Officer Emma Scott had been one of the first responders on the night of August 7th, 2017. Even now, she still required therapy for all the horror she witnessed on that dreary, autumn night. This only heightened her husband's confusion over her attachment to the troubled girl. Emma knew he hated how often she visited the teenager in the mental hospital, especially around the holidays; it never failed to start a fight. But she couldn't explain it to him. He would never understand.

No husband, no therapist, no priest . . . could ever understand.

It was more than simply stumbling upon the gruesome scene that night—more than prying the young girl's hands from the body she'd overkilled. It was so much more.

"Rayne!" Emma had shouted. "Rayne, stop it! She's gone! She's gone!"

She lifted the girl's blood-splattered face to look her in the eye. Hot tears slipped down the officer's cheeks, but Rayne's eyes were barren—void of emotion and shimmering green. The sight magnified her horror.

Rayne Foster's eyes had always been brown.

"Why, Rayne?" the officer cried. "Why would you do this? Why?"

That night, they booked the girl in the cruiser, and Emma's partner, Jacob Mueller, couldn't hush up about the crime scene. The policewoman, wearing a streak of someone else's blood on her left cheek, tried to tune him out as they rode to the station.

"She's always been a little hooligan, but this? God, how do we tell Jamie?" her partner said, referring to the girl's mother.

Emma had not known how to process the information either.

She wiped her face then, only to realize the bloodied smear was there. When she saw her scarlet-stained fingertips, she stroked her cheek more vehemently, trying to transfer the smudge to her pant leg. She couldn't stop. She rubbed her face then her pants. Face then pants, face then pants, face then—

"You know," her partner began, "I've never seen you cry at a scene before. Do you know them well?"

Emma surrendered, placing her hands on the steering wheel. She didn't answer. In fact, in the moments that followed, Emma soon discovered there would be so much in this life that she would never be able to discuss with anyone again.

On the way to the station, she had decided to lift the rear view mirror and steal a glance at the girl. Rayne was on the left-hand side, clad in fraying denim pants and a gray hoodie. Crimson splatter stained her clothes. The vision could have been unforgettable on its own, however, it was not the memory of Rayne that haunted the officer.

It was the memory of the person sitting beside her.

He was young, perhaps a teenager; his bangs streaked sideways as if sketched with dark ink. Clothed in a black jumpsuit and sporting a steep scar on his cheek, the boy pressed his lips to the girl's ear. Whispering. And he should not have been there.

It all happened so fast; as if sensing the officer's eyes upon him, he turned his ghostly gaze toward her, and Emma slammed the brakes.

"Whoa, what the hell!" Jacob shouted, lurching forward.

Emma ignored him and whirled around to observe the scene, but the boy was already gone. Sitting alone now, the bloodied girl simply stared ahead with little life left in those green-glazed eyes. Her lips moved but no sound left them.

"Someone's back there," Emma finally explained, panting. Her eyes scanned the backseat, the floors, but there was nothing. When she spun back around to look in the rear view again, she screamed.

Eyes. Glowing, icy blue eyes filled the whole of the mirrored rectangle. Fear fell through the officer, crystallizing her veins like frost on a window.

Jacob grabbed her arm. "Jesus, Emma! What the hell is wrong with you?"

The image faded as quickly as it came. As soon as she looked at Jacob and peeled her eyes back to the mirror, those eyes were gone.

But they were never gone for long.

She still saw them sometimes.

In her dreams . . .

Withdrawing from the memory, Officer Scott swiveled the rear view mirror now to look at the girl she was transporting to Maria J. Westwood Correctional Facility. Unlike that night so many months ago, it was presently daylight. The girl in the backseat slouched; she peered out the window like an average seventeen-year-old, searching the skies for life and wishing to spread her own wings as well.

Officer Scott was not a superstitious woman. Even after everything she witnessed that night, she never tried to make sense of the apparition. The only thing it did was bring her closer to this young girl. For reasons Emma could not yet explain, she knew in her heart that Rayne had been a victim on that night as well.

The officer bit her lip. "You said, he's back," she announced, breaking the silence of their eight-hour drive. "Who's back? What did you mean by that?"

"Huh?"

"Back at the hospital," she clarified. "With the dog, you said, he's back. What did you mean? Who's back?"

"Oh, I don't know. Probably nothing. It's just the meds."

"Rayne." The officer met her eyes in the rear view mirror. "Rayne, I've been here for you through all of this. You know that, right? Whether you wanted me to or not, I've been here. You've got to know that you can trust me by now, so talk to me. Tell me who's back."

"It's nothing. I just . . ." Rayne pressed a finger to her temple. "I mean, I used to have these really . . . bad . . . dreams sometimes . . ." Her eyes stirred, uncertain, almost as if asking a question.

Tension gathered in the officer's shoulders. "What kind of bad dreams?"

"About this guy . . ."

Emma nodded.

"He had these . . . eyes. They were blue, but like . . . really, really pale. Almost white. And he had this, uh . . . He had this strange—"

"—scar?" the officer supplied.

Rayne looked up. "Yeah. Right across his face." She drew a line from her left eyebrow, over the bridge of her nose, and down to her right cheek. "Just like that. How did you know?"

"Lucky guess," she replied softly, turning the cruiser down an opening in the road. "And the wolf reminded you of him somehow?"

Rayne grew quiet. Finally, she uttered, "I guess it just triggered me or something. I don't really know. Can we stop talking now?"

"Of course," the officer whispered, and she remained silent for the rest of the drive.

◢✥◣ 

The police car traveled down a gravel path, passing an elegant, hand-carved sign. It was intended to welcome pedestrians in a decorative script that read: MARIA J. WESTWOOD.

Rayne noticed the makers had purposefully left out the words "Correctional Facility".

After the trial and verdict, Rayne Foster's attorney had pulled her aside, speaking in tones so soft, the drone of the air conditioning nearly masked his voice. He emphasized the need to maintain the illusion of a luxurious private school for America's wealthy elite, concealing the true nature of the institution—because the reality . . . was far from glamorous.

Wealthy teenagers who had committed serious federal crimes had the opportunity to attend Maria J. Westwood Correction in lieu of conventional youth detention centers at a hefty cost. Tuition was steep. Students received a comprehensive tailored curriculum, including therapy and social lessons meant to rehabilitate them. The goal was to prepare them for reentry into their family's corporate worlds. Although the operation operated on the fringes of legality, as long as the checks kept coming, the darker aspects remained hidden from law enforcement.

Rayne sank further into the back seat. Pebbles crunched beneath the tires, producing a loud dissonance of tumbling rocks that the stereo could hardly tune out. In the distance, there was a broad wrought iron gate, flanked by imposing cement barriers topped with spikes. The juxtaposition of elegance and intimidation unsettled Rayne, but the odd gargoyles adorning on the gate's center made her laugh for some reason.

Probably thinking they were ridiculous as well, the officer released a small chuckle with her.

They pulled into a parking space around five p.m. that night. The horizon was still blue, but the sun hung low, bathing the state in a warm golden glow. "We're finally here," the officer said, putting the vehicle into park.

The exterior of Maria J. Westwood was constructed with rustic, red bricks—long, flowering vines adhered to them as if clinging for life, trailing upwards. The building was about four or five stories tall, and adorning the edge of the rooftop was a decorative wrought iron railing. Every window was long, topped with brick-framed arcs that staggered between using dark bricks and lighter ones. Some of the windows had small balconies, but none of them were accessible. Every single window was barred.

One prison to another, Rayne thought.

She ended up glaring—in shock at the vast magnitude of the structure, in awe of the immense beauty, and disgust of its utter existence. Two stories up, a burgundy curtain drew back in one of the windows. Somehow, Rayne knew the obscure figure standing behind the curtain was watching her.

Was it a student? A teacher?

She challenged the stare until the shadow shifted and hid beneath the cloth.

Behind her, the officer grabbed Rayne's duffel from the trunk and hung it over her shoulder. She instructed Rayne to carry the wheeled suitcase and her large backpack. Inside, they were greeted by two large security guards. They scanned their bags, ran them through a metal detector, and confiscated a few prohibited items from Rayne's duffel bag. Namely her cell phone, her markers, and her prescriptions.

"You'll visit the infirmary in the morning to receive your medication," the stocky guard told her. "If you do not check in and sign off on your medication before classes begin, then a guard will be sent to retrieve you. Do you understand?"

She nodded.

"You do not want a guard to retrieve you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she said sharply. "I understand."

After making it through security, Rayne and the officer ambled down a massive hallway. The floors were marble, a cloudy streaking of gray on white, and antique benches bordered walls that were glazed with gold damask wallpaper. "This place is beautiful," the officer said, running a finger over the elegant pattern on the wall. She looked back at the girl. "Huh? What do you think? Pretty nice, right?"

"Yeah, so nice, I think I'm going to puke," Rayne mumbled.

"Ohh," the officer scolded in jest, "pipe down, drama queen. It ain't gonna kill ya. You'll be fine."

Upon reaching a large mahogany door, Officer Scott pointed to a metal plate labeling the room as the Administration Office. "Here we are," she breathed, pushing on the heavy entrance.

The Administration's Office Secretary, Portia Maxwell, was already inside, waiting to greet them. "Welcome!" she exclaimed, curls cascading her shoulders like a crimson curtain. It was clear that she reveled in her role as queen of the welcoming committee. "Welcome. Welcome. Oh, how I've been waiting for you . . ." Her eyes fell over Rayne. "I'm sure your journey was long and tiring. Please, have a seat. I am, oh, so happy you made it safely, beautiful."

"Beautiful?" Rayne approached the desk and dropped her bag to the floor. "I'm balding. Save the sweet talk for someone who matters."

Rayne was not actually "balding," however, she did possess a few threadbare patches beneath her brown locks. During the catatonic stages of her stay at Aurora Psychiatric, she'd been known to rip the hairs from her scalp, near the base of her neck, and shove them into her mouth. Thankfully, that part of her life had been wiped from her memory. However, the consequence remained, with her tresses now thin, short, and brittle, barely sweeping the peaks of her shoulders.

"Oh, sweetie," Portia began, "I'm about fifty pounds heavier than I should be, but that does not stop me from being beautiful." She held out a tablet and stylus. "Now here. I have a few forms for you to sign . . . gorgeous," she emphasized, "and we'll get you all checked in."

Rayne took the iPad and almost smiled. "Fine."

Portia handed a second tablet to the officer. "Can you sign these on behalf of the guardian?"

"Oh, of course."

The next few hours were a blur. Portia went over the campus rules, reiterating the morning infirmary check-ins, as well as the omnipresent surveillance cameras, the strict nine o'clock curfew, and lastly, she made it very clear that the Maria J. Westwood uniforms were not an advisement. They were mandatory.

Rayne received her uniform and a textured, black leather card holder. Inside was a phone card, a cafeteria card, and a room key. As more strangers filtered into the room and introduced themselves—the principal, Rayne's onsite psychiatrist, and the security guard from before—the officer eventually took her leave. To Rayne's great disappointment, she found that she could not remember much of the officer's departure. The only memory that lingered was the small piece of paper the woman had tucked into her card holder. It had the officer's personal number scribbled on it in blue ink.

"Please, call me anytime, for anything. Okay?"

And that was it. That was all Rayne could remember.

Her recollection of the campus tour was also fuzzy. The halls, nearly empty after hours, echoed with the soft shuffle of polished shoes. A few students lingered, their snickers low and clipped; the flash of designer labels and subtle glances made her feel the weight of her worn-out sneakers with every step. The headteacher, Miss Wilson, rushed her along, and Rayne instantly decided she did not like the woman. Behind her strolled the security guard and the psychiatrist whose names she couldn't really recall. All the rooms, hallways, stairwells, and critical "rehabilitation" centers distorted into one single, hazy string of luxury.

By the end of the tour, Rayne's headache had coiled through her temple, and she was beyond thankful to be heading toward the dorms.

"We like to keep you kids close," the principal said, leading her to the Dormitory. The guard and the shrink trailed a little closer as if to emphasize the point. They finally circled around, ending up right next to the Administration and Security offices. What little Rayne could remember of the tour told her this: the entire complex was a massive circle with five buildings on the outskirts of one giant, outdoor courtyard.

"Do you have any questions?" the old woman asked, stopping in front of Rayne's assigned dorm.

She was exhausted. "No, I think I'm good for now."

"Excellent. Now, do not forget to visit my office in the morning. We are still establishing your schedule, but it will be ready before your first class. If I do not see you in my office at precisely six o'clock, I will send a guard to bring you to me." She leaned in, wrinkles pinching her pursed lips. "Do not make me send a guard for you. Am I clear?"

Rayne was beginning to notice a theme among these threats. "Yeah," she muttered. "Crystal."

"Good. Now, there's one more person I would like you to meet. He's going to be your homeroom teacher, so any problems you have with students, assembly, or instructions—you can feel free to take it up with him." She placed a hand on Rayne's shoulder and turned her to meet the man. "Rayne, this is Mr. Matthews."

Rayne gasped, taking two shaky steps backward.

No . . .

Oh, God. No.

Her stomach lurched. The edges of his body blurred like a fiendish aura, features coming in and out of focus. She gripped her head and swallowed the need to vomit; her cheeks burned brighter and her heart beat faster, echoing the sound of the man's impending footsteps as they reverberated in the spacious hall. Beneath the rising panic, a sense of timeless stillness swept the air—something reveric and achingly distant. His sleek, ebony hair was brushed backward, showcasing the very same snowy-blue eyes she had come face-to-face with so many times in so many dreams!

"Rayne," Miss Wilson began, "don't be shy. Why don't you say hello?"

"It's nice to meet you, Miss Foster," he said, and the edge of his smile lifted those hauntingly familiar square cheeks.

The headache in Rayne's temple corkscrewed even deeper. She trembled, vision tunneling, spiraling, and fading to black.

"Where's . . . your scar?" she asked breathlessly, just before falling backward and hitting her head on the stony marbled floor.