sob in the back of my throat. “Y-yeah, that’s me.”