Ashes wasn't on the windowsill.
That was the first sign something was off.
Brandon looked under the bed, behind the desk, even inside the mostly-closed closet door where she sometimes curled up in a hoodie. Nothing. He clicked his tongue once, soft. Usually that was enough to draw her out.
She didn't come.
His brows knit together as he stood in the middle of the room.
She never left the dorm for long. She didn't like people—tolerated them at best. Her world was small, by choice. Him, the room, the shadows.
The occasional nap on the radiator.
Something had lured her out.
He crossed his arms and stared at the door.
That's when the knock came.
Three taps. Not hesitant. Not polite.
Then the door creaked open before he even answered.
Beth.
Waltzing in like she owned the place. Like she hadn't planned to kill him a week ago.
Her black hoodie was too big, her bruises were fading into soft yellows and greens, and in her arms—like a damn queen returning from war—was Ashes.
"She was sleeping on my windowsill," Beth said casually, strolling in. "Hope you don't mind."
Brandon blinked. "She doesn't usually go far."
"Maybe she's tired of your broody energy,"
Beth said with a smirk, gently setting Ashes down on his bed. The cat stretched, yawned, and immediately hopped back into her usual corner, tail curling neatly around her body.
Beth plopped down in his desk chair without asking. Crossed her legs. Propped her chin on her hand.
"So," she said, eyes gleaming. "When are we killing someone again?"
Brandon stared at her, unblinking.
Beth tilted her head. "What? You can't expect me to go cold turkey. Not after you gave me that little gift. Tico was fun. Messy, but fun."
He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed.
"You sure you're ready?" he asked.
Beth raised a brow. "I'm not made of glass, Brandon. Besides, I liked it. You knew I would."
He exhaled through his nose. She wasn't wrong.
Beth needed this in the same way he needed order. Her chaos was her clarity.
He pulled out his notebook from under the bed. A plain black spiral, battered at the corners, pages stuffed with clippings, notes, addresses.
Two names were circled at the top of the page.
He flipped it over and held it toward her.
"Pick one," he said.
Beth's eyes flicked down the page.
—Dean Lomas. Age 42. Adjunct professor. Three sexual assault allegations, no charges. School covered it up.
—Ricky Talbot. Age 23. Local dealer. Cuts fentanyl into his supply. Three people in the last semester OD'd on his stuff.
Beth snorted. "You really know how to pick 'em."
"I don't do this for fun," Brandon said flatly.
She smiled sweetly. "I know. That's what makes you so adorable."
He didn't rise to the bait.
Her fingers hovered over the names. She tapped the page twice next to Talbot's name.
"Dealer boy," she said. "Professor's yours."
Brandon nodded. "Fair. Talbot's mostly on foot. Stays near the edge of campus, behind the student housing. I've seen him stash under the maintenance shed. Doesn't usually carry, just a blade."
She stretched her arms and leaned back in his chair, lazy, like a cat who just found a sunbeam.
"I'll make it look like a junkie fight. Blood in, blood out."
Brandon studied her. She was too casual, but he saw it. The edge in her eyes. The buzz in her voice.
She was itching.
Not to kill, exactly. But to feel.
"You follow my rules," he said again, quieter. "Clean, precise. Nothing that puts civilians at risk. No games. No masks. You get in. You get out."
Beth didn't roll her eyes this time. She nodded.
"Yeah," she said. "I remember."
A pause.
Then: "…Thanks, by the way."
He raised a brow. "For what?"
She shrugged. "Ashes missed you."
She stood and walked to the door without another word.
Ashes let out a low meow as she left, tail flicking once.
Brandon looked down at the open notebook.
The two names stared back at him.
He didn't like this. Letting her in, giving her a leash.
But he needed to see where it went.
Beth wasn't just a killer. She was a wildcard. A variable he couldn't pin down.
But for now… she was useful.
But she'd eventually have to make her choice.