That morning, I spend a minute longer standing in front of the cracked mirror in my bathroom, studying my tense features. The distorted glass and harsh fluorescent lights make my features look hollow. The two French braids running from my scalp to chest is a change from the ponytail I wear every day, and the holes in my stockings are sewed by my mother's delicate fingers.

But there is no point. No matter what picture I try to paint, I'm already the poor girl from Harlem that is pitied into this school. The newspapers all over subway floors and tabloids in every penthouse in New York made sure of that last night—my picture is already painted for me. And who knows what will wait for me in the halls of the school.

I have a hunch it will be in the form of a perfect, golden-haired Yvonne Sutton.

The more I stare at my reflection cut up by zigzags in the mirror, the more foolish I feel. Harshly sliding the cupboard shut, I make my way down the fire escape and get into the car waiting for me.

I've gotten used to the rides with Atlas every morning; he keeps his headphones in and I keep my gaze out the window. We'd only communicate in the form of scowls and passive-aggressiveness. Today, he barely glances at me—not glare or even a smug smile after the news came out.

I feel uneasy at the thought of Tave and Zain treating me differently this morning and wonder if I'm going to spend the rest of this year in the library. On Friday, they hadn't even noticed my disappearance. It shouldn't have stung, but it did. But then again, I made sure no one saw me exit the house, and walked until I found a subway station after seeing the death certificate.

When we reach school, I feel my palms grow sweaty and dread cooling in my stomach, twisting around my intestines. The second my face is met with the autumn wind, I immediately attract staring eyes.

A week ago, I would've brushed it off without giving them a second thought. This is who I am, and deep down, I know it is nothing to be ashamed of. I'm a hustler, a person surviving with my bad fortune—despite my bad fortune. These people don't know a grain of hard work, and I should used that as my weapon.

But that was a week ago. I've made acquaintances; they've seen more of me, they know me. Being a stranger would've been easier than facing their scrutinizing stares every day in hallways, classrooms, across the lunch hall. It's hard to be strong all the time.

Fake it till you make it, Sage.

Putting on a nonchalant front, I walk into the building, planning on going straight to my locker, grab my books, and wait in the library without facing anyone. Still, that's wishful thinking.

I feel like a candle flame glowing brighter and brighter the more I walk, attracting more eyes from moths in grey uniforms. What was once curious stares last week, turns into ridiculing and judging stares today. Now that they've acquired I'm inferior to them, everyone seems to grow bolder, not hiding their snickers.

Even freshmen are giggling in a corner by my locker, pretending to glance at their phones. They're a group of girls with heavy lashes and tangerine skin, the result of a few tanning spray cans.

Opening my locker only to slam it shut, I fix them a deadpan look. "Can I help you?"

Their eyes widen before they scurry away like a flock of pigeons.

"Fucking kids," I mutter under my breath, and shove my books into the locker.

A chuckle resonates from next to me. Tave leans against the locker with crossed arms, his full lips pulled into a smirk. Zain stands on my other side chewing aggressively at a piece of gum while she plays with one of her beaded curls. Today she wears them in a ponytail, her eyebrows looking sharper against her unframed face.

"Zain was more creative with her threats this morning."

The first genuine smile makes its way on my face since I've stepped into this school. I feel a weight lift off my chest—one that I didn't realize was even there—at the realization that Theo was right about them.

She rolls her eyes and keeps them on the ground instead. Tave exhales heavily, looking away from her as well. Now that some of the worry eased away, I'm able to discern the thick tension between them.

"What's up with you guys?"

"She's mad at me," he replies as Zain mumbles incoherently under her breath. I want to shrug it off as another stupid fight, but something tell me that it's more than that. There's an unusual animosity buzzing between them, and it's making me uncomfortable.

Before I can prod further, Yvonne's gaze meets mine as we start to walk away. Emory and Grove walk by her side, shooting me smug looks. Even Grove. Everything seems to slow down as we walk past her clique. Her glossy lips pull into a wide sneer, electric blue eyes slowly running down my uniform. Any meekness or embarrassment is wiped away, immediately replaced by malice.

I wait for her to lay whatever pathetic blow she's prepared so she can get it out of her system. But she just casts me one last look before pushing past me to her own locker.

I roll my eyes at her dramatics and walk away with Tave and Zain. But I don't feel relieved. Yvonne's been watching me all week, waiting for me to screw up, and taking every chance to protect Atlas from me. Her silence only means one thing—Atlas had already told her about me. I don't understand her or her silence. I only know one thing: Yvonne Sutton is a silent grenade ticking by the minute.

༺༻

The shrilling sound of a bell ringing plants a flower of apprehension in my chest, indicating the start of lunch. In class, I can keep my head down and focus on my work, ignoring everyone else, but it isn't so easy in the lunch hall, especially sitting at that table. And Tave and Zain's bickering is not something I can sit through today.

Before I can decide on eating alone in the library, I step outside class to find Theo standing with his hands in his pocket, his tall head looking over the students rushing out. As usual, I can't read the expression on his face as he watches me intently. I'm only glad a familiar face is not shooting me pitiful looks.

"You were right," I clear my throat having not talked all morning. "About word spreading fast here."

"Hmm," he hums with a knowing look. "Who would've thought." He jerks his chin towards the opposite direction of the lunch hall. "Come on, I need to show you something."

I follow him against against the tide of the students. "Why are we going to the library?"

"Do you want to sit at the same table as Wetherton's most adored students?" He raises his eyebrows.

"What do you think?"

"I think it's time you see what I've been working on."

"Your 'work'." I roll my eyes, bending my fingers in air quotes as we walk across the open air to the isolated building. The wind is growing colder as winter creeps its way into the air. "Are you sure you want to reveal your secrets and drop the mysterious guy image you built?"

He side-glances me, his lips almost pulling in a smile, but not quite. I wonder if he shows his teeth when he grins.

I always speak of wanting to go to the library, yet this is the first time I step foot into the building. The library is the only building whose insides are just as majestic and ancient as its outside. There are huge ceiling-to-floor windows at the back, letting in powerful sunlight that casts a magnificent look over the room in varying shades of brown and beige. Rows of rectangular tables fill the spacious room, seating around a dozen students whose noses are in their books. It smells like old paper and the only sound in the air is the turning of pages and hushed whispers.

"Wow," I breath out. It feels as though I stepped into a children's story book.

"I spend a lot of time here. It's the only building that wasn't renewed after so many years. Just polished and cleaned," he explains, leading us to a table on the far right.

We sit across each other, and he pulls a laptop from his bag, opening it and typing on his keyboard, his jaw working. I sit up straight to keep our knees from brushing against each other.

"Why'd you do it?"

His eyes shoot to mine in question before he realizes what I mean. "I've always known he wasn't a good man, but I tried to ignore it. I looked away and kept quiet," he sighs. "But I couldn't turn a blind eye when Johnny Miles died."

"Jack Lui wasn't reason enough," I state. It sounds more accusing that I'd intended, but I let my words simmer in the air.

"Accidents happen. But it was too big of a coincidence the second time."

Watching him as he clicks a few keys, I say nothing at his excuse, deciding that he's already helping me and that is enough.

A few minutes later, he turns the laptop to show me a screen displaying more than one tab. "A month ago, David started having more out-of-state meetings. It was always after a scandalous headline, and when he'd come back the headlines were gone. I kept track of the dates."

Sure enough, I click through five headlines with corresponding dates to his flights.

"Then, I looked into the workers that were mysteriously dying." He clicks once to display a picture of a man with a blank expression.

Almond eyes cornered by laugh lines, angular features, and straight, jet black hair stares back at me. Next to the picture, his name, family, birthdate, and more information are typed out. Information I don't need to read to recognize the man.

"Jack Lui," I mumble, feeling a pang of nostalgic sadness at his kind face. The face that turned from the front seat of his car, giving me an exciting goodbye before I stepped into school with his daughter. We'd watch his old, musty red Honda sputter gas exhaust and drive away, comically bumping up and down on uneven road. Clenching my jaw, I will myself to look away.

Theo looks at the oak table, not meeting my eyes, his long eyelashes touching his cheeks. "Jack Lui, born on 1963 in Chengdu, China. Moved to the United States in 1990. He started working with David in his factory in 2005. Husband to Lilly Lui, and father to Marlowe Lui." He looks back to me with the hard expression I've gotten used to. "I'm not the heartless person who kept quiet about it like you made me out to be. I never forgot him."

His words do nothing to soften me. The only thought that runs in my head is that he could've done something. He could've dug deeper and used his relationship with his uncle against him. He could've talked to anyone about it, but he didn't, and as a result, a second Jack Lui died last month. It doesn't matter how much it pained him because Marli through thrice that pain.

"Then why'd you keep your fucking mouth shut?" My voice shakes, and I fight from throwing his laptop across the room.

"Because I didn't have enough to act on," he replies calmly, only infuriating me further because I see reason behind his words. "I had to wait and watch quietly."

His eyes study me as I look away, blowing air from my mouth. Deep down, beneath the simmering anger, I know he's right, albeit it pains me to admit it. But I don't let the ugly fire of anger die out; I need it to remind me that his silence is just as bad.

"I knew who you were. The second I saw you standing next to Atlas in that hallway, shooting death glares at the back of his head."

I suck in a sharp breath. He presses a few keys and shows me a different picture on the screen.

A girl with a tired expression stares back at me. Deep-set brown eyes framed by dark circles, a sharp cupid bow over a full lower lip, and a crease between straight brows. My hair was shorter back then, falling in dull, frizzy waves over my shoulders, my skin a darker bronze, the picture taken for an ID a summer ago.

Next to the picture is basic information like the information displayed next to Marli's dad. I skim it, already knowing what I would find, my heart dropping with every word.

"Why?" is all I can muster.

"You'd think that anyone who had her school fees and driver paid for by David Roman would be more grateful. But not you." His eyes run over my face. I feel bare and vulnerable under his gaze, like he knows all my secrets. "Someone catches you late at night in the school gym and your first instinct is to fight them. I did a little more digging and found out you were Marlowe's friend."

"You were never going to tell Atlas," I realize out loud. "You've known all along."

"Yes, I wasn't going to tell him," he replies, his tone growing harder, "because I knew your vindictive, vengeful self was going to get you exposed on your own."

"Was I supposed to hold hands and play Round-A-Rosie with Atlas and Yvonne?" I snap. "It's not like they were treating me any better."

"I'm not asking you to become friends," he replies exasperatedly. "But if we want to get anywhere, you can't keep shooting them death glares like that. Yvonne's already on to you."

Once again, I feel silly as he scolds me, realizing my foolish mistake. Yvonne is smarter than she lets on, and I have to stop giving her reason to suspect me.

"I have to act afraid. Show them that I'm intimidated," I sigh as I say the words. They feel foreign in my mouth.

He leans back in his chair, satisfied. "There's the smart Sage I thought I knew."

Nibbling on my lips, I don't reply and take hold of his laptop, switching to the next tab. Johnny Miles's information is next, along with a picture of the death certificate we had snapped a few days ago.

His hair is a dark shade of ginger falling over a scrawny face that doesn't look old—forty years at most.

My eyes flit across the page, targeting an address.

"His address is on the certificate."

"You want to visit a dead man's house?"

"What if he has family we could talk to?" I ask, my mind already forming a plan with dates and information. Theo's face is grudging, but before he can shut down the idea, I speak again. "Just give me a second."

I quickly type in the target words in the search bar and click on the headline that announced his death. Sure enough, I find what I'm looking for after scrolling down.

"His wife was asked to give a statement." My lips twists as I felt a flicker of shameful victory. "Think about it, Marli was worried about her dad before he even died. They must know something that can help us. We can drive to his home and just ask her a few questions."

"Damn," he mutters. I don't know if it's the excitement at finding something useful or if it's hunger from not having eaten anything all morning, but my stomach flutters when his dark eyes met mine. "I guess we're taking a trip to the South Bronx."