Page 23 of Death's Daughter
I came almost instantly, and it was one of the hottest things I’ve ever experienced.
Carter’s hands tighten on the wheel, knuckles blanching.
“And last night? Last night, you told me you still wanted me, even though I was going to ruin your life.”
As soon as the words are out, I wish I could reel them back in. Nothing said under the influence of a Lust spawn is fair game. Just because you feel it doesn’t mean you’d act on it. And Carter might not even remember saying it. Not to mention, I absolutely do not want to explain the sudden strange compulsion he must have felt to say those things and—
Instead of responding to me, Carter slams on the brakes. The back end of the car fishtails hard to the left, throwing me into the locked band of my seat belt.
When we finally come to a stop, my breath comes out in a gasp, the seat belt friction burned against my neck. “What are you—” I begin.
But he’s busy staring out the windshield at a trio of girls, crossing in front of us in the middle of the road. Their enormous blue golf umbrella covers them almost to their waists. It must have blocked their view of us.
“Are you okay?” Carter asks, his voice a little unsteady.
I look down to see his arm braced across me, protecting me. “Yes,” I say, wrapping my fingers around his wrist. His pulse thrums furiously against my fingertips.
I don’t know what it will take to kill me (obviously). An arm across my chest wouldn’t save my life in a car accident any better than anyone else.
But it could break my heart.
Carter nods, carefully avoiding my gaze, then pulls away.
In the road, one of the girls tilts up the umbrella to glance out, finally recognizing that they might be in danger. Gabby Weiner(God, she must have hated high school). She lives in Branwick on the main floor.
She glares at us, as if we were the ones at fault.
I flip her the finger, before realizing she’s still in her robe, and the two on either side of her—Dara Park and Cassie Something—are in their pajamas and carrying shower caddies and bundles of clothing. What is going on?
“Jocasta,” Carter says, pointing past the girls. “I don’t think you’re getting back into Branwick, not any time soon.”
Following the direction he’s indicating, I look ahead toward Branwick, across the quad. The police have blocked off the stone archway of the main entrance—probably all the entrances—of Branwick with yellow caution tape, as uniformed officers and white-suited crime scene techs swarm in and out and around the side of the building where the… where Lennie was.
But it’s not the police presence that holds my attention. I was expecting some version of that.
What I wasn’t expecting: dozens of students, some in a similar state of undress, milling around the grassy lawn in front of Branwick. Others, with backpacks and coats, are gathered around the outer edges, watching or filming with their phones, like it’s a homecoming bonfire and they’re warming their hands on the spectacle.
So many people. Forty or fifty of them, maybe more, just out there in the open. Paying zero attention to anything or anyone around them.
Panic gnaws at me for a good long moment before I figure out why.
They’re vulnerable now. All of them. Whoever killed Lennie could be moving among them right now, whispering for them toslice their wrists or walk out in front of cars or just… gutting them right then and there before I could reach them.
Shit.I sit up straighter in the seat. I might not have claimed Beecher, but somehow these people, an entire campus’s worth, are now mine to protect. It could be any one of them next, showing up dead on the steps to my psych classes in Weir Hall or at the table I like at the library.
Or in my room.
I go still, breath caught in my chest. Pieces click together in my head to form a new picture.
Lennie wasn’t just a random student, was she? I would have still understood the message if it had been Gabby or Mena or my lab partner, Sean, in that garden this morning.
But Lennie is…wasmy friend. Beyond that, she was my most reliable source of sustenance. And she wasn’t just killed outside my dorm, but deliberately under my window.
This is personal. Someone who has taken the time to watch me, to know me. To aim precisely at the spots that will hurt the most. Intending not just to communicate but towound.
Chessa’s face flashes in my mind. Her habitual early-morning run, three miles through the forest preserve, alone. Her earbuds are firmly in place, playing either oldDatelineepisodes turned into a podcast or her own voice memos reciting law stuff she wanted to memorize.
I search the crowd, hunting for even a hint of that obnoxious neon pink. Her running jacket would make her stand out in any venue.
