On Saturday morning, Doctor Henry McGowan sat in his office chair with one leg crossed, supporting the pages of his little flagged booklet on the back of his knee. He nodded as Bianca Hawthorne spoke cheerfully about her recovery, but there was something ominous in her gaze. Perhaps it was the way her smile failed to wrinkle the corners of her eyes. Or, perhaps it was the way she referred to him as "Doctor McGowan" instead of "Red," as many of the other students had taken to as of late.

Had she always had green eyes? He couldn't remember.

"You know," Bianca began, "Doctor Shaw never made me stay this late on a Saturday. There something on your mind?"

"I just want to make sure you're well," Doctor McGowan replied. "You fell ill shortly after Doctor Shaw—"

"—vanished into the trees?" Bianca supplied smoothly.

"The trees?" Doctor McGowan made a sound, somewhere caught between a cough and a laugh. "Oh, Miss Hawthorne, I believe the phrase you're looking for is 'vanished into thin air.' "

"No," she corrected, her smile as vacant as her gaze. "I meant the trees."

"Ah, then." He hesitated. "I suppose what I mean to say is that ever since Doctor Shaw left us, you have been having trouble . . . adjusting . . . and that's okay."

Bianca nodded.

Doctor McGowan pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. "Bianca, why do you say that she vanished into the trees?"

She looked out the barred window. "Tonight is Homecoming."

"Yes, it is," he agreed, following her gaze to the rain-slicked windows, framed by iron bars. He had worked longside Doctor Shaw for several years, both committed to their mission of preventing campus suicides. It surprised him that she would have left so suddenly. The uptick in on-campus deaths over the last two decades should have been preventable, and they had wanted to prevent it together.

Or so he thought . . .

So where was she? Why didn't she tell him that she was leaving?

Doctor McGown looked back at the young girl before him. He had felt this same uneasiness during every single one of his last encounters with troubled students just before they did something dreadful.

He had felt this way with Doctor Shaw three days before her disappearance, too.

Bianca met his eyes, and for a moment, he was concerned that she could read his thoughts. It was an irrational worry, and yet, it was not the first time he had imagined this during his four years of employment at this institution. Swiftly, the psychiatrist subdued the thought and regulated his emotions, as he had been trained to do for decades.

"You're really bad at this," Bianca whispered, smiling.

Doctor McGowan wrinkled his brow. "You think so?" He closed his book. "At what?"

"Talking to women."

"Well, it's a good thing you're a child then."

"You prefer them young," she said, her voice dripping with malice. He knew better than to react to such a provocative statement. He folded his hands over his booklet and waited for her to continue. "They intimidate you in different ways," she went on. "The boys . . . the girls . . . You don't know how to talk to women, and that's why they scare you. As for the boys, well . . . you just don't seem to know how to be a man," she said, her smirk falling into an open-mouthed, mocking click of her tongue, "and that is why they scare you, too."

He cocked his head to the side. Were he sitting before any other student, he might have thought that she was simply projecting. But those eyes . . . God, he knew them.

"Are you intimidated by someone, Bianca?" he asked.

"So very bad at this," she said with a laugh that was as chilling as it was enigmatic, and it frightened him to the core.

◢✥◣

"Dorian!" Rayne Foster hollered as she chased the teacher down the golden hallway. It was half-past four o'clock on Saturday, and she had been waiting for him for over thirty minutes now, just outside of the stairwell that led up to the staff's living quarters. At his startled expression, she said, "Sorry," and corrected herself: "Mr. Matthews."

"Miss Foster," the teacher said, looking around, "isn't there a dance this evening? What are you doing in the South Hall?"

She was, in fact, late for homecoming. Rayne should've met Jackie and Hillary in the girl's shower room five minutes ago in order to get ready, but she couldn't face them without having at least tried to talk to Mr. Matthews about the whole Davenport fiasco.

"Mr. Matthews," she began, "there's something I've been meaning to ask you."

"I'm actually on my way"—he glanced down at his wristwatch—"to a meeting right now, Miss Foster. Can it wait until Monday?"

"I knew it. You're avoiding me again."

"I assure you, I'm not."

"You are."

"Miss Foster, I'm busy tonight, and you should be too. Go to the dance, enjoy yourself."

He turned around to walk towards the Administration building, but Rayne gripped his sleeve. "Wait!"

At the touch, a vision overcame her. Almost as if he had understood this, Mr. Matthews spun around to face her, eyes wide. Rayne quickly let go of him, but it was already too late.

"I . . ." she trailed off, her eyes stirring in their sockets, staring past him and into the tiny fuzzy screen at the back of her mind. Rayne studied the palm of her open hand. Then, she snapped her fingers into a closed fist. "Where are you going?"

He cleared his throat. "That's my business, Miss Foster."

"Why are you meeting Officer Scott?" It was at this moment that Rayne noticed his attire: faded jeans and a black muscle fit tee beneath a brown leather jacket. In his hand, he carried a plastic bag. Rayne raised her voice. "Are you going on a date?"

"Miss Foster, I don't— I'm not . . . You must be confused."

"No, you're confused." Rayne took a step backward. "She's married, Dorian."

"Rayne, I'm . . ." He surveyed the hall. "Miss Foster, it's not—"

"Why are you meeting her?" Rayne breathed in sharply through her nostrils, and quickly shook her head. "You know what? No. Forget it. I don't care. I came here to ask you not to blab about Hillary and Davenport, but if you were gonna talk, then you would've done it by now, wouldn't you have? Why is that so disappointing to me?"

"I have my reasons."

The weight of the realization hit her like a truck. "You're protecting him. Davenport! You're protecting Davenport?"

"No, I'm not. That's . . . very complicated, Miss Foster."

"Complicated. Everything's 'complicated' with you, huh? Except that it's not! None of this is complicated at all! You're just . . ." she trailed off, lowering her voice to a whisper. "You're not who I thought you were. And neither is Officer Scott."

"Rayne, it's not—"

"I don't care what it is, as long as you don't tell anyone about Hillary. I don't care what it means or who you are. Just go."

"Rayne," he called out, but she was already rounding the corner and heading towards the student dorms. Shame boiled her chest, and she smacked away a single falling teardrop.

Mr. Matthews and Officer Scott were the only adults she thought she could trust, but now this? All it took was one touch for her to feel thoroughly disappointed and distrusting of the both of them. What were they up to?

◢✥◣

"I'm guessing it didn't go well," Jackie said, brushing Rayne's hair in the girls' shower room. She pulled a few strands from Rayne's temples and drew them backward into a half-up, half-down style. Rayne caught Jackie's reflection in the mirror—her short black hair set in rollers, so her bob would have a silky voluminous shine in time for the dance. A small smile lifted Rayne's cheeks. Today was the first time she was wearing the necklace Hillary and Jackie had given her, a delicate piece of white gold, feather pendants glimmering softly against her collarbone. She noticed Jackie's almond umber eyes flickering toward it, a hint of satisfaction crossing her features.

They all looked half-ready, half-haggard, trying to cling to some semblance of normalcy amidst the pre-homecoming chaos. The stark contrast between their current camaraderie and the tension of their first meeting felt surreal. A few weeks ago, Rayne would have never imagined herself here with Jackie and Hillary, Bianca's best friends. But ever since Bianca's illness, everything had changed. Her erratic behavior, the violent outbursts—all leading up to the mysterious illness that she had "recovered" from suddenly—had come with a personality upheaval. It drove a wedge between her and everyone she once called friend.

And now, here they were, getting ready for homecoming together, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Rayne glanced at Hillary, who was leaning over the sink, applying white eyeliner to her waterline. "Don't worry," said Rayne, adjusting to the strange feeling of being allied with these two. "Your secret's safe."

Hillary whipped toward her so fast, she almost smudged her makeup. "Are you serious?"

"I'm serious."

"Yes!" Hillary squealed. "That's amazing!"

Jackie bent down to whisper in Rayne's ear. "If everything's fine, then why are you upset? Are you and Matthews really like Hillary and Davenport?"

"No," Rayne insisted. "It's nothing like that."

"Then what's wrong?"

Rayne hesitated. How could she explain something that she didn't fully understand herself? It was as if her two beacons of morality had suddenly collapsed on the same day at the exact same moment, leaving her blind and stranded in a sea of terror. Why would Dorian need to meet with Emma? Why hadn't Emma returned to Michigan? Didn't she tell her to stay away from him? She was married!

Suddenly, the bathroom door opened and closed with a loud bang. Dressed in a gown too elaborate for homecoming, Bianca Hawthorne sauntered into the room. The clack of her heels resounded loudly off the black marble tiles. She wore a strapless emerald lace dress, with a plunging neckline and a slit that ran all the way up to her mid-thigh. Trailing behind her, a train trimmed with lace dragged across the floor.

Hillary watched Bianca through the mirror, almost as if she was afraid to look at her directly. Her half-finished application of pink matte lip tint froze on her lips. Jackie's fingers stilled too, for only a moment, before she continued pinning Rayne's hair.

"Are you okay?" Rayne whispered to Jackie.

Jackie nodded, but the movement was stiff. Her eyes were trained on Bianca who walked toward the opposite end of the room to use the mirrors along the back wall.

"Oh, don't mind me," Bianca said with a dismissive wave. A glint of silver caught their attention. She twirled a stiletto knife between her fingertips. Bianca's smile seemed fuller now with a red lip, but when she raised her gaze to the mirror so that her reflection met Rayne's eyes, that smile seemed grim. And those eyes . . . were green. "Pretend I'm not even here."

◢✥◣

Dorian Matthews sat in the passenger seat of the officer's Toyota Camry as they wound their way through the Pennsylvanian mountainside. "Not used to driving down steep hills like this?" he asked, eyeing the lowly number on the speedometer.

Emma ignored him. She was still wearing the same jeans and red flannel that she'd worn last weekend. He looked down at the plastic bag on the floor. When should I tell her?

In the cupholder, her phone lit up with an incoming call.

"Is that your husband?" he asked. When she tapped the red decline button, he shook his head. "He must be worried. To keep blowing up your phone like this . . ."

Emma kept her eyes on the highway. "He would never understand. He hates Rayne, hates that I'm so—"

"Attached? Protective?" Dorian took a deep breath, all too familiar with the feeling. He looked to his right, studying the browning forest that whipped past the window. "With everything you and Rayne have been through, you think he'd be a bit more understanding."

Emma released the sort of small laugh that seemed to be buttered with nostalgia. "You know, Rayne . . . She, uh, set off these fireworks in my driveway once. When she was about eleven or so. Thankfully, they didn't do any damage, but it did spook my dog real bad."

"Sounds like a handful."

"It was."

"And yet, here you are . . . smiling about it."

She shrugged. "Don't get me wrong, I still took her down to the station to teach her a lesson, but . . . I don't know. She's a lot like me, that kid. There was a time when . . . when I would fight for things too, y'know? When I pushed back against a world that just seemed so big and so pointless . . . When I was a troublemaker."

Dorian smiled. "The rogue policewoman who waves guns in pedestrians' faces—a troublemaker? I would have never guessed."

"Well, this is the most trouble I've caused in years." Her smile fell. "I'll probably be fired for this. I haven't told anyone why I'm not home. I just keep—"

Her phone rang again, but this time Dorian reached for her hand, stopping her from rejecting the call. "Don't avoid it," he said, trying to meet her eyes. "Talk to him."

Emma pulled her hand away, gripping the steering wheel, and stared at the winding road ahead. "I can't."

"Have you told him everything you've told me? About the eyes? About seeing my brother the night of the murder?"

Emma scoffed. "Of course not."

"Maybe you should."

"No."

"Maybe he—"

"He's cheating on me," she blurted. Emma opened the storage compartment in the tunnel console and threw her phone inside. She exhaled heavily. "I'm sorry. You didn't need to know that."

"No, it's alright." He hesitated. "I'm sorry I pushed."

"He doesn't want to understand any of this, okay? So I see no reason to waste my breath."

"But—"

"For what?" she interrupted. "For him to call me crazy? For them to lock me up the way they locked Rayne up?"

"You're afraid he won't believe you?"

"I won't let him embarrass me twice."

Dorian faced the road. "You're certain then."

"A woman always knows," she whispered.

The softness of her voice reclaimed his attention. How horrible, he thought, unable to fathom how alone she must have felt. In the same breath, he was also in awe of her tenacity. After all, no woman had ever pulled a gun on him before. Still, he believed it was wrong not to return anyone's calls. "Why not leave then?" he asked. "How many children do you have?"

"I have three boys," she answered. "They're why I stay."

"Quite the sacrifice."

"It's not a sacrifice. It's just"—she inhaled—"what mothers do."

"Not all mothers," he said, thinking of his own. "Pull over."

She tossed a glare sideways, but it seemed his expression had caught her off guard. She shook her head. "No, Dorian. We don't have time."

"Yes, we do. Emma, when's the last time you talked to your boys?"

At this, she braked hard, pulling off to the side of the road. "No. You don't get to do that. You don't get to judge me."

"I'm not."

"Dorian, do you have any idea how long your brother has been haunting me?" she asked hotly. "He's in my dreams. In my home. I have never been more scared of anything in my life."

"I understand," he said, though he knew that he didn't. He couldn't.

Emma didn't believe him either. "Do you? Do you really? Because whatever this is, whatever is after Rayne, it scares him. Your brother . . . is scared. This thing that has been terrorizing me for months is . . . scared."

Dorian sighed. He still wasn't used to hearing someone refer to his brother in the present-tense. Or hearing him referred to as a "thing."

"If your brother can follow me back to my home," Emma continued, "then I don't want to find out what else can follow me home. I just want them safe."

Shaking his head, Dorian placed his arm on the back of her headrest and leveled his eyes to meet hers. "They are safe. It's just a phone call." He opened the storage compartment and withdrew her phone. "Call them. If not for you, for them."

"I . . . I can't," she said, her voice wet with guilt. "I can't."

"Yes. You can." He gave her a sad smile. "I'll wait here. Talk to your boys. Then, we can figure out what we're really up against."

◢✥◣

A cobalt veil seemed to encase the girl's bathroom, muting the dreary world around Bianca Hawthorne. She was utterly alone. The mirror before her seemed alit with an unearthly glow, and as she pressed against its glass, she stared back at a colorful reflection that was not her own. Sure, the girl in the glass looked just like her, but it did not move when she did.

Its green eyes appraised Bianca with a smirk, all while her own brown eyes widened with terror. Bianca struck the mirror with the back of her fist, fear overcome by animosity as the poor imitation of herself reared its head back and laughed. Something had stolen her body, and Bianca could do nothing but watch. Watch as it moved her body in ways she did not want to move, said things she would never say, and did things she would never do.

The body snatcher looked through its peripherals to study the girls in the room behind it. Rayne, Jackie, and Hillary. Bianca turned around on her side of the glass, but she was still . . . so alone. Facing forward again, she saw Jackie and Hillary in the mirror. They were apprehensive, watching the body snatcher twirl that stiletto blade.

They couldn't see the real Bianca, trapped in the mirror. They could only see the imitation. Worse still, they seemed to think the imitation was her.

The body snatcher smiled and nodded to the side, gesturing to Rayne. In that moment, staring at the scene before her, Bianca harbored no ill feelings toward the girl. Rage was all that consumed her—rage toward the body snatcher who had been controlling her body for more than twenty-four hours now.

Bianca's heart skipped a beat as the body snatcher tightened its grip on the knife. Please don't, she thought.

As if sensing this, it lifted its chin to stare down at her. "Oh, Bianca," it said coolly, using her lips. It smiled again. "Don't lose your nerve now."

In the background, the girls showed no visible reaction to the statement. It was almost as if the words were sounding only in Bianca's mind. As if, only Bianca could see the body snatcher mouthing these words to her. She looked back at Rayne who suddenly seemed so small, so insignificant, so . . . non-threatening.

"I was never really going to hurt her," said Bianca, swallowing. Her eyes followed the twirl of the knife. "I just . . . I just wanted to scare her."

"Well, that's just not true, is it, B?"

Bianca met its eyes. That was Cole's nickname for her. Somehow, it knew.

"Besides," it began again, "does she look scared to you?" The body snatcher nodded over its shoulder, where Bianca's friends were helping Rayne get ready for homecoming. "She stole everything from you. Your boyfriend—"

"Cole and I are broken up." Bianca stood a little taller, but this only forced the body snatcher's shoulders to morph into something a little more menacing as it towered above her.

"Tell me," it whispered, "did you break up with your friends too?"

Bianca shook her head. "I don't want this."

The body snatcher spun the blade again, its posture regaining a humanoid silhouette when Jackie began to approach. Its green eyes slid to their corners. Its smile widened. Bianca rested her fingers upon the glass. "No no no. Walk away," she begged softly, but Jackie could not hear her.

"Hey, Bianca," said Jackie, eyeing the knife in the body snatcher's hand. "We didn't think you were coming tonight."

The body snatcher met Bianca's eyes through the glass. Bianca's breath slowed, catching in her throat as tears welled up in her eyes. Please, don't hurt her.

"I tried to find you," Jackie went on. "Where have you been?"

To Bianca, the body snatcher asked, "Do you believe her?"

"Stop it!" Bianca cried out. Her heartbeat was so loud in her ears.

"Bianca," Jackie pressed, studying the body snatcher as if she hadn't heard a thing. The knife twirled in its fingers. "Hey!" Jackie smacked its wrist, and slowly, the body snatcher turned to meet her eyes. At first, Jackie's eyes widened in what seemed like recognition. Then, they narrowed. "You're not bringing that thing to the dance, are you?"

The body snatcher released a dark giggle. Facing Bianca in the mirror, it cocked its head to one side. "Wow. What a bitch . . ."

It whirled around, jammed the knife into Jackie's chest, and Bianca screamed. She watched in horror as Jackie's expression twisted into one of betrayal and confusion. "No!" Bianca wailed. "Jackie, no!"

The sound of the body snatcher's hellish laughter caused Bianca to blink in surprise. Her eyes opened to discover that the gruesome scene had vanished, erased as though it had never even happened.

"Relax," said the body snatcher. "I didn't really do it." It leaned forward toward the glass. "But that would have been wild, wouldn't it? She would've never seen it coming."

Bianca took in a breath of air, not having realized that she'd been holding it. On this side of the mirror, everything felt so empty. So hollow.

The body snatcher turned away from her. It pushed past Jackie, raised its fingers into the air, and gave them all a flirty little wave. "Live it up, girls!" it said. "You never know when today might be your last."

Bianca's body lurched forward, sucked into the imitation's orbit. She saw through its eyes now, as if they were her own again, but still, she had no control. She could feel the knife in her hand, the dress around her hips, but she could not move them. She could not feel the tears she knew that she was crying. "I don't . . . I don't want this," she sobbed. "P-please."

Only the body snatcher could hear her.

"Ah, keep fighting for control, darling," it said, tapping her temple with her own hand. "That tickles . . ."

◢✥◣

Standing outside of the Camry, Emma's smile was both wistful and loving as she hung up the phone. She didn't seem to hear Dorian open his car door, and so, the sound of it slamming surprised her. He walked around the car. "Sorry," he said, stepping closer. "Didn't mean to eavesdrop. How are they?"

"They're good. Just missing me." Emma frowned. It seemed like she wanted to say more, but the plastic bag in his hand distracted her. "What is that?"

He looked down, still contemplating. "I noticed you've been wearing the same thing all week." He handed the bag over and watched her untie its plastic handles. Her confusion was evident in the twist of her upper lip. He explained, "I know you're going through a lot right now, so I just wanted to be helpful."

"So . . . you're giving me your clothes?"

He knew it was a dumb idea . . .

"Like I said, just trying to help. Here, I can take them back if you want."

She rejected his outstretched hand. 'Turn around."

Just like the day they met in the park, Dorian raised his hands in surrender. This time, however, he chuckled as he spun to face the opposite direction. The setting sun began to dip below the curve of the road, bathing the concrete in a wave of gold. "You're welcome," he pressed.

"Thanks."

"So you still haven't told me: Where are we going exactly?" Dorian asked. For a moment, he looked down at the car, unaware that the side mirror would reveal herself to him. His eye caught the image for a split second, but it was enough to witness the bareness of her shoulders in the oval mirror. The unbuttoned flannel slipped down her arms, exposing the lines of her bra against the ridges of her spine. Dorian looked away, clearing his throat. "You, uh, said that you found someone?"

"Yeah, I found this demonologist just outside of town."

"Demonologist?"

"Slash psychic medium." At his silence, she added: "What, don't tell me you still don't believe me."

"I'm just confused," he confessed, "about everything."

Emma tapped his shoulder, signaling that she was finished, and Dorian turned, absorbing the sight of her in his black washed jeans and sage green T-shirt. Golden sun rays poured over her eyes, constricting her pupils. The shirt seemed to highlight the leafy streaks of her hazel eyes. He tried not to laugh when Emma said, "Why are you smiling?"

Instead, he looked down and gripped his belt. Slowly, Dorian pulled the leather from the silver buckle and made the mistake of looking up to meet her narrowing eyes. He said, "You clearly need this more than I do. Here." The belt slipped out of his loops, and he handed it to her.

"Thanks . . ." She sniffed the neck of the T-shirt. "Who knew you could miss the smell of clean laundry, huh?"

He nodded, but his smile caught on a thought. He ruffled his hair. "Listen, Emma. I have to tell you something."

"Go for it," she said, feeding the belt through the loops at her waist and cinching it to its tightest notch.

"Rayne . . ." He paused.

"Rayne what?"

"She knows that I'm seeing you tonight."

Emma snapped her head upward, mid-buckle. "You told her?"

"Not exactly. She just . . . knew."

"How much did she see, Dorian?"

"I don't know."

"Well, does she know? Tell me she doesn't know what we know."

"I don't know what she knows, but she . . . The point is, I think she thinks I'm seeing you," he said, gesturing between the two of them. "Tonight. If you catch my drift."

"Oh." It took her another heartbeat to fully understand. "Oh!" she said, gasping. "Okay, well"—she finished buckling the belt—"let her believe that then."

"What?"

"I mean, it's safer than the truth. For now, at least." She tapped his bicep before moving around the vehicle to enter the driver's side. "Come on, let's get outta here. We're losin' daylight."

They set out on the road once more, and the sun slowly plunged beneath the line of the horizon the farther they traveled into the mountains. By the time they made it to their destination, the auburn glow of the moon lit the dash. They both stared up at an old Victorian home before locking eyes with one another. Dorian's heart pounded in his chest, and for the first time, he felt an overwhelming sense of doom and wondered . . . Were any of them truly safe at all?