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You can touch anything in this house, except her.

Yeah, I promised myself then and there, in that car, to never mention that night to Clement. I resolved to push Jolie Auclair out of my mind. There were far more important things for me to focus on than my friend’s sister. I had to put my head down. I had to study. I had to hone my prowess on the field and in the classroom. I was preparing myself for the life I was destined to live.

And I certainly wasn’t going to waste my father’s legacy.

And I promised myself I would one day find out who the Masked Killer was and finally get my revenge.

It was not the time to think about some girl.

* * *

Weeks passed at Witley Academy. I tried to forget her, I really did.

But I couldn’t.

And then, as quickly as it had started, the semester at the academy ended. And we were back at the Auclair mansion.

But she wasn’t there waiting for me.

Her absence was like a dark cloud hanging over me.

Baptiste, Clement, and I spent our days studying and playing games and learning about the world on the grounds of the mansion. Future rulers of the world. As usual.

But still, I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t erase the image of my parents from my mind. One night it all became too much, and I found myself climbing out of bed in search of a glass of water.

I snuck down into the Auclair kitchens.

And who else was there but Jolie? Sitting at the kitchen table as if she knew I was coming. She had made herself a sandwich. And from the sight of her, a lightness took over me. It was as if my muscles finally relaxed for the first time in weeks.

“Hello, Angel.”

She turned around in her chair, her eyes lighting up at the sight of me. Her lips curved up in a wide smile.

“Ugh, don’t call me that.”

I stepped into the kitchen toward her.

“Why are you up late?” I asked.

Jolie sighed.

“Night terrors,” she replied.

“Again?”

“Always. I can’t get rid of them.”

My gaze lingered on the food in front of her. It didn’t look very appealing. It had been unevenly cut, and the bread looked stale.

“And you thought a sandwich would help?”

“I did,” Jolie replied quietly, “but then I made it. And it tastes like crap.”

“How the hell do you fuck up a sandwich?” I asked her.

“Seems like I can. Somehow. It’s my gift.”

I headed over to the fridge and poured myself a glass of cold water.