Rachel takes a step toward the door, ready to leave the claustrophobic closet and come up with another plan to get rid of the Miser Fae prowling around town.
“I know about Orion,” Greg says, not even a hint of bitterness in his voice. Rachel halts in her tracks. “If I hadn’t intercepted the rumor, the whole school would know that you spent the night with him, too.”
She slowly turns to face Greg, feeling uncomfortably close in the confined space.
“Your reputation wouldn’t have survived that type of gossip, Rachel,” he says. She watches him, unsure if he’s threatening to spread the information or not. “Guys like Orion love to take advantage of girls like you.”
“Girls like me?” Rachel narrows her eyes, daring him to say something sexist.
Greg closes the infinitesimal distance between them. “You know,” he whispers as he moves his other hand around her waist. “Easily manipulated girls.”
She tilts her chin up just in time to see a red flash in his pupils. It could’ve been a trick of the light, or maybe her imagination playing tricks on her. On the other hand, it could be something far more sinister. Considering the latter, Rachel decides it might not be in her best interest to get on Greg’s bad side while she’s stuck with him in the confines of the janitor’s closet.
Greg raises a hand to brush a strand of hair out of her face. “I don’t expect us to pick up where we left off, Rach, but maybe—”
“We can start fresh?” she whispers. Rachel forces herself to give him the sweetest smile she can muster and searches his eyes for another tell. There’s nothing perceptible, though. “Do you think it’s possible?”
He releases his hold on her and leans back against the shelves, smiling one of his genuine smiles—the ones he reserves for her alone. “Hi, I’m Greg Pearson, and you are?”
This is so twisted.
Rachel manages to relax every muscle in her body, keeping her face neutral. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Rachel Cleary,” she says.
They carry on the conversation for a good five minutes, acting like they’ve only just met. From Greg’s expression, he seems pleased. If he suspects anything untoward, he certainly doesn’t show it. Then, when Rachel thinks the situation can’t become any weirder, Greg looks at his wristwatch.
“I need to stop by at the library to clock some study time before English,” he says. “See you after school?”
“Mrs. Crenshaw—”
“Of course,” he interrupts, blinking a few times. “I forgot. Sorry.” Greg shakes his head, as if clearing his mind. “You should leave.”
Not wanting to delay his departure with questions like what is wrong with you?, Rachel touches his wrist and smiles. “You first. I’ll go after a few minutes, so it doesn’t look too suspicious.”
“Yeah, that’ll probably be for the best,” Greg chuckles. He stretches back to rub the back of his neck. “See you when I see you.”
He shifts around until he can reach the knob. Greg looks over his shoulder one last time, flashes a half-grin at her as he slips out of the closet.
The door closes behind him, and she releases a shaky breath. She stares at the door, counting off every second that passes. The adrenaline, which kept her upright throughout the exchange, evaporates out of her system. She doubles over, her legs growing weak as the reality of how close she had come to—
Dying? Influence or not, Greg won’t ever physically harm you.
Rachel pushes away the tears stinging the corners of her eyes, and rests her trembling hands on her knees, struggling to catch her breath through the sobs making their way up her throat.
Is he even under influence?
Unsure what to make of the red flash she’d spied in his pupils, she asks herself, “What else can it be?”
It could be nothing. You could be paranoid for no reason.
The soft knock on the door causes Rachel to jerk upright. A head of blonde curls appears as Mercia pops inside the closet, concern etched into her forehead, her lips turned down.
“Rachel?” Mercia says, keeping her voice soft. Her gaze flits to Rachel’s hand, now pressed against the shelf. “You’re bleeding.”
Rachel glances at her hand to see a deep, self-inflicted wound in the corner of her thumb’s cuticle.
Mercia rummages in her bag and holds out a tissue. “He’s gone. You can come out now.”
Rachel purses her lips together to keep her feelings hidden, and takes the offered tissue.
A heavy silence settles over them before Mercia whispers, “You saw it too, didn’t you? The thing inside Greg?”
Taken aback, Rachel can do little more than stare at Mercia as she opens the door wide and steps out of the way. Rachel exits the closet, but keeps her eyes on the girl who’d most probably eavesdropped on the entire exchange in the janitor’s closet.
“I’m like you,” she says.
“What are you talking about?”
Mercia shrugs, a conspirator’s smile now taking residence on her face. “Walk with me.” She juts her chin toward the main hallway.
As Mercia rounds the corner, Rachel grabs her by her wrist, forcing her to stop in her tracks.
“Mercia?” Rachel hisses. “What do you mean?”
Mercia shakes off Rachel’s hand and snaps her fingers. A flame ignites out of nowhere, before sizzling out just as fast. A thin trail of smoke wafts into the air, obscuring their view of each other. A scorched note is pinched between her index finger and thumb.
“Take it,” Mercia says, holding the piece of paper out toward her.
Rachel hesitates.
“It won’t bite you. Take it.”
She takes the note with her uninjured hand and carefully unfolds the singed paper, keeping her gaze on Mercia. Her attention drops to the single word, written in cursive: Munich. She looks back at Mercia, not comprehending.
“If you want to know what it means, I suggest we go somewhere else. These walls have ears,” she says.
Rachel follows Mercia’s beat-up green Volvo all the way to the Eerie Creek
