Beneath the dusty fall of yellow light, Pierce Harrington navigated the dim aisles of the office storage room. The scent of aged paper and musty cardboard hung heavily in the air. Pierce could not believe he'd let Lucas talk him into stealing from the Administration Office. There were a lot of things he would do for the group, but jeopardizing his position as Miss Portia Maxwell's administrative assistant had never been one of them.

Until now.

A security tape, dated October 28, 2007. That was Luke's request. Whatever this was, it was important to him, and Lucas had never asked him for anything before. He felt a mix of urgency and trepidation. With the Legacy Gathering monopolizing the faculty's attention, this was the perfect time to slip away unnoticed.

Pierce scanned the musty shelves, occasionally looking over his shoulder for any signs of unwanted guests. As he searched for the right cassette tape, he found himself re-scanning labels: September 1981, October 1981 . . . September 1981, October 1981 . . . These tapes were too old, relics from the eighties and nineties, but Pierce was distracted. His thoughts kept drifting back to Jackie and how upset she'd been after Cole refused to help her.

December 1981, January 1982 . . .

Jackie had seemed so worried about Bianca.

December 1981, January 1982 . . .

How could Cole be so indifferent? It was beyond personal disappointment; it was about the broader implications. Pierce had hoped for a different kind of loyalty, a different kind of support. Instead, he felt as though he was left alone to pick up the pieces. Maybe he should have offered to help her somehow.

March 1984, April 1984, May 1984 . . .

Instead, he had somehow found himself an errand boy for Lucas now.

Am I a doormat? he thought to himself.

March 1984, April 1984, May—

Pierce wasn't focused, and he was finally beginning to recognize this when he heard the loud thunk-thunk of something clattering to the floor two rows down. He leaned out of the aisle, carefully inspecting the dim hall.

One of the dangling yellow bulbs swayed in the distance. Pierce bit his lip. Why wasn't he paying better attention?

A cold displacement of air brushed his spine, and Pierce whirled around, expecting to see someone. There was nothing. In the corner of his left eye, a tall, dark shadow fluttered, and Pierce twirled in the other direction, his heartbeat hammering his ribcage as he raced to find the culprit.

Behind him, a hand fell on his shoulder.

Pierce leapt forward, away from the touch.

"Whatcha doin', poodle?"

It was Portia Maxwell.

Pierce exhaled deep and slow, only to have apprehension swell his breast once more. Busted. "I'm just . . . I, uh . . ."

Miss Maxwell chuckled. "Oh, you better be quicker than that, Harrington. Aren't you kids supposed to be light on your feet? Natural-born fibbers?"

Pierce scratched his neck. "I've . . . just always been curious about what's back here."

"Uh huh." Miss Maxwell snorted and began to shoo him out of the aisle and into the narrow hallway. "Well, there's nothing to see here, so skedaddle."

"Miss Maxwell," he insisted, trying to stop, "when, uh, when did we switch over to IP cameras?"

"Why?" she asked, folding her arms over her chest. "What are you up to?"

"N-nothing," he insisted. "Just curious."

"Uh uh. Cough it up, kid. The truth. Now."

"Nothing, nothing. I'm really just curious."

"Curious?"

"Yeah, I saw a bunch of tapes back there, and it made me wonder about all that stuff."

"About IP cameras?"

He nodded over-enthusiastically. "Yeah, well, because analog cams used to record the footage straight to, like, videotapes, right?"

"Correct," she answered with calculated discretion. Pierce hoped she could not see through the tapestry of lies he was beginning to weave before her. Miss Maxwell tilted her head. "You're really just curious about the tech?"

Pierce smiled. "Yeah, I mean, how can I create the next best video surveillance system if I don't learn its origins, you know?"

"That's what you're up to?"

He shrugged. "This school is gonna pay big money for my technology someday, you just wait."

"Oh, goodness. You truly are the heir to Harrington Tech, aren't you." She sighed. "Well, how could I disappoint a young, budding entrepreneur? Get over here, kiddo."

Pierce followed Miss Maxwell down the corridor and entered another dusty aisle. She casually pointed to her left, saying, "We switched to DVDs in the early 2000's, and if I recall correctly, we didn't switch to IP video surveillance until shortly after 2007."

"Cool." Pierced stepped up to the shelf. "And now we record to hard drives?"

"Too many questions, poodle." Miss Maxwell pinched her lips as he began flipping through thin plastic disc cases. "What are you looking for?"

2002, 2003, 2004, 2005 . . .

"Nothing," he said, withdrawing from the shelf.

2007.

It had to be somewhere in that section. October 28, 2007.

"Then you won't mind if we leave," Miss Maxwell declared. "Let's go. We can talk about all this in the office." She waved him forward, and Pierce waited until her back was turned to reach for the disc one last time.

June, July, August, September . . .

He found it!

October 2007.

His fingers sat on the plastic when Miss Maxwell spun back around, and Pierce quickly retracted his hand and stuffed it into his pockets. Dammit . . .

"And another thing," she said briskly. "If I find out that you've used any of this information to do sneaky, bad boy things with your sneaky, bad boy gang, you can bet your little tuchus, you will not have a job in my office anymore, you understand me?"

Pierce stood still.

"Exactly," Miss Maxwell said, nodding. She seemed to approve of his apprehension. "Don't mess with big momma, comprendé?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said, clearing his throat and repeating the statement again with a little more confidence.

"Good."

She began to walk away, waving for him to follow, and Pierce hesitated only briefly before snatching the disc and tucking it into his vest. He'd already messed with the video feed of the shack anyways, looped a twenty-four hour recording over top of it, and that offense was clearly worse than this one.

But still, this better be worth it, he thought, and Pierce hoped the little square of the case couldn't be seen through his sweater.

◢✥◣

Rayne Foster was disappointed to watch Officer Scott leave, but there was a small part of her that was also impatient, eagerly awaiting the moment. The Legacy Gathering made her feel anxious. Restless. There were more important things she needed to be doing with her time. She didn't really feel like egg sandwiches and peanut butter cookies anymore.

When she made it to her dorm room, Rayne was surprised to discover a note waiting for her on the floor. It appeared someone had slipped it through the crack in the door frame. When she lifted the folded edge and saw "Sir Lucian" scribbled at the bottom, Rayne couldn't help but smile.

Meet me in the East Stairwell at 6. I want to show you something.

She looked at the clock above her bed. It was already six-fifteen.

Rayne spun for the door, but as soon as she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, she paused. Taking note of her disheveled hair and flimsy school uniform, Rayne instantly stripped off her clothes. From her closet, she withdrew a baggy, eggshell white cropped tee, its edges cut for a raw look, its sleeves rolled up to reveal the slight fraying. It featured an antiquated black print arched across the center: Vivere senza rimpianti, meaning, "live without regrets," adding a vintage flair. She paired it with a pair of tan checkered trousers. After dressing and fluffing her curls, Rayne slipped into her sneakers and bounded for the East Stairwell.

Lucas Abbot was waiting for her.

He faced the barred window in the third-floor landing. At the sound of heavy doors closing, Lucas turned around, wearing a crisp white tee and a smile between his teeth. His wet curls were evidence of a recent shower, and she tried not to breathe in the scent of his shampoo. "Took you long enough," he said.

Rayne slugged his shoulder. "Hey, I had company today. Just got to my dorm, like, five minutes ago. Next time send a text, nerd."

They cracked up, and Rayne found herself wishing they really could've had cell phones on campus. It would have been so much easier if they could have done simple, teenage things like . . . text.

Lucas hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, and Rayne noticed an anchor bracelet around his wrist. There were three layers of braided leather, and the hook of the anchor clipped the bracelet shut. Noticing her eyes on him, Lucas began digging for an itch at the base of his blond hair. "Well,"—he cleared his throat and fidgeted with the pearl necklace around his neck—"do you still have company? Or can I steal you for ten minutes?"

"I'm all yours," she replied, and the words hung in the air like a bad smell.

He . . . laughed . . . and then she . . . sort of laughed . . . and then, they both grumbled a little as they slowly ascended the stairs.

At the same time, they both started talking.

"Sorry," said Luke.

Rayne waved her hand. "No, I'm sorry. You go first."

"No, I was just going to ask if you've seen Cole today."

She shook her head. "Not today."

"Ah . . ." Lucas trailed off. "I'm sorry, what were you gonna say?"

She tried laughing, but it sounded more like a cough. "I was just going to ask where we're going. You said you have something to show me?"

He grinned. "You'll see."

In the next landing, there stood a lanky janitor with a mop in his hand and a bucket at his side. He had on a thin belt and a gray, short-sleeve button-down tucked into ebony slacks. His name was sewn into the right breast of his uniform: Tony.

"Hey, man." Lucas waved and jerked his chin toward the top of the stairs. "Is it still open?"

For a beat, the man stared. He glanced at his watch. "You said six o'clock."

"I know."

"It's almost six-thirty."

"My bad," Luke said, shrugging. He offered a practiced flick of his index and middle finger, revealing a folded hundred-dollar bill tucked between them. "Is it closed then?"

Tony's gaze dropped to the bill, and he took it with a slight nod. "Better make it quick, kid. I'ma lock her up in ten."

"Thanks, man. You're the best." Lucas appeared to reach for Rayne's hand but stopped just short of it. "You heard him," he said, nodding. "We better make it quick."

"Make what quick? Where are we going?"

"Like I said, you'll see."

They rushed over the landing, and as Rayne passed the janitor, his demeanor shifted. It felt as though the sands of time had suspended in mid-air, almost descending in slow-motion. Rayne felt like she was moving through muddied water, and it took ages for her to pass the man as he stared her down with beady, brown eyes.

The janitor blinked. Those eyes which had been drab and dull were now phosphorescent green, like two cracked glow sticks. There was a boldness within them that Rayne recognized, a nefarious familiarity that tingled her flesh. Before Rayne could process what she'd seen, the man blinked again and his eyes returned to the dreary brown they'd been before. Tony looked at the mop in his bucket and plopped it onto the floor, seeming confused by Rayne's startled expression.

Rayne faced forward, saw her hands on the metal push-bar of a door, and wondered when they had reached the top of the stairs. In her memory, she could recall flashes of shoes climbing stairs, but those moments seemed to have whipped past her with an abnormal acceleration. Her thoughts traveled, meandering from one string of recognition to another. Rayne found herself aimlessly pondering the blue-eyed man, their preternatural glow, so similar to the image of emerald irises that now burned itself into each and every cryptic alcove of her mind.

She looked to her left, meeting Luke's golden gaze, and their warmth filled her up like she'd taken a shot of pure sunlight. "Wait 'til you see this," Luke said, but Rayne's mind was reeling.

She was on the verge of a sudden, inexplicable meltdown.

What if everything is connected?

The door opened. Wind licked her skin and daylight warmed her cheeks as the setting sun hung low over the Pennsylvanian trees. They were on the Dormitory rooftop. Rayne could not remember the moment she stepped forward, but before she knew it, she was standing at the edge of a wrought-iron railing, gazing out over the horizon.

"Wow," she breathed. The drum of her rushing heart stilled to a steady tempo, relieving her budding panic attack as if the magnificent view had been some sort of holistic sedative. Beyond the woodland and the cement barrier that caged them in, there were swells of forested hills, rising and crashing in the distance. Rayne could see the blue vein of a creek cutting into the hilltop, and a flock of black birds flew from one of the red-timbered slopes. She whispered, "It's beautiful . . ."

"It is," he said, and Rayne realized he'd been watching her. He cleared his throat and stepped beside her, resting his elbows on the railing. His smile deepened, warmth blooming across his cheeks as he added, "I mean, if you block out the wall and all the barbed wire."

Rayne rubbed her chest, feeling a flutter akin to excessive caffeine consumption. She turned toward him, and then she eyed the stairwell door. "Why are we here, Lucas?"

He exhaled, glancing away. "It's just nice to get away sometimes. Thought maybe you'd appreciate the view. Was it a bad idea?"

"No . . ." she began carefully, studying him. "I was looking for you earlier. Where were you?"

"It's just been one of those days." Lucas cast his gaze downward, surveying the gravel and shrubbery of the lot below. "But I, uh . . . I got it."

"Got what?"

"The footage." He met her eyes, offering a smile that was as disarming as it was contagious. "Pierce pulled through, snuck it right out of the Admin Office this afternoon."

Rayne's answering smile cracked into frown. "You didn't tell him though, did you?"

"No, no." Lucas shook his head. "I asked him not to tell anyone, and he didn't ask any questions."

"Well, what're we doing out here? Let's go watch it!"

"That's the thing." Lucas scratched the back of his neck. "It's a DVD, Rayne. We need a player. The library computers only have USB ports—no disc slots."

"Are you serious?" Rayne smacked the railing with her palm. The view was no longer captivating. As wind rattled the crackling leaves, the citrine and russet foliage looked more like flames flickering on the horizon. Rayne thought about the fire that took down the South Wing in the early nineteen-hundreds, and then, as the falling sun lit the creek ablaze, she thought of blood.

How long did they have before the next suicide?

What if they were running out of time?

"Hey," Lucas whispered, his voice grounding her. "Let's not worry about that part tonight. We'll figure it out in the morning."

Those warm eyes caught hers, and Rayne couldn't help but compare them with her own. She saw sunlight when she looked at him, but what did he see when he looked at her? Did the cherry flakes betray her past? Did the blood of her victim swim circles in her irises? Could everyone see it in her eyes?

"What's wrong?" he asked, concern softening his voice.

"Nothing," Rayne mumbled. "Just . . . thinking."

"About what?"

". . . Everything."

Lucas turned toward the dimming horizon. "Me too . . ."

◢✥◣

Officer Emma Scott could not shake the tense sensation that twisted her rib cage like a series of tightly-wound coils waiting to release. The setting sun tossed a golden splendor through dusty, lace curtains, and Emma dropped her cooler onto the motel's camel-carpet floor. Taking a deep breath, she crossed the room, flicked on the bathroom light switch, stole a glance in the mirror, and fixed her fraying ponytail.

It was time to go. She knew that. Her sons were waiting for her. So . . . why couldn't she will herself to leave?

Emma twisted the faucet and splashed a handful of chilled water over her face. Part of her suddenly felt too anxious to look into the mirror once more, almost as if she feared someone would be waiting in the reflection behind her. When she finally lifted her head, water dripping down her lashes and her nose, there was no one.

She was all alone.

Her nerves were certainly getting the better of her.

Get your shit together, she thought.

Behind her, the natural lighting within the bedroom dimmed, the same way it would have if a cloud had shifted over the sun. Although there was no one behind her, a chill still swept Emma's shoulders; she could have sworn someone was watching her. Ridiculous, she scolded herself. Emma tried shrugging it off and dried her face on a towel. She flicked off the switch and closed the bathroom door, but the moment Emma entered the dim motel room, she halted mid-stride.

The towel slipped through her fingers, tumbling to the carpet.

It was not a cloud that had obstructed the natural flow of light into the room after all.

It was a tall, dark figure.

With glowing blue eyes.

The coils that twisted in Emma's chest now compacted even tighter, her breath trapped in unyielding lungs. It looked just like Rayne Foster's homeroom teacher, except this person was younger, and he was sporting that steep, pink scar across his eye, nose, and cheek.

It was the boy she'd seen in the back of her cruiser on the night Rayne Foster committed murder. And he was about to speak . . . 

◢✥◣

Later that night, the moon's effulgence shone over the forest behind Maria J. Westwood, and David Sheppard stumbled over brushwood as he pulled his boyfriend close and met him with a kiss. It had been a while since he and Spencer spent a night in the shack, and he was tired of hooking up in the locker room. His hands searched his boyfriend's body fervently, careful not to brush the tender bruises on his arms. A few steps ahead, however, the shack was already lit with candles, and smoke rose up from the flue.

David pulled away from Spencer, frowning. "Why is the furnace lit?" he spat.

Spencer looked toward the shack, his slender frame tripping over a tree branch as he fumbled backward. "Oh, snap," Spencer whispered, giggling and running a hand through his copper hair. "You think Cole and Rayne finally hooked up?"

"Cole's in his room," David snapped. "And I saw Pierce with Jacqueline in the Call Suite ten minutes ago . . ."

"Oh." Spencer studied David's expression, and then, the shack. "Well, is Luke talking with anyone these days? Or do you think someone else found our spot?"

David gritted his teeth. "Let's go find out . . ."