Page 44 of Wicked Little Secret

Another professor by the name of Percy Barker raises his hand. “Could they be fake messages?”

“That’s possible too. But we’ve had the campus cyber officer look at them, and at this time, he doesn’t believe they are.”

I hide my smirk behind the peppermint mocha I’ve snagged at the student union. It’s not uncommon that I remain on the sidelines as other faculty members debate the importance of staff potlucks and other mundane things.

But it’s never been more entertaining to listen to them squawk at each other.

Particularly since it’s a mess of my own creation.

Iscreenshotted the messages Wicker and Cummings exchanged.Isent the anonymous email to the faculty distro.

As Coach Shanks practiced with the rugby team on the field last Wednesday, it was me who casually strolled into the male locker room and planted the drug evidence in the side pouches of their gym bags.

It was me who snuck a few milligrams into the protein shakes I found in their lockers.

A party drug called Euphoria crushed into powder substance and stored in little plastic baggies.

I didn’t typically have Euphoria on hand—or any drug beyond over-the-counter medication—but there was one thing being the older brother of a recreational user likeTheo had taught me. It was that it was shockingly easy to get your hands on drugs off the street if you knew where to look.

One quick deal under the veil of secrecy, and I was in possession of what I needed to sabotage Samson Wicker.

“We’ll have to drug test the team,” Pamela Williamson says, sighing. “That’s the only way we find out for certain. We’ll do the whole team just to be sure. Shanks, you’ll have to inform them at practice later today.”

The roided-out coach scoffs. “If they pop negative, you’re going to have egg on your face, Pam. And potentially a lawsuit on your hands.”

“We’ll worry about that after the drug test. And after we search their lockers.”

I walk out of the meeting practically with a pep in my step… or as much pep as someone as brooding and disgruntled as me can possibly have.

The October afternoon has turned gray and rainy, but while students prop open their umbrellas and scurry across campus, I’m taking my time. I stroll through with my peppermint mocha and grin noticing Samson Wicker and his oafish group of jock pals camped out at the student union.

He has no clue what’s coming his way.

I pull out my phone and check the latest on Nyssa’s iCloud. She’s posted a cryptic message on her Instagram.

All things happen for a reason.

Complete with a vase of flowers haloed by natural sunlight pouring in through a window. It’s a beautiful photo only an artistic mind like hers would think to capture. But she has no clue how true her blurb really is. How it so aptly fits her situation and the ways in which I’m helping her.

If only you knew all the things I’m doing for you.

Someday… you will.

Someday… you’ll thank me.

I carry on toward my BMW in the parking lot.

It’s been two days since I last stopped by Nyssa’s apartment. I’m a man looking to sate my appetite.

One quick visit can’t hurt. One fleeting moment to explore her private space again, taking in the scents, sights, and other sensory details.

According to the AirTag, Nyssa’s out shopping with the likes of Heather Driscoll for the afternoon.

Peaches slinks around my ankle when I enter. I scratch behind her pointed ears just where she likes and pull out the salmon flavored cat treat I’ve brought her.

Yet another way I’m bettering Nyssa’s life—I’m pampering her precious kitty without her even knowing I’m doing so.

Over the next hour, I study the latest developments on Nyssa’s sculptures. She’s started on yet another new piece, this one another recreation of the human form.

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