The black Toyota Camry hummed along the corner of West and Maple Street in the quiet town of Lockwood, Pennsylvania. Officer Emma Scott stood shivering outside of The Falcon Tavern, pinching a cigarette between her fingers. It was a habit she hadn't indulged in since college. Yet, as she tried not to envision the scarred boy who had visited her hotel room last night, all Emma could think about was lighting one up.

It was a rather cold October morning. The idyllic shops lining the main road were quaint and rustic—the closest shops around within a forty-mile radius. Emma trembled, feeling as though her fingers were thin as bones as her skin pruned away from the icy breeze. Her car's engine droned on, and the exhaust it pumped into the air behind her created a small wave of warmth that just barely reached her left side. Emma scrambled to drop three coins into the nearest payphone, not wanting her next call to be traceable back to her cell.

In no time, the head of administration answered, and Emma quickly sputtered, "Hi, yes, can I please have the extension for, uh, Dorian Matthews?"

On the other line, Miss Portia Maxwell chuckled. "Oh, well, good morning to you too, ma'am. If you don't mind, I'll begin by asking a few questions: Is this regarding a student you have enrolled here?"

"Uh, yes," Emma answered, nodding. In her left pant pocket, her cell phone began to ring. She read the caller ID— "Nick ♡" —and hit ignore before saying to the secretary, "Yes, that's exactly it."

"Alrighty." She could hear the clicking of a keyboard through the speaker. "Our faculty here at Maria J. Westwood does not have direct extensions intended for parental contact, however, I can personally assist you with whatever questions you may have regarding your student's grades and/or treatment. May I please have your first and last name, followed by the last four digits of the child's social security number?"

Emma groaned. "Can you just . . . let Dorian Matthews know that someone's trying to get a hold of him?"

The secretary paused, the silence on the other end almost unsettling. "Who is this?" she asked slowly.

"Just tell him it's urgent," Emma blurted. She eyed the placard above the payphone and read its corresponding phone number aloud. "Have Mr. Matthews call that number at exactly six p.m. I'll be waiting." She threw the phone onto the receiver and pulled her jacket closer to her neck.

Last night, the scarred boy had spoken to her, and it appeared he had a dire message to relay to none-other-than the eerie specter's lookalike himself—Rayne Foster's homeroom teacher—Mr. Dorian Matthews.

◢✥◣

For the first time since Rayne Foster met Cole Bradford, there was a stream of guilt that suddenly began trickling through her veins whenever she looked at him. She couldn't pinpoint its origins, but it was now a constant leak that dripped along the walls of her conscience, and the icky feeling that accompanied it was spreading across her heart like a colony of mold spores. The instant Rayne confirmed she would be attending homecoming with Cole Bradford, his answering smile was the biggest and brightest she had ever seen.

"I knew you'd say yes," Cole said, grinning. "But actually hearing you say it . . . feels amazing."

They were seated at a booth in the Dining Hall for lunch, and across the table, David Sheppard was glaring daggers into her sides. Unfortunately, she only felt compelled to make this decision to get Shep off her back. Rayne raised her shoulders and tried to smile. "Glad to hear it," she mumbled, scratching her neck. "But, uh . . . just to be clear, this doesn't mean we're dating, okay?"

"Oh, of course not," Cole replied, but he nudged her shoulder and smirked in a way that made her stomach sink.

Rayne was in the middle of the booth with Cole Bradford on one side, Pierce Harrington on the other, and Lucas Abbott on Pierce's right-hand side, just on the outskirts. Across from them, sitting left to right, was David Sheppard, Spencer Callaghan, Jackie Kwon, and lastly, one unexpected guest, Hillary Berkshire.

Spencer's bandaged nose stood out starkly against his bruised face, purple and black splatters marring his typically fair skin. And yet, he was smiling. "Rayne, I'm so excited you finally said yes!" he exclaimed. "Now all we have to do is get you into one of Jackie's dresses."

David noticeably glared at his boyfriend, almost as if he could not understand how Spencer could be so kind to the girl who'd just knocked him out the night before. What he would never comprehend, however, was that Spencer was thankful. Rayne could see that sparkle of appreciation twinkling in the corners of his eyes, the gaps of his pearly white grin, and the musicality of his laughter.

Jackie sat upright. "More than happy to oblige."

"Really?" Rayne raised a brow. "You sure Bianca won't be a little bit pissed about that?"

Jackie's smile splintered. She looked at her lunch, pushing her food around the plate. "Uh, about that . . . Bianca's been—"

"We don't need to talk about her right now," Cole snapped, clearing his throat. Just the mention of his ex-girlfriend's name seemed to have thrown a cloud of dust over his disposition. This newly dark demeanor was a bodily reaction, much like the coughing fit that could have followed a sharp inhalation of dirt and debris. Rayne knew he couldn't help it. Cole often acted first on emotion and only thought about it after.

"If only you knew," Jackie muttered, her voice low,, "then you wouldn't be so cold."

"How many times do I have to remind you? Bianca dumped me. Now, I don't want to talk about her anymore, so just drop it."

Jackie dropped her fork onto her plate. "So, what? Just because she dumped you, you don't care about her at all anymore? Is that it?" Her eyes flicked to Rayne. "Better watch yourself with this one, because apparently, . . . he only cares when he's got his hands in your pants."

Rayne hadn't been paying attention. If she had, she probably would've said something like, We're not even dating, calm down. Instead, she was focused on Hillary, whose sorrowful eyes kept meeting her plate and looking to Rayne with something akin to fear and desperation.

Rayne said, "Hillary, are you okay?"

Hillary shook her head, but then quickly smiled and laughed a little. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just . . . need to use the little girls' room . . . Rayne, will you come with?"

Jackie was already standing up. "Yeah, me too. Rayne, let's go."

Rayne looked back and forth between the two girls, slowly standing. She wasn't really keen on the whole travel-to-the-bathroom-in-packs thing that all the girls her age loved to do, but something was up. That much she knew. Curiosity compelled her to follow. Pierce and Luke slid out of the booth to let her through, and as Rayne brushed past Lucas, they both cleared their throats and muttered, "Excuse me," at the same time. He never met her gaze, and Rayne tried not to look at him either. His smell, however, was unavoidable. It was a wild citrus scent, like strong cedarwood with just a hint of lime. When she purposefully turned the other way, Rayne locked onto another pair of waiting brown eyes instead.

It was Red.

Sitting alone at a booth four tables down, her psychiatrist had been watching her, pushing his glasses closer to his nose and scratching a pen into his little varicolor-flagged book.

◢✥◣

Lucas Abbott sat down, prodding his food with a fork as the girls headed toward the Dining Hall restroom. He looked up, noticing Rayne's curves were finally beginning to fill out her uniform. It wasn't that she had curves like Hillary, or even an athletic build like Jackie, but there was a subtle, healthy fullness now—something someone would only notice if they knew just how badly malnourished Rayne had been only one short month ago.

Lucas shifted his gaze sideways, meeting David's icy stare, and lowered his eyes to his plate. It was Cole's voice that had startled him to join the conversation.

"Oh!" Cole exclaimed. "Luke, dude, I almost forgot. My sister drew you a picture."

Lucas's brow furrowed. "Did she really?"

"Weird, right? She's only met you once, but she insisted this was for you."

Before Cole could pass the folded paper to him, Pierce snatched it mid-air, grinning. "Aww, does little Lainey have a crush?"

"What?" Cole said, feigning frustration while he cracked up with laughter. "Lucas, how could you! That's my baby sister, man!"

Lucas chuckled, and Pierce teased, "Aww, how cute. Lukey's got a girlfriend. What'd she make for you?"

"No, no," Cole interjected, smacking the paper before Pierce could open it. "We're not allowed to see it. Lainey said it's just . . . for Luke."

"Ohhhh," Pierce said, wiggling his brow, "just for Luke."

Lucas rolled his eyes, though a small smile tugged his lips. "Okay, morons, just open it already."

Pierce did so slowly, and the laughter of the table slowly folded over itself until the entire group stared silently at the crayon image. "Whoa," Pierce whispered. "That's . . . dark."

But Lucas recognized the subjects.

He snatched the page away from Pierce. In a frantic black crayon, there was a large pentagon intended to be a house of sorts, and inside, there lurked a herd of dark silhouettes—shadow people—cowering on the left side of the structure. Something in him recognized their ethereal forms, even in scribbles of crayon.

However, it was not the shadows that frightened him most. Dominating the right side of the page was a towering figure, far larger than the rest, with a wide, menacing smile and two angry, slitted green eyes. 

◢✥◣

When Portia Maxwell didn't show up for lunch in the faculty lounge, Dorian Matthews knew that something wasn't right. It couldn't be that she was hiding from Dr. McGowan because not only had it been several months since their first-date-gone-horribly-wrong, but everyone knew that the psychiatrist preferred to dine in the student hall anyway. For that reason, Dorian decided to check the administration office—maybe Portia just got caught up with some paperwork or something.

Sure enough, he found Portia Maxwell clicking away at her computer, eyes bloodshot and hair uncombed. Dorian approached her desk warily, resting his elbows on the tall ledge. "Still working?" he asked.

The sound of his voice made her posture pop upright. After meeting his eyes once, she pulled them back to her computer. "Just trying to get some work done for Miss Wilson. How can I help you, Mr. Matthews?"

Oh, no.

Dorian exhaled.

Occasionally, Portia would withdraw, and he never really enjoyed those days. He presumed it to be something of a menstrual nature, or maybe even perimenopause perhaps, but Dorian would have been lying if he said he didn't miss the pet-names her usual cheery-self would grant him on her good days.

"Nothing," Dorian replied softly. "Just checking on you." He gave the ledge a pat before pivoting to exit the room. His hand fell on the doorknob just as Portia called out to him.

"Oh, Matthews," she said. "There was a call for you earlier."

Dorian turned around. "Oh?"

Portia's eyes were trained on the computer monitor, but there was a folded piece of paper in her hand, extended toward him. "They asked if you would give them a call at this number around six o'clock tonight."

"Really?" Dorian stepped forward to retrieve the number. "Who was it? A parent?"

Portia lifted her shoulders. "No name. Just a number."

"My sister would have just called my cell," he whispered. "Who else could it be?"

Portia simply raised her brows, almost as if to say, Did I ask for your life story? She waved him away. "Do with it what you wish. I've got work to do."

Dorian pursed his lips. "Sorry, Miss Maxwell. Thanks for the message."

As he stepped out of the office, Dorian made sure to avoid eye-contact with the long, beveled mirror. He unfolded the paper. Inside, there was a phone number, along with a hand-written note from Portia that, despite its contradictions to her present prickly demeanor, made him smile:

Careful, pumpkin.
This call gave me the heeby-jeebies.
Don't forget to file a report if it has anything to do with a student.
If it's a personal call, then good luck!

xoxo

◢✥◣

In the Dining Hall bathroom, Hillary Berkshire paced back and forth, footsteps reverberating off the onyx-tiled walls. Jackie Kwon leaned against a sink, arms crossed over her chest, eyes narrowed in thought. It seemed she already knew what was wrong.

"So, anyone wanna clue me in to what's going on?" Rayne asked. She placed her hands in her pockets and sat along the edge of the black marbled countertop, away from the water-splatter of nearby sinks.

Hillary sucked in a pocket of air and blurted, "I've been seeing a teacher!"

"Oh?" Rayne forced her brows up in mock-shock. Cole had already given her this information weeks ago, but she made a show of ignorance for Hillary's sake. "Really? Who?"

"Mr. Davenport," Hillary replied.

Jackie clicked the roof of her mouth with her tongue. "And someone found out."

"Oh." Rayne's expression darkened. "That's not good."

"My thoughts exactly." Jackie pushed herself off the wall and stepped closer. "It's Mr. Matthews."

"Oh . . ." This time, Rayne didn't have to feign surprise. "Shit. . ."

"Yeah," Jackie muttered.

Hillary inhaled. "He saw us last night, and I don't know what he's gonna do. If talks, then Vincent could lose his job, and they might expel me, too. I just don't know."

"We can't let that happen," said Jackie.

"Exactly," Hillary agreed.

Jackie paced the room. "So what are we going to do to make sure that doesn't happen?"

"Yeah, what are we gonna do?" Hillary asked.

Rayne studied the two of them. "You know, it's starting to sound like you two want something from me."

"Well, duh," Hillary snapped. "You and Matthews are close, right?"

So that was the kicker, Rayne thought.

Jackie said, "Rayne, we need you to talk to him."

"No."

Hillary gasped. "But Rayne—"

"No," she repeated. "I'm really not that close with the guy. He's just my homeroom teacher."

"Well, still," Hillary insisted, "you could do something."

"What exactly do you think I could do? This isn't a game, Hillary."

"I don't know," Hillary hissed. "Like, convince him to keep his mouth shut or something! This isn't rocket science, Rayne. It's not that complicated!"

"If it's so simple, then why don't you talk to him?" Rayne jabbed, and when Hillary closed her mouth, Rayne scoffed. "That's what I thought . . . And you know, you're being a bit bitchy for someone trying to ask a favor. How 'bout you dial it back a bit, huh?"

"Well, you're being a bit bitchy for a schizophrenic skank," Hillary countered. "But here we are."

"Don't use that word," she chastised firmly, "when you clearly have no idea what you're talking about."

Jackie raised her hands. "Stop it, both of you. We're all friends here. Let's just—"

"Oh, we're friends now?" Rayne snapped. "Since when? You don't know me. I don't owe you anything."

Jackie's eyes hardened. There was a darkness in her that Rayne had not seen since the day she and Hillary tried to corner her in the girl's locker room. "You're just like Cole," she said, voice low. "Selfish . . . and cruel. The two of you are perfect for each other . . . Come on, Hillary. We'll figure this out on our own."

Rayne combed her fingers through her hair, huffing as she leaned against the tiled wall. She was supposed to ask Jackie if she still had a laptop with a DVD-port, and this was what she did? Pissed Jackie off just when Rayne needed her most. What exactly did they expect her to do though? Rayne didn't have any leverage over Dorian to influence him one way or another. What power did they really think she had in this situation anyway?

The two girls began to flee the room—the only two living girls who had ever tried to offer Rayne friendship at Maria J. Westwood—and Rayne finally bit her lip, reigned in her pride, and called out to them. "Alright!"

Jackie paused at the door. She looked over her shoulder.

"I'll do it," said Rayne. "I'll talk to Matthews."