Chapter 11
Andrea stood frozen in the doorway, her stomach twisting. The cards on her desk weren’t just scattered; they were arranged. Fanned out like a macabre bouquet, the Ace of Spades sat dead center, a thin smear of what looked like blood staining its edge. The other cards flanked it, the red hearts almost mocking her.
Her pulse quickened as she stepped closer, her eyes darting around the room. The blinds were closed. The door had been locked.
“How did someone even get in here?” she whispered to herself, her voice barely above a breath.
She reached out hesitantly, her fingers hovering over the Ace. The stain made her stomach turn, but what unnerved her more was the deliberate precision. Someone wanted her to see this. Someone wanted her to feel this crawling dread.
Her gaze flicked toward Sophie’s bed. Still perfectly made, the pillow untouched. The silence of the room pressed in on her, heavier than ever without Sophie’s steady presence to break it.
Andrea snatched her phone from her bag, checking for any messages. Nothing. No missed calls. No warnings.
Her heart sank as she sank into the desk chair, staring at the cards. It was a challenge, a message—but what was it trying to say?
That night, Andrea found herself wandering the halls after dinner. She told herself she needed fresh air, but the truth was, she couldn’t face the dorm room again. Not yet.
The mailbox area was deserted, the fluorescent lights flickering faintly overhead. Andrea fiddled with her key as she approached her slot. When she pulled the small door open, a plain white envelope sat inside.
Her breath caught as she pulled it out, the edges of the paper crisp, like it had been slipped in only minutes before.
No name. No return address.
Andrea tore it open and unfolded a single piece of paper.
“If you want to stay safe, learn what happened to Emma Lawrence two years ago.”
She read the message three times before the words began to make sense.
“Emma Lawrence,” Andrea muttered under her breath. The name rang a faint bell, like something she’d heard in passing but never fully registered.
Her hands trembled as she folded the paper and stuffed it into her pocket. The hallway felt colder now, the shadows longer.
The library was nearly empty during her late-night study session with Damien. His dark hair fell in loose waves as he scribbled effortlessly in his notebook, the faint scratching of his pen the only sound between them.
Andrea tried to focus on her notes, but her mind kept circling back to the note. And the cards. And Emma.
Finally, she couldn’t hold it in anymore. She leaned back in her chair and glanced at him casually, though her pulse was anything but calm.
“Damien, can I ask you something?”
He didn’t look up. “You just did. Try again.”
Andrea rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips despite the tension in her chest. “Do you know who Emma Lawrence is?”
The scratching of his pen stopped mid-stroke.
For a moment, the silence was so sharp it felt like a blade. Damien’s hand stilled, his knuckles tightening around the pen.
“Why are you asking about her?” His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it she hadn’t heard before.
Andrea shrugged, trying to keep her tone light. “I heard her name somewhere. Just curious.”
Damien’s jaw clenched, and for the first time since she’d met him, his calm, collected mask cracked. A shadow passed over his face, his dark eyes narrowing.
“Curiosity isn’t always a good thing,” he said finally, his voice colder than usual.
Andrea blinked, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. “I didn’t mean anything by it—”
“Drop it,” Damien snapped, his gaze flicking up to meet hers. For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw something behind his eyes—fear? Regret?
Then, just as quickly, it was gone.
He gathered his papers with deliberate precision, standing abruptly. “I have to go,” he muttered, not meeting her gaze.
Andrea watched him walk away, her chest tight. Damien Sinclair didn’t get rattled. Ever. But Emma’s name had done something to him.
And she needed to know why.
When Andrea returned to the dorm that night, Sophie was there.
Her roommate sat cross-legged on her bed, her back against the wall and her hair spilling messily over her shoulders. She looked pale, her usual quiet strength replaced by a visible fragility.
“Sophie,” Andrea said softly, closing the door behind her.
Sophie looked up, her eyes red-rimmed but determined. “Hey,” she said, her voice a little shaky.
Andrea hesitated before sitting on the edge of her own bed. “Are you okay? I mean, really?”
Sophie’s lips pressed into a thin line. She nodded, but it was clear the answer wasn’t as simple as that. “I just needed to get out of the infirmary,” she admitted. “It was… suffocating.”
Andrea studied her for a long moment, the silence between them thick with unspoken questions.
“I found something,” Andrea said carefully, testing the waters. “A note. About Emma Lawrence.”
Sophie flinched, her gaze snapping to Andrea’s. “What did it say?”
Andrea hesitated, then pulled the crumpled paper from her pocket and handed it over.
Sophie read it quickly, her fingers tightening around the edges. She didn’t speak right away, her shoulders tense.
“I don’t know what happened to her,” Sophie said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “But people don’t just disappear from Blackthorn without a reason.”
Sophie set the note down on the desk, then reached out, her hand covering Andrea’s. “Whatever happens, I’m with you. Okay?”
Andrea met her gaze, surprised by the fierceness in her tone. “You mean that?”
“Of course I do.” Sophie managed a small, shaky smile. “You’re not in this alone.”
Andrea squeezed her hand, grateful for the reassurance. But as she glanced back at the cards still sitting on the desk, her unease only deepened.
Whoever had left them wanted her scared. And they were succeeding.
