Page 10 of Don't You Pucking Dare

"You'll think I'm crazy," I admit. She’s giving me the look like I need to explain it to her.

"Try me."

"It's little things." The words tumble out. "My sheet music being too neat. Practice room unlocked when I know I locked it. Books rearranged. Like someone's been in my space, touching my stuff, but I can't prove anything." I sigh. "I always feel like I’m being watched. I swear someone is there and then I turn and no one’s there. I’m starting to think I’m going fucking crazy."

"That's not nothing." Her voice sharpens. "Have you told anyone? Campus security?"

"And say what? Someone might have touched my stuff but also might not have?" I laugh, but it sounds hollow. "I'll sound paranoid."

"Or they'll—"

A knock makes us both jump. Kiah’s eyes widen as she answers.

The guy who invited us to the art party walks in with three coffee cups and a paper bag. "Breakfast of champions!" His smile fades when he sees our faces. "Y’all okay?"

"Nothing," I say, just as Kiah says, "Lola's being stalked."

"I'm not being stalked." But even I don't believe it anymore. "It's probably just rich kid hazing. Testing the scholarship student. Could be the mean girl from class." Or my father. The thought crosses my mind, but that man would never waste his time on me.

"Screw that." He sets the coffees down with unusual force. "Want me to walk you to classes? I'm free Tuesdays and Thursdays."

"I don't need—"

"He knows martial arts," Kiah interrupts. "Actually knows what he's doing, unlike half the wannabe tough guys here."

Something warm blooms in my chest. These people—this girl I've known a week, this boy I barely know—ready to help without question. It's so different from the trailer park where everyone was too busy surviving to look out for each other. Or even high school. High school was a complete shit show.

"Thanks." I grab one of the coffees. "But really, I'm probably just being paranoid."

"Still." Kiah grabs her bag. "We're kidnapping you today. Farmers market downtown, then this amazing bookstore café. No arguments."

For a few hours, I almost feel normal. Devon is his name, and he has horrible puns. Kiah's running commentary on everyone's fashion choices make me laugh despite myself. The autumn air smells like apples. We get lunch at a tiny Vietnamese place where the owner calls everyone "honey" and serves portions big enough for three meals.

But Friday brings what I've been dreading all week.

I'm in the library, supposedly studying for psychology but really hiding from the world. My textbooks spread across the table like academic camouflage. The spot I've chosen lets me see down three aisles at once, back against the wall, everything in view.

I glance into my bag, and my heart stops. There, nestled between my theory notes and calculus homework, pages I know I just checked an hour ago, lies a cream-colored envelope I definitely didn't put there. My name curves across the front in elegant calligraphy, the paper so thick it feels like silk against my trembling fingers.

What the hell is this?

My hands shake so badly. It takes my fingers forever to break the seal of this envelope, each attempt making my pulse race faster.

Inside, I find a single card, heavy and expensive. The envelope feels wrong in my hands—too expensive, too deliberate. An invitation to a party, written in the same flowing script. Just an invitation for a party tonight. Not a threat. Not a warning. But my racing heart knows better— someone didn't just slip this into my bag; they chose me.

I wasn't imagining anything this entire time.

Someone watched, waited, chose their moment.

I glance around the empty library.

Who the hell was it?

Chapter 6

The videos play for the hundredth time today. Lola under the oak tree, unaware she's being hunted. Lola in the library. Lola’s dorm room. Lola in class. Lola playing her cello. I've memorized every detail: the way she tucks hair behind her ear when nervous, how her fingers grip that cello case like a shield, the exact moment fear crosses her face when she senses something’s off. Day by day, I'm learning her weaknesses. Like studying game tape, except this opponent doesn't know she's playing yet.

The Reaper compound is the only place I can indulge this obsession openly. Here, watching prey isn't just accepted—it's expected. Especially when that prey is Rick Kemper's daughter.

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