Page 41 of Wicked Little Secret

I dig my books out of my bookbag along with my phone. The last thing I pull out is the second phone I’ve tucked inside. The larger, wider one with a scarlet red case in the same shade as the school’s color. The right size for someone with thicker fingers like Samson.

His phone pings in my hand as another batch of texts light up his screen, confirming exactly what I suspected…

10

THERON

DEVIL’S ADVOCATE - THE NEIGHBOURHOOD

“Wouldn’tit be easier to take Manchester home? Do you always take a side street like Monarch?” Nyssa Oliver had asked as I turned up out of nowhere to give her a ride home.

It was a fair question.

The kind of immediate curiosity a bright, gifted young woman like Nyssa Oliver would have.

I should’ve been better prepared. Sharper on my feet if I were going to pull off what I did. Luckily, the shadows of the car disguised my silent panic. They gave me the cover I needed to make up something on the spot.

Why was I on Monarch Street? How likely is it that I just happened upon Nyssa?

Not likely at all.

The unvarnished truth was that I had spent the evening watching her. Earlier in the day, Nyssa had been uncharacteristically distracted—she checked her phonethreeseparate times during my class.

It was Samson Wicker texting her about his course load.The oaf needed help with his classes again and we were barely a month and a half into the fall semester.

Nyssa agreed, accepting his invitation to come over.

All exchanges I read for myself. All messages I saw from her iCloud account.

I tracked her every move from the AirTag I had slipped into her bookbag when inside her apartment and listened to the exchange from the mic I had also planted.

So, as Nyssa went to meet her slow-witted meathead boyfriend, I was already aware. I was lurking in the neighborhood, prepared to step in if I needed to.

Ifhe got out of line.

He almost did. She practically had to knee him in the groin just to get him off her. He refused to give her a ride home, a recurring theme that came up again after the art festival fiasco.

Nyssa was shocked that I showed up to save the day—ornight, more accurately speaking—but it wasn’t as though she didn’t secretly welcome the rescue.

Days go by on the calendar, and I’m not the only one doing the seeking.

Class ends and most students pack up and vacate the scene as promptly as possible. Her friend Heather Driscoll, who should probably be grieving the recent death of her parents, leaves with Macey Eurwen at her side, talking about the shopping they’ll do that afternoon.

And then there’s Nyssa Oliver, who lingers at her desk, her eyes curious and gleaming, framed by long, natural lashes. Every movement of hers is slow and measured, like she’s biding her time, waiting out the moment.

I shuffle papers and pack my things, pretending not to notice from the front of the room.

It’s a charming little game we play. The uncertainty thathangs between us is almost addictive. It’s an exhilarating rush where we put feelers out and wait for the other’s response.

Nyssa craves approval; she wants to know she has mine.

Little does she know, she already has it. She won it a long time ago. But more than that—she’s earned my fascination.

Infatuation.

She clears her throat and then takes the chance.

“Err, Professor,” she says cautiously, “I was wondering if we could have a word.”

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