Page 120 of For Dear Life

Leif shakes his head and rests his back against the wall, shuffling downwards so we’re face to face. He tugs me closer. “The night that Oz died. Died again. Properly, I mean.”

“Did you see something? The story is his heart gave out. Constructs tend to return to the state they should be in eventually if their creator dies. Or perhaps this ‘triggered memory’ from the witches was too much and that killed him?” Leif visibly swallows. “The witches. They came for you?” I ask in hushed shock.

“Dorian came the night the real arrests happened.”

“He wasn’t permitted until two days later. How?”

Leif laughs. “He’s Dorian Blackwood. The guy can get anywhere he wants, but only I saw him.”

“Oh.” Dorian never told me this. “What did he say?”

“He didn’t speak, Violet. I’m unsure he knows that I saw him.” Leif bites down hard on his bottom lip. “The detectives were considering allowing supernatural authorities to check both our minds for evidence.”

And discover the necromancy.

An odd feeling leadens my stomach. I told Dorian about the alleged spell in Oz’s mind that would be triggered by Grant’s death—Oz’s unlife ended shortly afterwards.

“Are you telling me that Dorian did something to Oz?” I whisper.

“All I’m saying is, your father was in the cells that night and nobody had the opportunity to look into Oz’s empty head the next day.” He swallows. “Because he’d died.”

No opportunity to detect necromancy or discover false memories. I catch a breath. Dorian chose to eliminate any possibility that I might be pulled into the investigation again. “Did you worry my father considered killing you too?”

“He had no reason to. I had the truth in my mind.” But Leif’s doubtful, his fear as evident as when Grayson met Dorian.

If necessary, Dorian would’ve killed anybody who might help a case against me. I’ve absolutely no doubt. Weeks ago, I would’ve shrugged this off. He’s Dorian Blackwood. The shifter was dead anyway. Now? I can’t. What’d already happened to Oz was horrendous, but he didn’t deserve to lose his life again, alone and confused in that cell.

Nausea rises as the hallway momentarily lurches. I might’ve lost Leif that night. If there’d been an iota of anything planted in his mind to place me at or near the scene, Leif would not be with me now. Nobody’s safe from Dorian, whatever the person might mean to me.

“Dorian wouldn’t kill you,” I say with a false smile. “Ethan and Zeke are going to help you, remember?”

And I hug him, hard. Face pressed into his chest as his heart races against my cheek. My fingers grip his jacket. How can I protect these guys’ lives and be part of them if I’m one of the threats?

I need to talk to Eloise about Dorian.

The tiara drags through my hair, strands yanking from my head, and I immediately raise a hand.

There’s nothing there.

Pulling myself from Leif, I step away and spin around, darting a look in every direction. The hallway’s busier than when we first moved to our corner, some students drifting in and out of the dance, as others crowd to wait for friends. We’re close to the door. The thief must’ve left.

I’m through that door and out of the academy in moments, every sense raised in alert as I focus on my surroundings for footsteps. A handful of drunk students wander towards me, their stench and footsteps interfering with my scent detection, and I growl beneath my breath.

“Did you see who took the tiara?” I ask as Leif joins me.

“No. My focus was elsewhere.” He grabs my arm as I prepare to charge into the dark. “No disappearing alone, Violet.”

“But—” He arches a brow. And he’s correct. I snarl in the likely direction of the thief. “Fine.”

Leif half drags me inside and the music assaults me the closer I get to the door. As I shove my way through an annoying group blocking the route, I knock into Holly.

“Violet! You’re supposed to be help—” She touches her curls. “Where did your tiara go?” I don’t manage a response before she greets Leif with a squeal and enthusiastic hug.

Leif awkwardly hugs her back, looking at me over Holly’s head. “Are you on the door, watching who comes and goes?” he asks her.

Holly inclines her head to where Mrs. Redfern stands, a middle-aged witch who teaches history and appears as thrilled by attending as I do. “Alcohol check. As if that’d work—most are having drinks before and after.”

“After?”

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