Page 12 of Mercy in Betrayal

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Columbia University is located in the Morningside Heights neighborhood of Manhattan, on the other side of Central Park from where we live. It’s not that far as the crow flies, but it’s the farthest I’ve ever been from my new home unaccompanied.

Well, sort of unaccompanied.

The armored SUV I’m riding in has three bodyguards sitting in the backseats, but I’m doing my best to ignore their presence.

There’s nowhere to park around the university, thankfully, so they drop me off streetside across from Barnard. The three bodyguards emerge from the vehicle behind me and follow me at a staggered distance. I take five steps before turning around in irritation.

“You guys are going to have to pick spots and just stay. You cannot come in there with me.”

“We’re supposed to keep you in our sights at all times, Miss Rowan,” one says implacably.

“No one is going to be in my classes. You’d be better off watching the streets for any suspicious activity. When I’m finished, I’ll come right back out through this same gate.” They look unmoved. “Honestly, guys. Cassidy wanted me to have a normal college experience. Having you lurking over my shoulders and drawing attention to me is anything but normal.”

“Fine,” the one who appears to be in charge grumbles. “If anything worries you, you press that button on your phone.” He’s referring to his programmed “panic button,” which is really just his phone number set to a single digit in my cell phone.

“I will. Promise.” With a sigh of relief, I turn and head toward the main gates of the campus.

As soon as I’m out of sight of the gates, I pull an apron from my bag and begin to jog across the red bricks of the entry, crossing over the ornate “B” in the sidewalk with only a brief glance.

I’m late.

A little thrill courses down my spine at the thought of the secret I’m keeping from Cassidy and Evie and my bodyguards and anyone else who thinks they know anything about me. Classes for my major don’t start for another few days, as the university intentionally staggers the start dates for different departments so the dorms aren’t overwhelmed by students moving in.

I’ve taken advantage of this, spending my time while Cassidy’s men wait patiently outside the gates, not in student orientation and the like—I did all of that online—but rather in training for a job at a coffee cart located in Barnard’s inner courtyard.

Today is my first day on the job.

Several yards ahead, I see the manager waiting for me, cash box in hand. He points to the watch on his wrist. “Almost late,” he says.

“Almost,” I breathe, settling the apron over my head and taking the cash box. “I’ll be early next time, promise.”

He grumbles but lets it slide, opening the door of the cart and ushering me in. “Turn the cash box into the office on the first floor at the end of your shift, and call if you have any problems, hear?”

“Yes, sir.”

A line is already forming. Taking a deep breath, I turn and greet my first customer.

The day flies by. I spend it serving students who are arriving on campus to confirm schedules, buy books, and get familiar with the campus, as well as a few who actually have classes already. My first few orders are rushed and messy, but soon, I get the hang of swirling the syrups into the coffee and topping it off with chocolate, caramel, and whipped cream. By the end of the day, I almost feel like I know what I’m doing, and my little jar of tips has a few dollars in it.

The last hour of my shift is devoid of customers—which being late in the day, I honestly didn’t expect many, if any at all. Still, I keep the cart open as directed until the sun sets and darkness creeps over the courtyard.

Then and only then do I begin to put items away and lock up the cart. Cash box tucked beneath my arm and my messenger bag slung crossways over my body, I head toward the main building.

The courtyard, filled with students throughout the day, is mostly empty of people now. A few stragglers linger on benches here and there, and as I walk, one of them tosses a cigarette to the brick pavement and rises, heading toward the same building as I am.

I avert my gaze and speed up. I’m sure it’s completely innocent. Just a man making his way into one of the most popular buildings on campus at the same time as I am.

Or maybe it isn’t. I can feel his gaze on me, assessing. Calculating. In my peripheral, I see his step stutter as he matches his gait to my shorter one.

I fumble for my phone, tucked very safely away in my bag.

I’m a few yards from the door when his hands grab at me—no. Not me. The cash box. He tries to yank it away, shoving at me at the same time.

“No! Somebody, help!” The sound of my cry echoes in the courtyard, the buildings sending it back to me. Surely, somebody will hear. “Stop!”

“Give me the fucking box!”

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