The morning sun cut across Crestwood High in sharp angles, illuminating dust motes that floated in the empty hallways. To everyone else, it was just another Friday. To Lily Dawson, it felt like the world itself had shifted, as if something fundamental had changed overnight.
Marcus Grant was gone. His desk sat empty, a faint echo of his laughter lingering in the classroom like a cruel joke. The other students whispered in corners, glancing at the empty seat with a mixture of curiosity and unease. No one suspected Lily. Of course they didn't. No one ever suspected Lily.
She sat at her desk, textbook open, hands folded neatly on the pages, her expression calm, collected, unremarkable. Yet beneath the surface, her mind was a maelstrom of emotions: exhilaration, guilt, fear, and—most disturbingly—pleasure. The first kill was over. The first rules had been tested. And she had won.
The cafeteria smelled like burnt toast and stale coffee. Lily navigated through clusters of students, her eyes flicking casually to every face. She cataloged them, as always: who laughed too loudly, who kept their hands fidgeting, who avoided eye contact. She noticed everything, yet no one noticed her.
Her gaze lingered on a group of boys near the far window. They were talking about Marcus, speculating on the circumstances of his disappearance. "He probably ran off with some girl," one said. Another shrugged, "Yeah, maybe got mugged or something."
Lily's lips curved into a polite smile, but her heart thrummed at the murmurs. The story she had fabricated in the shadows was taking root in the daylight. She had controlled it, shaped it, and now she watched it flourish.
Classes passed in a blur of rote repetition. Lily answered questions politely, raised her hand just enough, laughed when necessary, and kept her eyes down otherwise. Every movement was deliberate, every reaction calibrated to maintain the mask.
Yet even as she played the part of the perfect student, a part of her mind remained elsewhere: thinking, planning, observing. She noticed small anomalies—details that did not fit. The faint scuff on the floor near the alley where Marcus had fallen. The lingering smell of iron in the air near the lockers. Things no one else would notice. Things she could never let anyone see her notice.
And then there was Jason.
She had seen him the night of the murder, the way he had appeared so calm, so composed, so unnervingly aware. He hadn't moved to call for help, hadn't fled in panic. He had simply… observed. And then he had vanished.