Detention was strange that evening. Mr. Matthews was nowhere to be found, and instead, Mr. Davenport, the twelfth-grade History teacher, sat in the executive chair.

"Hang tight," he said, pushing his round, hipster glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Doctor Shaw should be here any minute." Mr. Davenport was somewhere in his late-twenties, early-thirties, and beneath a navy blue three-piece suit, it was evident he was athletically-inclined as well. There was something within the intensity of his stare as he studied the class over the crest of his newspaper, something that effused a strong Indiana Jones vibe; those hazel eyes were bottomless, holding a monument of secrets he could've spent an entire weekend digging up in ancient, forgotten temples. Rayne wondered if this was the History teacher Bianca's friend was hooking up with.

Speaking of improprieties, Rayne couldn't shake the nagging thought that Mr. Matthews' absence tonight might somehow be her fault. He had been upset with her for grabbing his hand during lunch, and now, she felt a little weird about it. To make matters worse, Lucas seemed to be avoiding her as well. His outfit today was notably more refined: a textured cream knit shirt, with delicately woven vertical stripes that whispered of understated elegance. The fabric embraced the curves of his shoulders and biceps with a refined touch, complementing his beige trousers. She found herself admiring him, though he remained unusually reserved, not engaging in conversation—no matter how hard she tried for his attention.

It wasn't until Cole threw a possessive arm around her shoulder that a strong sense of understanding finally clicked into place: Lucas was afraid of Cole.

After the vision she'd had that morning, Rayne was a bit, too.

Her mind reeled with unanswered questions—about the shadow people, the blue-eyed man, and now, Cole—but the attendants at Maria J. Westwood were harder to fool than the ones at Aurora Hospital, and now, she'd been taking her medication consistently. They made her drowsy, clouded her mind just as the fog began to lift! Even now, she was too lethargic to move away from Cole's dominating embrace.

He leaned into her, close enough to whisper. "Hey, I tried to find you at lunch. Where'd you go?"

Rayne scratched her neck. "I, uh . . . had some things to take care of."

"Well, what're you doing after this? Wanna grab dinner in the Dining Hall?"

"I have a few phone calls to make. Thanks, though."

"How 'bout after?"

Lucas glanced their way just as Cole tightened his hold around her. Rayne closed her eyes, seeing the fire and the crying toddler once more. This time, the exclamation mark punctuating the end of the vision was the loud thunk! as Cole punched the steering wheel. When she opened her eyes, the innocence of Cole's smile should have felt warm; instead, it felt hot, as if the fire from her vision burned brightly at her back.

"Cole," she began slowly, still too fatigued to inch further away, "have you . . . ever hurt someone?"

"Have you?" he quipped, but his grin proved he didn't understand the severity of her query. Leaning in, his whisper hit her skin, more unwelcome than the whispering of shadows. "Misery loves company. Maybe that's why I like being around you. We both do what we want and say what we mean. We've only got this one life, after all . . . might as well live it a little mean. A little selfishly."

She shook her head. "No, Cole. I don't mean 'have you ever hurt someone in your usual asshat sort of way'." Something in her tone caused him to pull back. "I mean, have you ever hurt someone? Badly . . . Badly enough to . . ."

The silent "kill them" hanging off the end of her sentence rang loudly in the air.

Cole paused, and the look in those green eyes seemed limitless. Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps Cole Bradford's selfish philosophy towards life knew no bounds—a hoggish doctrine that granted even the cruelest of acts to be permissible.

She couldn't figure him out.

Was something as drastic as homicide permissible under his life's creed?

"No one who didn't deserve it," Cole finally admitted. Considering whatever it was Rayne had done last year, she couldn't understand why the admission made her queasy. His subsequent laughter churned her stomach even more. "I mean, not like our boy Luke over there. Poor guy's got a whole slew of innocent deaths under his belt."

"Wait, what?" When Rayne turned to look at Lucas, Cole placed a hand on her arm, stopping her.

"Uh, don't ask him about it. I really shouldn't have said that . . . Look, my point is that we're all here because we're a threat to the outside. Including you. Why are you suddenly curious about my past?"

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You asked about it this morning, too." Suddenly, he said, "Is it because we told you about what I did to Spencer? Or is it because we kissed?"

"We did not kiss," Rayne snapped, furious he brought it up at all. "You were drunk."

"Buzzed. I was fine." He pulled back. "Rayne, that whole Spencer thing taught me a lesson, you know. I'm really not that guy anymore. I just . . . I want you to know that."

Like beating up some kid even mattered if he was an actual, full-blown murderer.

Doctor Shaw finally stepped into the classroom, and Rayne exhaled, thankful for the conversation to end. "Sorry I'm late," the psychiatrist said, pulling her coarse hair into a claw clip. Cole whispered, "She's always late," just as the woman continued: "How is everyone today?"

Rayne chose to speak as little as possible during detention, saying she was too tired whenever the psychiatrist tried to pass the proverbial ball of discussion into her court. When it was over, Rayne maintained her feeble excuse as to why she couldn't accompany Cole and Lucas to the Dining Hall.

She just needed space.

And she wanted her mind to feel clear again.

In the South Hall, the Call Suite consisted of eight mahogany booths. They were sectioned along the wall like little cubicles, burgundy curtains veiling them, resembling confessional stalls more than anything else. Rayne could hear the faint muttering of someone in the last booth and chose to step into the empty box at the opposite end.

She withdrew the phone card from her leather holder; they were designed to limit time and monitor student phone calls. She slid the chip of her card into the reader, and the digital screen fluttered to life, reading fifteen minutes over a hundred. Those numbers reflected her nightly limit over her monthly balance. If all she had was fifteen minutes for the night, then Rayne knew exactly who she wanted to call and wasted no time dialing her home number. Everything in her prayed that her younger sister, Effie, would answer instead of her mother.

Static crackled on the other line, and Rayne wasn't even sure she'd heard the phone ring when the soft sound of breathing filled the phone. In fact, she was so tired, she wasn't even sure she'd finished inputting the number yet. Her finger stilled over the dial pad. The breathing continued.

"Effie?" Rayne whispered.

Above her, the light began to flicker.

The other person in the Phone Room grew quiet, and as Rayne waited, certain that something bad was about to happen, certain that a shadow was about to emerge, someone on the other end of the phone finally said, "Rayne, I'm not supposed to talk to you."

"Effie." Rayne's subsequent sigh was full of relief, and her eyes brimmed with happy-tears at the sound of her sister's voice. "I know, and I'm sorry, but . . . I really miss you."

"I miss you, too."

"Where's Mom?" Rayne asked.

Effie said nothing.

"How's school?" she tried instead.

Still, Effie said nothing.

And all too soon, the line went dead, nearly stopping Rayne's wishful heart in the process. She slammed the phone onto the receiver, yelling, "I hate it here!" and dropped to a seated position on the damask-carpeted floor. She slid her knees to her chest, slowly resting her face in the palm of one hand and slamming a fist into the wall with the other.

She lost it.

Rayne finally cried. She cried so hard and so loud that, as it began to rain outdoors, the dull pelting against the barred windows couldn't drown out her sobs. All she wanted was to go home—to see her sister's face, to have her father alive again, taking them out for slushies under the fading sun. But her dad was gone—dead, never ever coming back—and her family . . . They hated her. Feared her! They never understood her . . .

The student in the stall at the other end must've heard the ragged intake of breath that prefaced her sobs. Instead of checking on her, however, Rayne heard his or her footsteps grow quicker the louder she cried. Finally, she heard the soft click of the Call Suite door closing, and Rayne sat alone and sobbed for nearly fifteen minutes. As quickly as it came on though, her wailing fit ended, and she wiped the tears from her cheeks with a swift, rough smacking of her hands.

Rayne stood, pulled a piece of paper from her leather holder, slid her card into the reader once more, and dialed the number scribbled in blue ink.

"Hello?" a woman said, answering on the fourth ring.

"Hey, Officer Scott," Rayne began, forcing a chipper tonality that sounded as fake as it was off-character. She tried to adjust her tone. "It's, uh . . . It's Rayne."

"Oh!" The warmth of the policewoman's Michigan accent managed to put a smile on Rayne's face. "Hey, kiddo. I'm surprised you called, it's only been a day. Must've missed me, huh?"

"Ugh, you wish."

"You know, you don't have to keep callin' me, officer, hun. You can call me Emma."

"Ew, what kind of name is Emma?"

"What kind of name is Rayne? Talk about 'ew'." They both laughed, and Rayne's heartache broke away from her in chunks; only one singular, stubborn little bead of sorrow lingered in her breast. The officer said, "So how is it? Ya beat up any snooty, rich brats yet?"

"Actually—"

"Ah, ah, ah," the woman interrupted. "Full disclosure: that was a joke. I do not condone bullying, and you better be behaving down there."

"Oh, well in that case, I have nothing to report. Talk to you next week."

"Wait, wait." Emma laughed. "Tell me about it. Really. How are you?"

Rayne and Emma spoke for ten minutes, laughing and sharing stories. They talked a little about the Legacy Gathering, which was coming up soon, and that allowed Rayne to ask about her family in a way that seemed nonchalant. She didn't want to seem like she cared too much about the woman who abandoned her after all. The officer managed to tell her that her mother was doing well just before she had to cut the conversation short and make dinner for her children. Rayne heard the griping of a man in the background and hoped she hadn't caused trouble for the woman by giving her a call so late.

"It really was great to hear from you, kiddo. I hope you're doing well out there. Take care."

"Yeah," said Rayne. "You, too."

She placed the phone on the receiver, softly this time, and ambled out of the Call Suite, toward the Dining Hall. She wasn't hungry, but her nutrition was being tracked and if she didn't use her cafeteria card tonight, the psychiatrist and the physician would know and reprimand her for it later.

Up ahead, the girl who had helped Rayne in the shower room stood in the middle of the hallway. As students filed in and out of the Dining Hall, Nikki was noticeably the only student still in uniform. Her long, blonde curls shadowed her cheeks, and the anger in her face was unmistakable. Rayne was sick of the passive aggressiveness. Her credo was always, You got a problem, you say it, and she loathed those incapable of direct honesty. Rayne often found they were the pettiest, most insecure people, too lazy to realize that sometimes, a confrontation was necessary to come to a resolution.

"Nikki!" Rayne hollered, but the girl swiftly turned away from her.

This only pissed Rayne off more.

She ran ahead, caught the girl by her shoulder, and spun her back around. "What the hell? You're acting like I pissed in your cereal or something, what's wrong with you?"

Nikki's chin tilted downward, obscuring her eyes. Her lip began to twitch.

"Well?" Rayne pressed, giving her shoulder a push. "What gives?"

"That boy . . ."

"What boy? . . . Cole?"

Nikki shook her head. "They're the same."

"Look . . . maybe we got off on the wrong foot. You wanna do dinner and talk about it?" Rayne offered, waving to the Dining Hall entrance.

Nikki simply gaped at her. More students began to leave the Dining Hall, skirting the two of them in the hallway. Impatient, Rayne tapped her foot on the marble floor. "Look, people are starting to stare, and I'm not taking 'no' for an answer, so come on."

She grabbed the girl's hand and dragged her into the Dining Hall behind her.

◢✥◣

The dim luminescence from the golden chandeliers tossed a creamy orange radiance throughout the Dining Hall, illuminating the red and gold chairs at each table with a warm and welcoming glow. Rayne nearly forgot how lifeless and gray the world was just outside these walls. The hall still buzzed with a few lingering chatty teens nestled in their booths and tables. Rayne often found herself feeling less at school and more like she was an unwelcome guest lost within an enormous mansion.

Back in Michigan, meals were a much more straightforward affair: cafeteria lines and indifferent lunch ladies, forcing grade-D meat on colorful plastic trays. It was nowhere near elegant, but no one complained, because that was just how the cafeteria had always been. Here at Maria J. Westwood, the Dining Hall was a different world entirely—one that looked straight out of a high-end restaurant scene from a film. There were two rows of six columns holding up the ceiling on both sides of the vast room. In the center of the hall, there was a large bar containing drinks, salads, fruits, vegetables, puddings, jell-os, bread, soups, and more. At the back of the room, there was an opening in the wall, exposing a metallic room full of workers dressed in white. They dished out hot, gourmet meals.

Still full from lunch, Rayne chose to eat from the salad bar instead. She scooped lettuce onto her plate and topped it with a sopping layer of ranch dressing. Nikki, who had been unusually quiet, never even reached for a tray. She sat across from Rayne in a round booth, staring at the table with an intensity that felt oddly unsettling.

"So, Nikki," Rayne started, trying to break the silence, "how long have you been here?"

Nikki's eyes remained fixed on the tabletop, those long curls falling over her face and shielding her eyes.

Rayne dipped her head down in an effort to meet her gaze. "Seriously? You were super chatty my first day. What gives?"

The blonde said nothing.

"You know," Rayne began, piercing the salad with her fork, "I never got the chance to thank you for that towel the other day."

"Wasn't mine," Nikki muttered, her voice barely able to cut through the hum of the hall.

"What do you mean?" When Rayne looked up from her plate, the girl now faced her directly. She was on the other side of the roundtable, but something about the severity of her stare felt penetrating, almost as if she were mere inches away instead of feet. Trying to veil her discomfort, Rayne snapped. "Are you just gonna sit there and stare the whole time? Jesus, no wonder you can't make any friends."

As she began poking at her food once more, Nikki whispered, "They all think you're crazy, you know."

The comment slipped under Rayne's skin, and she cringed, feeling her veins swarm with tiny worms of insecurity. Like a furnace in her chest, anger heated her, and she dropped her fork onto the metal lunch tray. "What did you just—?"

Rayne stopped.

The girl was gone.

"Nikki?" Rayne sat up a little in her seat, scanning the room to see where she'd run off to. Instead, two apprehensive teenaged girls approached her table. Bianca Hawthorne's friends, Hillary and Jacqueline.

Hillary was still in uniform, her strawberry-blonde locks wrapped in a messy bun and looped with a thin pink scarf. Meanwhile, Jacqueline's short bob had a subtle, beachy wave to it, and she had already changed into street clothes: black combat boots and a green cable knit sweater, the front of which was tucked into a pair of ripped up jeans. The Gucci belt around her waist earned an exaggerated eye roll from Rayne.

"What?" Rayne grumbled, waving them away with her fork. "Can't you see that 'zombie girl' is not in the mood today?"

"About that," said Jacqueline, glancing at Hillary before stepping forward. "We're here to apologize. For what we put you through yesterday." She elbowed Hillary.

At the blow, Hillary jumped, rubbed her arm, and said, "Yeah. What she said."

"Oh, really." Rayne scoffed. "I'm not buying that for one second."

"Look," Hillary snapped, "we really don't want to intrude on . . . whatever this is," she said, waving her fingers over Rayne's table, "but—"

"Intrude on what? My dinner? Too late."

"Rayne, please." Jacqueline held up a hand, stopping Hillary from throwing in her two cents again. "Pierce said Cole told you about Hillary and Mr. Davenport. Is that true?"

"Is that what this is about?" Rayne laughed and gave Hillary a pointed look. "You're disgusting, by the way."

"Ugh, you're one to talk," Hillary spat back, her face flushing. "We see the way you look at Mr. Matthews. Think you're so clever, sneaking away for private lunches—"

"What exactly are you implying?"

"Oh, don't act like you didn't hear me, skank."

"So what, Bianca's got you keeping tabs on me now? Is that it?"

"Hillary, stop," Jacqueline cut in sharply. "That's not helping." She faced Rayne. "Look, despite Hillary's . . . attitude, we really don't want more drama. Bianca's dealing with a lot right now, and you're dating her ex, so—"

"I'm not dating Cole."

"See!" Hillary whined. "This is stupid. Why are we even here?"

Jacqueline continued, "Just . . . whatever is going on with you and Bianca, can you please leave us out of it?"

When she elbowed Hillary again, the young strawberry-blonde stammered, "Look, I—I'm sorry I pulled your hair, okay?"

"Pulled?" Rayne's tone was icy. "You ripped it out."

Hillary clenched her fists. "Ugh, I said I'm sorry! What more do you want? A goddamn check?"

Jacqueline shot her a warning look before facing Rayne again. "This isn't going how I thought it would." She paused, and Rayne realized there was something in her fidgeting hands. "Rayne, we hurt you, and that wasn't right. So please, just leave the past where it is, and let us make it up to you." She extended her hand, placing a sleek box onto the table, wrapped in a thin navy ribbon. "I had something flown in from Paris this morning. It's yours, if you want it."

Rayne eyed the box. "Wow, you must be really scared of me right now."

Jacqueline's calm demeanor slipped a little. "We're just . . . trying to make peace, Rayne." When it was clear that Rayne would make no move toward the box, Jacqueline leaned forward and opened it for her, revealing a necklace. It shimmered like captured starlight, crafted from white gold, delicate and elegant. The chain featured a jewel-encrusted slider to create the perfect drop, and the gemstones seemed meticulously chosen. It had two dainty, wing-shaped pendants that seemed to float on the chain, adorned with diamonds that caught the light like tiny glimmers of frost. Multicolored sapphires in varying shades of white and soft blues set into the design like fragments of sky. It radiated quiet, understated luxury—something rare and intricate, yet graceful in its simplicity.

Rayne wasn't a girl who was swayed by luxury; high-end trinkets didn't usually impress her. It was rare for her to find something that felt right, that wasn't gaudy or out of place. But as she looked at the box, she realized they had put effort into finding something that would suit her understated taste. Had they chosen something too extravagant, it would clash with her simple style, appearing awkward against her everyday life.

Rayne blinked, taken aback. "This looks . . . expensive."

Jackie nodded. "It is."

"That's how serious we are," said Hillary, turning away. Next, she did something so subtle, Rayne could've missed it if she hadn't been paying attention. She wiped the smallest tear from her cheek, trying her best to be discreet. Observing both of their guarded stances now—Hillary's arms folded over her chest, hugging herself tightly; Jacqueline's subtle shift, one foot already angled toward the door. Rayne felt pity and power all at once. "Fine," she whispered, "I won't say anything. Just . . . keep Bianca out of my hair, and try not to pull it out while you're at it."

Both girls visibly exhaled.

"Thanks, Rayne." Jacqueline's answering smile was tentative but also relieved. "Love the name, by the way . . ."

Rayne paused. She may have agreed to keep Hillary's secret, but she was by no means about to make friends with these girls. She finally muttered, "Thanks, Jacqueline," and the girl's subsequent grin seemed genuine.

"You can call me, Jackie."

◢✥◣

Ever since Rayne and Lucas discovered they were no longer alone, something between them had shifted. Their conversations flowed more naturally, their exchanges carrying an easy warmth. For Lucas, who usually maintained a carefully composed distance, Rayne could tell this was a subtle yet meaningful change. 

The shack was already dimly lit with candles by the time Rayne arrived. She hesitated just inside the door, her eyes adjusting to the soft glow. Lucas stood near the window, his posture relaxed. He was dressed in a black sweatsuit, a far cry from the elegance he normally carried. Even so, he still carried that same quiet intensity. 

Rayne stepped forward slowly, resisting the strange impulse to rush toward him, to break the formality with something as simple as a hug. They didn't know each other that well, after all. And yet, this newfound understanding between them—the shared weight of what they'd seen—felt more intimate than anything she could explain. 

Lucas glanced up, his gaze briefly softening when it met hers. "Hey." He scratched his neck. "I wanted to apologize for earlier. I wasn't trying to be a dick in detention, I just . . . I didn't want Cole to get the wrong idea."

"Don't worry about it." 

Part of her wanted to probe further into Cole's insinuations regarding Lucas's violent past, but another part of her dreaded the answer. Not now. Not when everything felt so . . . different. She wanted to trust him, and in this space, it felt so easy to, without question. 

They moved to the worn sofa, and the floodgates opened. All of their shadow-stories poured from their lips, one after the other, each tale sewing a string of appreciation into the fabric of this newfound friendship. By the time the clock neared ten, the two had crafted an entire quilt, and Rayne was shivering, wishing the blanket wasn't so metaphorical.

"You're cold," Lucas noted, rising from the sofa. "We should get back to the dorms."

Rayne's hand shot out, catching his sleeve before she even realized it. "Do we have to?" she asked quietly, the vulnerability in her voice surprising even herself. "Leave, I mean."

Lucas paused, glancing down at her hand on his sleeve. "I . . ." He bit his lip, eyed the wood stove in the corner. "I don't know how to use that thing, Rayne. It's usually Cole who gets the fire going for us at night." He gave her an apologetic look. "And it's only going to get colder."

"Do they bother you at night too? The shadows?"

He sat back down, exhaling. "Of course they do. Every night."

"Same. I don't want to be alone with them again. Please. Will you stay with me?"

His eyes grew distant, swarming with a team of conflicting emotions. There was a flicker of something in his expression—hesitation, maybe—but then he nodded. "Okay. Just for tonight."

Rayne and Lucas pulled every comforter from the storage chest, layering them on the sofa and the floor. Lucas, ever the methodical one, took his time, carefully folding and arranging the blankets for her. The last two he used as a makeshift mattress on the floor. He was fluffing the blanket in the air when he said, "You know, Cole's gonna be pissed when he finds out you've got a thing for Mr. Matthews."

"Whoa, what?"

Lucas laughed softly. "Someone saw you having lunch in his office today. Just saying." His tone was teasing, but the amusement failed to reach his eyes.

Rayne finally realized how bad that must have appeared from the outside looking in. "Th-that's not . . . That's not what you think it is."

"Oh, I'm not judging. Hillary's also got a little thing going on with—"

"No, I don't need your justification. That's not what was happening there."

"Really?" He quirked a brow. "So you weren't checking him out during class either?"

"See, now I know you're just messing with me," Rayne helped him smooth out a blanket on the floor. "Besides, what does it matter what Cole thinks? I'm not interested in him."

"Better not tell him that. Might make your dates a little awkward."

"What dates? Why does everyone think we're dating? We're not dating!"

"You sure? Could've sworn I got the wedding invite already." His jest was interrupted by a pseudo-punch to the arm, and his laughter softened, a trace of something more serious underneath. "I'm kidding. But seriously though, just . . . be careful when you set the record straight. He doesn't exactly . . . handle rejection well."

Rayne settled into the sofa, pulling the blankets up to her chilled nose. "Well, what about you? Are you dating anyone?"

"Don't really see the point," he admitted. He stretched out on the floor, his head propped on one arm, his gaze focused somewhere distant. "I mean, we're all gonna die alone anyway."

"Oh, that's a mood," Rayne quipped, letting out a laugh. She pressed a hand dramatically over her heart. "I felt that."

"Yeah?"

"Uh huh, like in my soul." She waved a finger teasingly. "You've got that whole emo-persona down, Sir Lucian," she said, adding a mock-gothic lilt to his name. "Want a box of black hair dye to go with that depression?"

He laughed, quieter this time but genuine. "I'll pass, thanks."

"No, for real. Can I get you some nail polish to go with that angst?"

"Okay, go to sleep."

"You go to sleep."

"I'm trying," he retorted, turning his head just enough to give her a playful glare, "but someone keeps talking. Better shut it, or else."

"Or else what?"

". . . Actually, I don't have a follow-up," he admitted, his voice trailing off with a smirk. "Was hoping you'd buy the bluff."

Rayne laughed again, but that laughter slowly faded into a thoughtful silence as she studied him. His eyes were closed, and in the soft candlelight, the flickering glow softened the edges of his expression, making him seem younger, almost peaceful. She found herself wondering if even his earlier, more serious threats had been bluffs too. His aggression, seemingly sharpened by Cole's influence, now seemed less like a true reflection of who he was and more like armor. And the luxury surrounding him was beginning to look more and more like a gilded cage too, a prison of expectations and inherited wealth that only intensified his struggles. In that moment, Rayne believed she understood the weight of his grief and the complexity of his carefully constructed stoicism. Even if only for a moment.

The warmth they shared here, this unfiltered honesty, was a gift he might not have shared with many. Her smile softened as she took it all in. "Goodnight, Lucas."

"Goodnight, Rayne."

◢✥◣

In the middle of the night, the shadow people came.

Rayne slipped off the sofa, and Lucas instinctively opened his arms for her to burrow herself close to him. When his cheek touched hers, she discovered he was much colder than she was, and only then did she realize how selfish it was for her to ask him to stay here tonight.

Maybe Cole was right.

Maybe they had so much more in common than she realized.

Trying to recover, she grabbed her pile of blankets from the sofa and covered them both. Lucas's hold around her tightened, and Rayne matched the firm grip, fingers clutching the fabric of his sweatshirt. As shadows surrounded them, slowly beginning to whisper, the sound was a dull, restless, and unintelligible drone that vibrated their delicate eardrums. Rayne pressed her ear into Lucas's chest, and he covered her other with his hand.

She wished she hadn't had the vision, but it swarmed without warning: It was the lifeless body of a brunette girl bent over an M.J.W. dorm room desk. There was blood in her hair and a gun by her hand. Lucas was on his knees in the open door, strange markings etched in the wood, silent tears streaming down a blank, lifeless face—the loss of her transforming him into an empty shell.

In the shack, Lucas stroked Rayne's hair and whispered, "I won't let them get you," and Rayne, simply overwhelmed by the grotesqueness of the vision, cried for the second time that night.

This time, in Luke's arms.