Page 4 of Lessons in Cruelty

The door to Room 102 is closed. There’s a sign on it.

Class in Session

It did not take me more than a minute to rush up the stairs. I mean, I didn’t even admire the paintings, or peek out the landing window at the sprawling campus grounds beyond.

Except I did, and now I’m late, and I’m sick to my stomach with anxiety. Deflated, defeated, and just…hollow. Like I was just about to cross the finish line of this fucked up marathon, but someone came up behind me and sliced my Achilles tendon.

I muster up courage from somewhere and attempt a tentative knock that goes unanswered after several thundering heartbeats.

There’s no more courage left for another knock, let alone trying to open the door.

I should leave.

I can explore the campus until my next class…whenever the hell that is. At least I know I’ll get a text ten minutes beforehand.

As I turn to go, the door opens behind me, and sound floods into the hall as if I took off a pair of noise-canceling headphones.

The professor’s deep, melodic voice.

The tap-tap-tap of students making notes on their laptops.

A cough, someone clearing their throat⁠—

“Yeah, just fucking hold on, would you? I’m not supposed to be taking calls in class.”

My entire body goes rigid.

Oh God.

Not him.

Not now.

I don’t want to turn back, but I’ve lost control of my body, my muscles operating on someone else’s instruction. I spin on my heel, staring wide-eyed at the student exiting the lecture hall.

He’s got nearly a foot of height on me, wearing gray joggers, expensive-looking white sneakers, a branded black college sweater with the sleeves pushed up. His chaotic golden-brown hair sways as he stalks away from me.

Did I summon him by repeatedly wishing he wouldn’t be here, like what happens when you say Bloody Mary in the mirror three times?

He hasn’t spotted me. I could still get out of this unscathed. I mean, no way he’s in my class. He’s too old. Means he was just stopping by. Maybe had a message for the professor.

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t⁠—

He glances over his shoulder.

And then gives me a double take.

He’s already halfway down the hall, but when he recognizes me, he stops walking. Tilts his head. And stalks back toward me.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

A rush of icy panic freezes me in place.

My feet might as well be planted in fucking concrete.

A cruel, sardonic smile spreads over his wide mouth. “Look what crawled out of the fucking gutter,” he calls out so loud I flinch.

Damn it, Haven, move!