Cold fingers dug into Rayne Foster's bones as security guards dragged her through the labyrinthine corridors of the reformatory school. The building itself was starting to feel more alive these days—opulent but antiquated, as though the very walls exhaled the secrets of decades passed. No amount of upkeep could mask the gloom of the ages.

When the guards finally threw her and Lucas into Miss Wilson's office, the door slammed shut with a loud boom that echoed throughout the chamber. The air smelled of polish and lavender, undercut by something darker—old and stale, like the scent of money that had been buried for too long.

Heavy velvet drapes sealed off the windows, choking the room of moonlight. A sudden fluttering sound broke through the silence, wings beating frantically against the glass, something trying to find its way in. Rayne could hear the faint scratching of claws on the windowpane, just before it gave up and flew off into the night, leaving the room still once more.

Miss Wilson sat behind the desk, seemingly unaffected by the disturbance. Her posture was as rigid as the high-backed leather chair that cradled her. Her sharp features were lit by the glow of a brass desk lamp, her gray hair perfectly coiffed. Behind Rayne, the guard's fingers delved deeper into her skin as the woman scolded them.

Despite this, her pulse thrummed with something intoxicating, something that made her stomach flutter despite the looming threat of expulsion, despite the shadow people, despite everything! The memory of Lucas's touch—his fingers brushing her cheek moments before the door burst open—lingered like a spark in her chest. It was as though the whole world had been holding its breath for that one stolen moment, and now that it was gone, she was left with the dizzying aftermath of it all. They hadn't kissed, not really, but the possibility of it hung between them like a thread that hadn't quite snapped. Exhilarating.

She glanced sideways at him now, his shoulders brushing hers as the guard behind him pulled on his collar. Lucas's eyes gleamed with a daring light. The strain of his half-buttoned shirt revealed the curve of his clavicle, a sort of reckless charm that left her breathless. He smiled. And dammit, she smiled too.
The folly of it all—being hauled in for nearly kissing in the woods. She could feel a rush of giddy laughter bubbling up inside her, wild and untamed, like something out of a fever dream.

Miss Wilson's voice cut through, but even her words couldn't fully chase away the heady feeling that lingered in Rayne's chest. "A student has died," she scorned, "and yet, here you two are—fornicating in the forest!"

Rayne's lips twitched at the absurdity. "Fornicating? We haven't even kissed yet!" she blurted, half-defiant, half-laughing. She could feel the guard tighten his hold behind her, as though he was afraid she might try to bolt at any moment. "Hey, Lucian," she said, her voice teasing, "you wanna makeout?"

His cheeks began to pink, but the playful gleam in his eyes didn't falter. "I'm about to be expelled. Now or never, right?"

The guard yanked on his collar now, keeping Lucas away from her, but his words sent a thrill through Rayne's veins. Part of her wondered if the giddiness was some strange release, a perverse excitement at the idea of being expelled. Would it be easier? Safer? If they were forced to leave this place, would the shadow people lose their grip on them? Maybe they could run away, escape the darkness that seemed to be in every corner of this school, and just be free—free from fear, secrets, and the ghosts that haunted them.

But then a darker thought crept in, one that snuffed out the excitement altogether: What about their friends?

If they were expelled, who would protect them? The shadow people wouldn't stop hurting people just because Rayne and Lucas were gone. Hillary had already been taken, her body cold and lifeless, claimed by whatever was after them. Who would be next? Would it be Spencer? The weight of that reality extinguished the fire in her chest.

Running away wasn't an option. Expulsion wasn't an option.

Not when their friends were still in danger.

"Do you manhandle all the students, or just my niece?" A new voice entered the fray, sharp and commanding.

The infamous Charlotte Du Pont herself entered the room, and Rayne could not suppress the roll that overcame her teenaged eyes. Her "aunt's" presence was a blend of aristocratic grandeur and authority. Dark and lustrous brown hair cascaded in meticulously styled waves, framing her face with a timeless elegance. She was clad in a dress of midnight black, dark lace gloves adorning her slender hands. And every step exuded refined grace.

When the guard stammered, unable to reply, everyone knew that any answer would have been unacceptable.

"Precisely," she hummed. "See to it that you do no such thing again."

Miss Wilson cleared her throat, attempting to regain control of the situation. "Mrs. Du Pont, it appears your niece fails to understand the severity of the issue at hand."

Charlotte's lips curled into a smile. "It seems to me the issue is young love. Do you operate under the assumption that there are no relationships on campus simply because you've separated dorm rooms?" She eyed Rayne suddenly. "You're trouble, aren't you? Just like your father."

Mention of Rayne's dad in such a casual, almost affectionate tone left her momentarily disoriented. For a fleeting second, she felt a strange sense of satisfaction—a connection to the man she'd lost just a few years ago, and it was comforting, in a way, to think that someone in her family might stand up for her in such a way.

However, this was still Aunt Charlotte—"Charlotte Du Prude," as her mother would say with a sneer—and nothing could erase the deep-seated mistrust that her mother had carefully cultivated in her over the years. This was the woman her mother always warned her about. Resentment festered, tangled with old wounds, and no small victory now could make her forget that. She would never trust Charlotte completely, not now or ever.

"The issue at hand . . . Mrs. Du Pont . . . is we have two students who have broken a slew of campus rules: staying out past curfew, sharing living quarters—"

"And quite frankly, Veronica, I don't give a damn." Charlotte slipped off her black lace gloves. "Why did it take your guards so long to consider patrolling this abandoned structure? Is it not where that poor girl's body was discovered ten years ago?"

They were talking about Nicole Livingston. Shivers traversed Rayne's spine. She and her friends had just watched the video footage after all. Thankfully, Pierce had taken the laptop with him when he left. How much worse would this have been if they'd been busted with stolen security footage? Regardless, the weight of these tragedies still clung to their bones. And now, with Hillary's death, it felt like history was closing in on them.

Lucas seemed to have the same haunted look in his eyes.

This wasn't just about broken rules and detention anymore, this was life and death.

"See to it that you improve your campus security, Miss Wilson," Charlotte continued smoothly, "and perhaps you can keep your position as headteacher. As for you," Rayne's aunt turned her steely gaze to her and Lucas, "detention for the rest of the semester, as well as ten hours per week of on-site community service."

Rayne's mouth fell open. "That's an hour of detention and two hours of work every day. That's our whole day."

"And yet," she said, smiling cooly, "what a blessing. Or would you rather be expelled? Rayne, that would send you straight to a juvenile detention center. And Mr. Abbott, who knows where that would leave you? Your grandfather is so fickle, after all."

Lucas was quick to respond, his voice calm and composed despite the weight of her words. "We'll take it. Thank you."

Charlotte gave them both a lingering look, one that Rayne couldn't quite read, before turning to Miss Wilson. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Veronica, I need to have a private word with my niece."

The room stilled. Miss Wilson, having been so casually dismissed in her own domain, pursed her lips and stood, gesturing for the guards to follow her out. Rayne glanced at Lucas one last time, and he gave her a small nod—a silent promise that everything had changed, and whatever came next, they would face together. But as the door closed behind him, leaving her alone with her "aunt," the last vestiges of teenage rebellion drained away. There was something in Charlotte's gaze that told her this wasn't just about tonight's indiscretion.

"Hi, Rayne," Charlotte said, her voice soft. "We need to talk."

◢✥◣

The fog was thick, rolling in from the mountains like a living thing, creeping low across the earth and swallowing the ground in pale tendrils. Deputy Malik Thompson stood on the gravel path just outside the school, his breath rising in the cold morning air. His uniform, crisp beneath a windbreaker, clung to his broad shoulders. This was the kind of morning that made the world feel distant, as if everything was suspended in time. Quiet. Eerie. Far too still. His breath fogged in the air, fusing with the mist as he watched the paramedics load a body bag into an ambulance. Red and blue lights spun silently in the gloom. Dr. Henry MacGowan sobbed quietly on the sidewalk, a blanket wrapped around his trembling shoulders.

Malik turned from the sight, pulled his phone from his pocket, and dialed his uncle. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. He glanced around as the phone rang, checking his surroundings, though he knew nothing was there.

The call connected. "Uncle Terrence," Malik said. "We got another body."

Another body . . . suspended in the woods.

The way they had found Monica Shaw's lifeless body reminded him a lot of the Livingston file. He wondered if her autopsy would also say "ligature strangulation," or perhaps "cervical spine fracture," instead of the obvious: "exsanguination due to multiple stab wounds."

There was a pause on the other end, and Malik could almost see his uncle's furrowed brow. "That's unfortunate."

Malik frowned. "Terrence. Something about this place doesn't sit right with me." He chose his next words warily, praying his uncle was a man he could trust. "I don't know, sir. I think we might have a serial killer on our hands."

The silence on the line was suffocating. When his uncle finally spoke, his tone was unreadable. "What makes you think that, Malik?"

Malik's grip on the phone tightened. He needed to be careful. His uncle was an experienced cop, too sharp to let anything slip if Malik pushed too hard. "Nothing concrete. Just a feeling." He couldn't mention the files, the forty-plus deaths that had occurred on this campus in the last few decades. No, he needed to know where his uncle stood before revealing anything more.

"You be careful with those feelings," his uncle intoned slowly.

Fuck, that's not good.

Malik looked around. "Just trying to do my job, sir."

"You know how this town is, son. People don't like it when outsiders—"

"Outsiders?" Malik cut in, his voice raising despite himself. "I grew up here, Uncle Terrence. I'm not an outsider."

"No," he replied slowly, "but you've been away long enough to forget how things work. Don't go chasing shadows, boy."

The line went dead, and Malik stood there for a moment too long, staring at his phone. His uncle's words echoed in his mind, laced with just enough ambiguity to unsettle him. He pocketed the phone, thoughts racing. His instincts were screaming at him now.

Malik began to walk back toward his patrol car, his boots crunching on the gravel. The fog swirled around him, and he hesitated, his gaze wandering back to the woods. The image of the two students he had stumbled upon earlier—Rayne Foster and Lucas Abbott—flashed in his mind. Cozying up in that little shack, far too close to where they had found the body.

Foster had been the one to find Berkshire's body, too.

It could've been a coincidence. It probably was. But Malik had seen too many things in this town to believe in coincidences.

As Malik drove off, the fog began to thin, but the unease that settled in his chest refused to lift. He had a job to do, and it wasn't just about finding a killer—it was about uncovering the truth, no matter how deep it was buried. And if that meant taking on his own department, even his own family, then so be it.

Because Malik knew one thing for sure: whatever was happening at this school, it wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

◢✥◣

Rayne Foster sank into the plush leather chair at the far end of the headteacher's office. Dawning sunlight diffused through velvet curtains, painting the room in a muted gold glow. Each beam of light struggled to penetrate the rich fabric, creating a dappled effect on the polished wood and leather. Rayne's bloodshot eyes, rimmed with dark circles from a sleepless night, struggled to remain open. The room's usual luxuriance—its dark bookshelves and grand, ornate desk—once so imposing, now felt like a silent witness to her weariness.

Charlotte Du Pont observed Rayne with watchful eyes. The blackness of her dress seemed to absorb the morning sun, making her appear as though she'd been carved from midnight itself. "Tired?" she asked, her voice unexpectedly soft.

Rayne nodded, barely stifling a yawn. "Aren't you?"

"I'm not the one who stayed up all night in the woods," Charlotte replied, leaning slightly on the edge of the desk. "I have been up since four in the morning, though. Came straight here when I heard what you'd gotten yourself into."

Rayne didn't understand her gentleness. "Why would—?"

"You could have been expelled, Rayne. Do you understand that?"

Rayne's frown deepened. "Why do you care?"

Charlotte hesitated, commiseration lilting her eyelids. "I . . . saw your mother."

"Oh." Rayne stilled. She hadn't thought of her in such a long time. "How is she?"

"Something tells me you already know . . ." She studied Rayne with a mix of sympathy and scrutiny. "You still don't remember, do you? What happened that night?"

Rayne shook her head.

"I understand." Charlotte cleared her throat, the sound echoing in the stillness. "I've been keeping an eye on your progress. Spoken with Dr. MacGowan a few times. It seems you're getting better."

Rayne nodded, but the words felt empty. Better?

Charlotte took a deep breath, clearly struggling with the silence. Daylight glinted off the polished surface of the desk, creating a halo of gilded light around her, and she straightened her shoulders. "Well, there's no need to beat around the bush. So here it goes: Rayne, your mother has signed away her rights, and I'm going to be adopting you."

"What?" The words hit her like a physical blow, a dull ache spreading through Rayne's chest. "She . . . she signed me away? What does that mean? Why would she do that?"

Charlotte stood, her movements deliberate and measured as she paced the room. Her dress swirled with each step, the fabric creating a subtle rustling sound. "She believed it was for the best," she said carefully, though something deep in Rayne told her she was lying . . . about something. "You can have a whole new life now, as long as you stay here, in this school. With me."

Rayne's eyes watered, but the tears never quite spilled over. She clenched her fists, the hurt morphing into rage. "She didn't have the guts to tell me herself. How could she just—?" Her voice broke off, the rest of the sentence too painful to finish.

She never loved me, Rayne thought, and it was the only thing that made sense.

She met Charlotte's gaze, eyes blazing. "Why you? My mom hates you."

Or, maybe that was the reason. Her mother hated them both.

"As she should," Charlotte admitted, turning her gaze inward, as if she were searching for the right words among the dust-covered tomes. "I owe your mother," she uttered softly. Charlotte looked directly at Rayne, her eyes reflecting a vulnerable edge. "What has she told you? About me?"

Rayne rubbed her tired eyes. "That you're the reason she had to run away from home. So she could be with my dad."

Charlotte's eyes flicked away, her face partially obscured by a veil of shadows as she moved towards the headteacher's desk. She sank into the large chair behind it. "Her version of events tends to frame it as a racial issue."

"Wasn't it?"

"No, Rayne. I swear it wasn't."

"Then what was it?" she asked, despite herself.

"I loved him." Charlotte's eyes met Rayne's with an intensity that verged on desperation. "I was in love with him."

"M-my dad?" Rayne's heart raced, the room seeming to spin.

"It was long before your mother. She never knew about us. She still . . . doesn't know."

Rayne's eyes fell, horrified. "What!? But you were married."

"No one's perfect," Charlotte replied, her voice low and almost resigned, hands clasped together tightly.

"Wh-why?" Rayne's mind whirled, struggling to grasp the words, each syllable a knife twisting deeper into her consciousness. Had her whole life been a lie? The father she idolized, the man who had always seemed so much larger than life, the source of her inherited defiance and strength—how could he have been so different from the hero she'd imagined? The man she always believed had been a victim of racial prejudices was nothing more than a secret lover in a forbidden affair? And now, he was just . . . gone. No longer here to explain, defend, or make amends. He left behind the fractured pieces of a story she would never really come to know.

Her chest tightened. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because it wasn't racially motivated, and I need you to feel safe with me if you're going to let me adopt you."

Rayne's voice wavered. "What if I say no?"

Charlotte's face hardened, and she turned away, staring at an antique rose on the desk. She spoke without turning back. "Then you won't qualify for enrollment here."

Rayne took a deep breath, her eyes darting around the room as she tried to absorb everything. The walls seemed to close in, the weight of Charlotte's confession pressing down on her. "What . . . What happened between you and my dad?"

Charlotte began to recount her story, her eyes growing distant. Rayne stared ahead, half-present, half-detached. Her aunt spoke of her affair with her father, Charlotte's growing suspicions that he was more interested in her wealth than her affection. Over time, she had discovered that he was actually falling in love with someone else—her cousin, Jamie, who was like a sister to her. Rayne's mom. Charlotte had used her influence to threaten Jamie with disinheritance to prevent them from being together. She admitted that she had done this out of jealousy, a desire to keep him for herself. Her voice cracked with raw emotion as she recounted how Rayne's father had desired a more open, committed life—a future he could never have with a married woman like Charlotte.

As Charlotte's narrative concluded, Rayne was left grappling with the tangled web of family secrets and betrayals. The revelation had not softened her feelings toward Charlotte, but it had provided context to the unresolved tensions. With a heavy heart and a sense of reluctant acceptance, Rayne agreed to the adoption. She didn't know what else she could do.

Eventually, Rayne found herself moving numbly through the quiet corridors of the school, her footsteps echoing softly. When she reached her dorm room, she found it as she had left—untouched, a thin layer of dust settled over the counters like a blanket of silence. It had been so long since she slept here. As she lay down on her bed, the exhaustion finally overtook her. She drifted into a deep sleep, the memories and revelations from the morning blending into the shadows of her dreams.