Page 67 of Wicked Little Secret

I blink and suddenly come to my senses. The feral drum that had beat inside me so intensely only a second ago feels worlds away. It was an entirely different man altogether. My hand drops from her throat and I take a step back.

She hoists her bookbag onto her shoulder, then quickly arrows toward the door.

It snaps shut and sends a shockwave reverberating through me.

Confusion over what the hell I was about to do. How could I lose control so easily? So thoroughly?

I wrench off my glasses and scrub a sobering hand over my face.

In need of a dose of reality, I call the only person who will give me a proverbial bitch slap.

Theo hears my ragged breathing and grows worried. “Theron, what the hell?”

“I need you to talk sense into me.”

“About…?”

I let my breathing answer for me. More ragged intakes, even rougher exhales.

She knows me well enough to understand. “Theron, forfuck’s sake, whoever she is, she’s not worth it! And if it’s Veronica again—I swear to god, I’m going to kick your ass! Let the chick go!”

“It’s not about Veronica,” I spit.

“Is this why you rushed off last Friday night? Jesus fucking Christ, Theron, what are you getting mixed up in? You heard, Dad—he’s not bailing you out this time!”

“Will you calm down?” I say, scowling. “I called you to talk sense into me. Not nag me like Mom.”

“It’s deserved! I don’t know what girl’s got in your head again, but walk away.”

“I have to go now.”

I cut her off in the middle of her next sentence with my mind made up. Her lecturing words have done nothing but flip the script and make me realize I was right before. Classes for the day are over and it’s time I stop depriving myself of what I want.

It’s time I make Miss Oliver understand.

The day’s breezy, brisk autumn weather vanishes by late afternoon. Thick clouds emerge, heavy with raindrops, casting a dull gray filter over Castlebury.

Campus thins out the way it always does when gloomy weather’s imminent.

I stride toward my BMW with my leather satchel swathed diagonally over my shoulder. Glasses perched on my face, I’m as calm and composed as ever. I’ve reached a new sense of clarity, sliding behind the wheel and checking my phone.

Miss Oliver is downtown. She’s in the middle of another solo outing, running errands and making stops ofinterest. A habit of hers I’ve realized she takes part in to decompress.

I cut through side streets until I’m parking in a lot designated for visitors in the downtown district. Because the long strip of boutiques, cafés, lounges, galleries, and other establishments are so nestled together, there’s little room for street parking.

It’s part of Castlebury’s charm—a small, lush town brimming with tasteful cobblestone and gas lamps.

Nyssa’s exiting an art supply shop when I come up on the street corner. I pull on the baseball cap I’ve brought with me and keep a distance, immersing myself among other people on the street to blend in. She wanders out of the store clutching a tiny bag.

When out alone, her expression’s naturally curious, naturally thoughtful. It’s as though she’s admiring every sensory detail around her, from the leaded glass on a shop window to the brown leaves flurrying at her feet.

As it starts drizzling, she digs into her bookbag and pulls out a striped umbrella that looks decades old. Likely another find from the thrift store.

It happens to be her next stop, half a block down.

I’m her secret chaperone, approaching the shop once she’s disappeared inside. I stand in the glazed front window and make out the shape of her as she browses the racks.

Never before have I been so captivated. So damn beholden to the obsession that’s bloomed quickly over the matter of a few weeks.

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