Inside the psychiatrist's office, the headteacher was already waiting for Rayne. The flyaways of her gray bun mirrored the erratic flailing of her arms. "You!" Miss Wilson squawked, reaching that shrill pitch reserved for the elderly. "Where have you been? Do you even understand the consequences of your actions?"

The old woman was flanked by the security guard Rayne met the day before. His muscled forearms folded over his chest, just beneath the nametag that read "Jason". The curl in his lip balanced somewhere between intimidation and amusement as the headteacher explained how long the guards had canvassed the campus searching for her.

Ever since her arrival, Rayne had been drilled with the threat of security so consistently, she'd honestly expected more. But no guard had found her or dragged her into the administration office using brute force. Quite the opposite, in fact. One of the guards had even accepted a bribe to turn a blind eye, making her feel invincible. A sense of superiority swept her teenage bones, a childlike grit that assured her she was smarter, better, and faster than any guard here. As if sensing this, any touch of amusement fled the guard's smirk, and anger was all that remained.

Miss Wilson thanked the English instructor for finding the girl, Mr. Matthews assured her he merely kept Rayne company on her way to the office, and Red was still trying to calm the old woman's unending storm.

"Miss Wilson, it is very important that I have my session with Miss Foster today," said Red, buttoning his brown corduroy jacket. "I would implore you to allow her to complete her counseling session with me in lieu of attending her History lesson this afternoon. Is this permissible?"

The headteacher ignored him as she eyed Rayne's shoes. "Is that mud?" she spat.

Rayne looked down. "Uh . . . nope. No, it's not."

"Why is your hair wet?"

"I showered. That a crime?"

The blatant lies boiled the old woman's cheeks. After being drilled for five more minutes, the headteacher finally gave Rayne two weeks' worth of detention, leniency contingent on her willingness to supply her whereabouts for the past hour and a half. But Rayne would never tell.

Mr. Matthews gave Rayne's shoulder a gentle squeeze before he left, almost as if to say, "You've got this, kid. Don't worry."

Instead, Rayne heard two boys giggling; the sound was melodious, like a waterfall of clinks down a wind chime. In her mind, she saw a ray of sunshine over an open book, and then, beneath the light of a blood moon, she saw a streak of scarlet staining the crust of an apple pie.

After everyone took their leave, Rayne was left alone with Red in his stark white office. His desk was metal with a marble-topped surface. In the corner, there was a wooden chair with plush white cushions and a floral-printed pillow. Adjacent to it rested a cozy matching sofa. Rayne took a seat on the couch, both hating and loving how soft the cushions were; she sank into them like a waterbed.

"Miss Foster," the psychiatrist began, taking a seat in the chair beside her. "I'd like to start by asking you what medication you're taking for the headaches."

Her voice dripped with sarcasm as she muttered, "I'm doing well, thank you for asking."

Red laughed. "Oh, forgive me. I like to jump right into the nitty-gritty sometimes." He placed a hand on top of his metal portfolio-clipboard and gave her a welcoming grin. "How are you, Miss Foster?"

"Fine, I guess." She eyed the clipboard. "Why did you ask about my meds? Shouldn't you already know what I'm taking for everything?"

"I do, but I'm asking you. It's more pleasurable to converse with another human being instead of a stack of stapled papers, wouldn't you agree?"

"I guess," she said, rolling her eyes. "I take aspirin."

"I see. Now, Miss Foster, I'm sure you've noticed the contusions on your arms before. Am I correct in that assumption?"

She lifted her forearms. "Sort of hard to miss," she mumbled. There were so many different bruises—some old and yellowing, some fresh, tender, and purple. Circling her left wrist was a plum-tinted handprint where Cole had squeezed her in the gymnasium just two hours earlier.

"And when did this start?" he asked.

"I'm sorry?"

"When did it start?" Red adjusted his scarlet-framed glasses. "Have you always been this susceptible to bruising? Or is it new?"

"New, I guess. Ever since that night."

"And by 'that night', are you referring to the incident that took place on August 7th, 2017?"

Rayne looked down, examining the dirt crusting her shoe treads. "Yes."

She could hear the scratching of pen on paper and winced.

"Rayne," the shrink announced abruptly, "I believe the doctors at Aurora Hospital made a grave mistake in recommending aspirin for your headaches. When combined with your prescription, the interaction increases your risk of bleeding, and I believe that's why you're experiencing all of this bruising. It could also explain your dizzy spell in the hallway last night as well."

So, everything comes down to my medication, Rayne thought, wondering if maybe she was just crazy after all.

"Then what do I take for my headaches?" she asked. "How do I get them to stop?"

"Unfortunately, headaches are a known side-effect of Zoloft, Miss Foster. But perhaps we can try something more gentle to alleviate them, like Tylenol, for now." He scribbled a few notes into his journal. "In our sessions, I would like to focus on your physical wellbeing. I see here that you used to weigh one-hundred-and-twenty-two pounds, which is a far cry from the ninety-eight we are seeing today. We need to ensure that you're getting proper nutrition, so I've advised Doctor Campbell to include a few dietary supplements in your infirmary check-ins. Please make sure you are eating properly; by next month, I want to see that you've gained at least five, maybe ten, pounds.

"In addition, we may want to consider another course of treatment for your PTSD. I would like to keep a close eye on this over the next few weeks. Have you been experiencing any nausea, fevers, or hallucinations?"

"Um . . ." This was too much information. Rayne refused to meet the psychiatrist's eye, fear swelling in her chest upon hearing the word "hallucinations".

Almost as if on cue, a horrifying apparition appeared before her.

It stepped out from behind the psychiatrist—the distorted figure of a girl on fire. Her jaw was slack, gaping, and hanging. Besides shadow people and the blue-eyed man, Rayne had never witnessed anything like this before, nothing outside of visions flashing beneath closed eyelids. But this was real, this was palpable, and the stench of rotting flesh made her recoil. Rayne swallowed the scream that threatened to tear open her lips and sound caution to the wind. The burning apparition stepped closer, and closer, and closer, moaning loudly as its chin dipped to the floor, stretching open its mouth. Flakes of burnt, ashy skin peeled away, just before the girl's hand reached for Rayne. "Help me," she cried.

The vision vanished in a whoosh of smoke.

Rayne gripped her pant leg to still her shaking fingers.

It spoke to her . . . She had never sat still long enough to hear one of them speak.

"Rayne?" the therapist asked tenderly.

She met his eyes, hoping he couldn't detect the tremble in her lip.

The rank smell hung in the air. And the cry rang out in her skull as if emanating from speakers in her lymph nodes. "Help me."

"N-no. Everything's been normal," she uttered softly. The lie spilled from her lips absent thought or reason, and everything in her prayed he hadn't noticed.

"That's good," he said, but his pursed lips and the determination of his pen stroke worried her. "If that changes, let me know, and we'll consider changing your prescription." He turned to a fresh page in his journal. "Now, Rayne. Let's talk about your father."

"Why? Don't you wanna talk about that night—er, the incident—whatever you want to call it?"

"You and I both know that 'night'," he began, adopting her word of choice, "has not been a good topic of discussion for you in the past. You've repressed these memories for a reason, so we'll circle back to them when you are ready." He took a deep breath and readied his pen. "Now, tell me about your father."

"There's nothing to tell. He was shot up at a gas station on Juniper Street last year."

"And three weeks later, you murdered someone on the corner of Juniper and Sanderson," the psychiatrist stated, and Rayne flinched. She loathed how he pinched his eyes together, scrutinizing her, almost as if he could see right through her. "Now, tell me. What happened at the gas station with your father?"

"I don't know. We weren't even supposed to be there." Rayne exhaled. "It was nine o'clock. We were almost home from Effie's stupid soccer game, but she just wanted a snack so bad—she just wouldn't shut up about it."

"I see . . . Do you blame your sister for what happened?"

Rayne visibly recoiled. "What? No, of course not."

"My mistake. I thought I sensed a pinch of resentment in your voice." He penciled something into his journal and met her eyes with a smile. "Perhaps I was wrong. Tell me. What happened next?"

She shifted in her seat. The sofa was no longer comfortable. "I don't know, some chick walked in, I guess. She was sweet-talking my dad, the cashier, too. Then some guy—her boyfriend, maybe—stormed in with a ski mask and a gun, said he'd shoot the guy behind the register if he didn't hand over the money. I didn't even know that kind of thing happened in real life . . ." She picked at the hangnail on her thumb.

The psychiatrist studied her movements but said nothing other than: "And after that?"

"The cashier didn't move, that's what happened. He says to the guy with the gun, 'you'll have to kill me first,' like he didn't think he'd actually do it, but the dude cocked the gun back, right away, no preamble. Like, what the hell? Is your crappy little convenience store really worth dying over, jackoff?"

Still picking at her thumb, Rayne tried to drown out the sound of pen on paper by raising her voice.

"Effie shouted, 'Daddy, do something!' and he did, like, he didn't even think about it, just went for it like he thought he was Superman! He lunged at the guy, wrestled the gun from his hands, punched him in the face, but the gun slid across the floor, right to the girl's feet." With a strong tug, Rayne ripped the hangnail out of her thumb, peeling a top-layer string of skin down to the knuckle along with it. Blood pooled in her cuticle bed. "That girl shot him three times, the cashier, too; they took the money and ran out of there so fast . . . I think they were scared. I don't know why they left us alive."

After Red finished his notes, he stood leisurely and opened a desk drawer. When he returned, he unwrapped a Band-Aid and looped it around Rayne's thumb.

"I think that's enough for today," he whispered.

◢✥◣

In accordance with her mandated punishment, Rayne stepped into Mr. Matthews' classroom at around four in the evening for detention. The lights were dimmed to a soft glow, showering the room in a pleasant, restful ambiance. The desks were pushed to the edges of the room, and in the center, the teacher had arranged ten chairs into a circle.

Mr. Matthews sat at the front of the room, his black dress shoes resting on his desk, engrossed in a tattered paperback copy of Stoner by John Williams. At the moment, only three students were in detention: two boys Rayne didn't recognize and Lucas Abbott.

This was her second time seeing him out of uniform and her first time seeing him since learning about his past. He wore a white cotton tee with a pair of dark-wash jeans; the brightness of his shirt seemed to glow in contrast against his golden tan and bicep bruises. Had she known she could change out of uniform, Rayne might have opted for something a little more comfortable herself.

"Fancy seeing you here," she said, sauntering over to the seat next to him. "What are you in for?"

He didn't look at her. Instead, he stared out the window, jaw set, his profile cast in shadow as tension coiled in his shoulders. Rayne took her seat, studying him with open intrigue. She remembered the sad little boy she'd once seen on TV—his expression a mix of innocence and suffering, overshadowed by the weight of circumstances beyond his control. Now, sitting before her, he seemed to have grown, marked by even harsher realties to have wound up here. He was no longer that frail child, yet that same melancholy lingered in his eyes, veiled thinly by an indifferent scowl.

Still, she took his silence personally.

"Wow," she muttered, "what's got your panties in a twist?"

Lucas finally glanced her way, unimpressed. "You've got a real talent for showing up when no one's asking, you know that?"

She scoffed. "Okay, well, you've got a face that's just begging to get slapped—how 'bout that, pretty boy?" 

He shook his head with a twisted brow, the faintest hint of color creeping into his cheeks. "What is this, elementary school?"

She loved this reaction from him, and he could see that plainly on her face.

That knowledge seemed only to agitate him further. He pressed his lips into a fine line, exhaling slowly. "Did I say I'd tolerate you? Because forget that. You can take your sass, and—"

"Lucas. Cool it." Cole had just entered the classroom, the warning reverberating loudly off the brick walls. Dressed casually in a heather-gray T-shirt and black tapered jeans, he took the open chair next to Rayne. "Don't mind him. He got busted picking up the booze from Spencer. Clearly, he's still a bit prickly about it."

"Who's Spencer?" Rayne asked.

"Oh, he's our guy. Has the hookup for everything. Don't ask me how he does it—the little weasel's just crafty."

Lucas mumbled, "I lost most of the stash when the guard caught me though. Harrington's gonna have to grab the rest tonight." He sighed, eyes shadowed with fatigue as he ran a hand down his face. "I guess it's good you wanted a small party. There won't be enough for more than just us anyway."

Rayne looked at Cole. "Party?"

Cole shrugged with an easy smile. "We were planning a little party tonight, but I had this sneaky suspicion you don't play well with others, so I changed my mind. Thought you'd appreciate a smaller crowd." He jerked his chin toward Lucas. "How long did they give you?"

Lucas leaned his head back, bitter laughter escaping him. "Every day. For a month . . ."

"Damn." Cole rubbed his chin. "We only got two weeks."

"For what?" Lucas asked, finally turning his gaze fully toward them.

Rayne met his stare head-on, taking note of the curiosity in his tone. "Ditching gym class," she replied coolly.

Lucas turned away. "Yeah, that sounds about right. Always something with Cole."

"Why are all the chairs in a circle?" Rayne asked suddenly, glancing around the classroom. "It feels a bit . . . cult-like."

Cole snickered. "Detention here is a bit like an AA meeting."

"We take turns sharing our feelings," Lucas added dryly, sinking deeper into his chair. His eyes flicked back to Rayne, and this time, a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, like he found it all as absurd as she did. 

Then, something shifted in the air around him.

It started as a subtle quiver, a tremor that ran through his body. His shoulders shook, but he didn't even seem to notice this.

Rayne's gaze darted upward.

There was something in the vents . . .

Shadowed fingers poked through the metal flaps, slowly pushing their way through until they whisked away in a whoosh of heavy smoke.

Rayne had hoped all too soon that it was over.

Instead, that black smoke fell in a downward spiral and looped around Lucas's ankle. He didn't react. He kicked his foot forward absentmindedly, as if brushing off a bug, but the shadow remained. When those dark fingers took shape once more—this time around the toe of Luke's shoe—they began climbing up his pant leg. The entity inched upwards, pulling an entire arm, head, and torso from the obscure mist, until the faceless creature was nose-to-nose with Lucas, and he stared blankly through it.

Rayne blinked, frozen in place.

The shadow pulsed, as though drawing ragged breaths, its form shifting with each exhale. Lucas shook his head and sank deeper into his chair. Rayne, although frightened, finally came to the conclusion that it had been a coincidence. If Lucas could have seen it—really seen it, the way that she could—then he would not have been so calm.

Why were these visions haunting her?

Maybe I should tell Red, she thought.

Could it be possible that a simple change in her prescription could make it all . . . go away?

Mr. Matthews flipped a page in his book, and a woman donning a tweed plaid skirt and a dark, rosy pink blazer entered the room, introducing herself as Doctor Monica Shaw. Cole seemed pleased with her arrival.

"Good evening, everyone," the woman began, taking a seat at the front of the circle. "I apologize for being late. I would like to begin by—"

The door opened once more. This time, Rayne's psychiatrist stepped in with brisk steps, stooping low to whisper in the woman's ear. "Oh," she said, standing and nodding. "Of course, of course." The woman addressed the students. "Class, I must have gotten my days mixed up. Today, Doctor MacGowan is going to lead the session."

Cole scoffed. "Figures."

"What is it?" asked Rayne. After making eye contact with her shrink, she looked over her shoulder toward Lucas, but the shadow person had vanished.

Ugh, to tell Red, or not to tell.

"It's nothing," Cole replied. "I just hate the guy." Rayne whipped her head toward him just as Cole whispered, "He's a grade-A creep. And I don't trust him." At her startled expression, Cole realized: "Oh. He's your shrink, isn't he?"

"Yeah," she snapped, "why are you calling him a creep?"

"He just . . . watches the students sometimes. Like, instead of having lunch with the rest of the staff, he eats in our Dining Hall, watches us, and takes notes in his stupid little book."

"Why would he do that?"

"I don't know. That's what I'm saying." Cole stared ahead, jutting his chin toward the psychiatrist. "Just be careful how much you share with that guy. He's shady as shit."

Rayne gulped, wondering if she'd already shared too much. "So . . . is the other lady your psychiatrist? That Doctor Shaw or whatever?" she queried as the woman swiftly excused herself and left the room.

Cole gave her a small smirk. "You know, we're not all assigned psychiatrists."

"Wait, what? We're not?"

"No. Only the hard cases. The rest of us just have group sessions like this one."

The awareness that Rayne was, in fact, one of these "hard cases" caused a rush of humiliation to flood her cheeks.

Seeming to notice, Cole said, "Don't be embarrassed. Lucas and I—"

"Please don't," said Lucas.

For a moment, whatever Cole was going to say hung between the gap of his parted lips. He finally resigned. "Right." To Rayne, Cole said, "Well, I just wanted you to know that I have one-on-one sessions, too. Doctor Shaw is my shrink."

"I see," Rayne murmured slowly.

In the corner of the room, Rayne saw Nikki sitting on one of the desks, her heels dangling and kicking the air below her. Rayne hadn't realized the girl was there until now. When their eyes met, the dirty look Nikki shot toward her was as penetrating as a bullet. Rayne didn't understand what was happening, but she shot a look of her own right back.

Cole's eyes followed Rayne's line of sight and returned to her crinkled lips. "What is it? What are you looking at?"

"I met this girl in the shower room yesterday," Rayne explained. "She was really nice at first, but now, she keeps giving me the stink eye. Don't know what her problem is."

"Weird." He mulled it over. "You know, it might be because of me. A lot of people really don't like me around here. What's her name?"

"Nikki."

"Nikki? Is she a senior?"

"I don't know. She was in gym earlier."

"Hmm, that's a mixed-grade class. Doesn't really help."

The sound of a book hitting the cherrywood desk broke the silence. Mr. Matthews dropped his paperback and stepped behind the psychiatrist who was unpacking a notebook from his briefcase. Suddenly, the sight of its colorful flagged edges made Rayne feel uneasy.

"May I join today's session?" the English teacher asked.

Red adjusted his glasses. "Oh, of course, Mr. Matthews."

"What's happening?" Rayne whispered, leaning into Cole.

"Mr. Matthews joins in sometimes," Cole explained, closing the distance a little more. "It's just a tactic to get the troubled kids to behave in his class. Like, 'Oh, listen to me, I totally get you kids, we're all friends here.' It's bull."

"No, it's not," Lucas announced, and Cole rolled his eyes.

"You see?" Cole nudged Rayne with his elbow. "It worked on Lucas already."

At the front of the room, Red waved a hand to the English instructor. "Mr. Matthews, would you like to start then?"

"Oh, absolutely." The teacher leaned against the front of his desk, folding his forearms across his chest. "So, some of you know this already, but for those of you who don't: I've been teaching at Maria J. Westwood for two years now. The road to get here was incredibly lucky, I can't even begin to tell you. To be honest, maybe there was even some divine intervention at play, who knows."

"Divine intervention?" Rayne blurted out, her curiosity tinged with a sort of offbeat déjà vu. Cole furrowed his brow, backhand her bicep, and gave her a look that said, Hey, what gives?

"Divine intervention," the teacher replied, smiling. "I mean, if you believe in that sort of thing, but I'll get to that part later. Now at first, I only had an associates degree. I planned to transfer to a university to get my four-year, but luckily, the state of Pennsylvania saw a shortage in substitute teachers that fall, so they were accepting resumes from applicants just like me. And that was my first brush with opportunity."

Mr. Matthews stood, pocketed his hands, and paced the room.

"I worked as a substitute teacher for a year while working on my degree, and I ended up interning at a juvenile correctional facility in West Virginia during the summertime. By the end of the internship, they hired me full-time and offered me a scholarship to finish out my education. I studied and worked my butt off for the next five months, and later that winter, I was invited to be a keynote speaker at a conference here in Lockwood, Pennsylvania: 'Strategies to Teach and Counsel Troubled Youth'. And that's where I met Philip Du Pont."

Rayne recognized the name. It was her "Aunt" Charlotte's husband, the owner of the school.

"Mr. Du Pont was moved by my speech," the teacher continued, "and he hired me on the spot, without a Bachelors, insisting that men like me were what this school was missing, and so now . . . here we are."

"Pretentious bastard," Cole muttered under his breath.

Rayne whispered, "Jeez, you don't like anybody, do you?"

The teacher was still sharing his story: "I finished my degree while working here, and although I put in a lot of hard work, at the end of the day, it was still a series of dumb luck and chance encounters that got me here. Nevertheless, throughout the entire process, it felt like someone was always there . . . a light hand on my shoulder . . . guiding me every step of the way."

"Your brother," said Lucas, and it was the first ounce of sincerity Rayne had ever seen flash his brown eyes. Clearly, he had heard this story before.

"Perhaps," Mr. Matthews responded softly. "Like many of you, my brother got into a lot of trouble . . . for doing something horrible. He was seventeen, and my parents didn't have the resources that some of your parents have. My brother went straight to jail." The English instructor took a seat in one of the chairs at the front of the room, resting his elbows on his lap. "Now, I knew my brother. He wasn't evil, he wasn't malicious, he wasn't a criminal, and yet, even he was capable of something so . . ." Mr. Matthews paused, looking away and catching an itch on his arm. "It made me realize perhaps all of this could have been avoided. That, if anyone is capable of doing the unthinkable, then maybe anyone is capable of being saved, too.

"We go about rehabilitation all wrong, and there is clearly a great need for more people in this world who understand that and know there is a way to undo any wrongdoings, to prevent them from ever happening again, or even to begin with. That's why I'm here. That's why I'm here for all of you."

"You said 'was'," Rayne suddenly whispered, staring at the smooth surface of the floor.

"Pardon?"

The air seemed to grow heavier, laden with a sorrow that was as elusive as it was random. She raised her head. "You said your brother 'wasn't' evil." Her posture stiffened. "So what is he now? Is he worse? Is he better?"

"He never showed any signs of maliciousness before or after the crime," Mr. Matthews replied. "Unfortunately, he passed away four years ago, so we'll never really know for sure . . ."

An inklike manifestation appeared in the corner of Rayne's right eye, dark tendrils of an eerie aura flickering.

No.

Rayne tried to turn away, but the phantasmal eidolon dipped its head down, stepping into her sightline. The light from his wintry blue eyes felt tangible, as though she could feel it penetrate her chest and steal the breath from her lungs. There was a dimple in his left cheek that the English instructor did not have, and it became clear to her now that perhaps this boy was actually the brother Mr. Matthews spoke of.

"What did you do?" she asked the spirit quietly.

Beside her, Cole appeared concerned. "Rayne, you okay?"

She was not. For the first time in over a year, Rayne felt the compulsion to converse with the blue-eyed man—her own eyes brimming with unshed tears, a deep sense of mourning that tugged at her heart. Mr. Matthews was a compelling public speaker with the capacity to captivate an entire audience, and that energy was so potent, it appeared to have seeped into the spirit of his dead brother. Rayne felt like a washrag that had been rung and twisted to the point of no return, and now, it was finally time to run herself under a crisp fall of water. She was ready to receive whatever it was he had to give.

"Tell me," she said. "What is it you want to say?"

This time, the psychiatrist heard her. "Tell you what, Miss Foster?"

At the inquiry, the apparition dissipated. No! Rayne scrambled forward, heart bursting with urgency, as though she could have grabbed his hand and asked him to stay. When the last cloudy coil of his aura flitted away, Rayne realized a social spotlight shone over her strange behavior. A sea of eyes stared at her in silence. She finally wiped the single tear that had slipped down her cheek, uttered, "Nothing," and resigned to resting her face in her palm for the duration of the counseling session.