Page 65 of Forget Me Twice

Her eyes dart to my bare arms, confirming my suspicions. She did come over here to ogle the New Girl in all her junkie glory.

“Ah, yeah, I was actually coming over to speak to you at your locker when you disappeared into the showers. I wanted to see if you were…alright?” Her question doesn’t sound genuine in its concern. It’s more cautious. Most likely she was expecting to find me hunkered down in here licking my wounds, and now she doesn’t know how to proceed.

“Alright? How do you mean?”

I need to know exactly what the rumor mill is churning with now so I can try and getsomekind of damage control under way.

I just have no idea what that would even look like at this point.

Zoe shifts on her feet, looking down at her phone. She swipes it open before lifting it up, determinedly holding it out to show me what she’s pulled up from her texts. “Have you seen Reid’s video?” she asks, studiously avoiding the serial killer-esque staredown that I have no intention of ending.

I know I should have already been two steps ahead of the mess, but I’ve been too exhausted and pissed off to check on social media. Did one of the Prefects purposefully send her in here to make sure I’d seen it?

She’s not part of Sloane’s usual group of minions, but she’s certainly popular enough to hang around in their close orbit. Perhaps this little visit is Zoe’s personal attempt at moving up a rung on the Rox Academy social ladder?

At this point, I’m not sure it matters. She’s seen my ink. After everything else I’ve fucked up this past week, I can’t risk her running her mouth about it. The last thing I need is it getting back to the Pantheon. They might not be working for the Aces, but they are definitely tangled up in the Underworld, somehow.

There’s every chance they’d recognize the significance of the rooks on my back.

Taking a step forward through the steam that’s begun to gather in my stall, I drop my gaze to her screen.

On it is a shaky vertical video of a familiar blonde’s slumped form. Zoe presses play and the soundtrack of Reid’s vicious giggles and Sloane’s snarky commentary begins to echo loudly off the tiles.

I watch in a detached sort of way as a few seconds into the video, I collapse forward—legs folded beneath me at a painful-looking angle, and arms clamped to my side by the sleeves of my leather jacket. It looks like someone tried to peel it off me to gain access to my arm. An arm that clearly still has a depressed syringe embedded near the elbow. My moans join their laughter, low and agonized.

So much of this part of the night was lost to the first initial burn of the injection. But one thing Idoremember?

The pain.

Latent feelings of wrath that had been left on simmer after the weekend now bubble back violently to the surface. The edges of my vision spark.

After the video loops a third time, I finally force myself to look up at Zoe. She’s not fast enough to hide the amused smile that’s slipped into place as she watches me replay my own humiliation.

That expression that had at first seemed so free of artifice, is nowhere to be found.

I’m not sure who I am more annoyed at right now—Zoe or myself for how fucking shot to hell my instincts have become. There’s no getting around the fact that she’d made her bed the moment she laid eyes on my tattoo, but the added deception just further sweeps away anyhintof reluctance. It’s the last time I giveanyoneat this godsforsaken fucking school the benefit of the fucking doubt.

A slow exhale. Then I’m shoving all that frothing anger down and I’m inviting in the killing calm to settle comfortably across my shoulders.

And like the drugs I lean on daily, I’maddictedto it.

My hand shoots out and I jab my thumb into the vagus nerve on her neck. “Sorry about it,” I say, not sorry at all. There’s no remorse, only the anticipatory rise of my heart rate.

I squeeze on the pressure point harder and Zoe’s eyes roll back and her breathing slows. I let go and watch as she slumps to the floor like a ragdoll. Almost in parody of my own recorded humiliation.

That trouble-making thought doesn’t get the chance, my brain already occupied with recycling the delicious morsel of adrenaline.

I stare down at Zoe’s limp figure, reviewing everything I know about her. Her family, her sporting achievements, her academic record. There are no especially heinous skeletons looming in her closet. The truth is, she probably would have made a poor recruit anyway.

Accident it is.

I don’t have any tools or weapons on me, and after assessing my options, a quick dry-boarding seems like my best chance to make this as clean as possible.

I’m still naked but I don’t bother getting fully dressed. My clothes would just get wet with what I need to do next. I just hope the steam that has slowly been filling the room will be able to finally provide enough cover, but I need to at the very least get us out of the thoroughfare.

Reaching down, I grab Zoe under the armpits and drag her up over the short upstand at the threshold of the shower. I place her down on the floor of the stall, careful not to lay her over the drain. The water spray begins to bead on her hair and brow.

Grabbing her discarded towel next, I twist one corner of it until it takes on the form of a snake. With one hand, I hold her mouth open and proceed to force-feed her the length of it. When it won’t progress any further, and I’m confident her throat is fully blocked, I push her jaw closed against the towel and pinch her nose shut.

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