His expression reveals nothing to anyone watching, but I see the hunger beneath, the calculating gleam that transforms his features from pleasant to predatory.
Time resumes its normal pace, and Carson excuses himself from the group, taking a half-step in my direction, his lips parting to call out a greeting that would trap me in social obligation.
I turn before he can speak, pivoting toward a side corridor without breaking stride. My heart hammers as I increase my pace, not quite running but moving with purpose to discourage interruption.
The new hallway curves past the school office, offering an alternate route to the exit.
My leather shoes squeak on the freshly waxed floor, each sound amplified in the emptying corridor. Sweat dampens my collar as I navigate past bulletin boards advertising after-schoolprograms and PTA meetings. Every door I pass offers potential refuge, but stopping would mean capture.
The only safety lies in escape.
A memory surfaces of Carson’s office at Westbrook, the way he positioned my chair with its back to the door so I never saw who might enter during our “mentoring sessions.” The way he emphasized my potential while undermining my confidence. The way he isolated me from colleagues who might have become allies.
The side exit appears ahead, its push bar gleaming under emergency lights.
Three more steps.
Two.
One.
I hit the bar with both palms, the door swinging outward into the cool morning air. Sunlight spills across me as I emerge into the side courtyard, deserted now that classes have begun.
My pace slows only when I reach the parking lot, the distance great enough to loosen the vise around my lungs. I unlock my car with trembling fingers, sliding behind the wheel and slamming the door shut, engaging the locks.
My reflection in the rearview mirror reveals pupils dilated with adrenaline, skin pale beneath my tan. I force air into my lungs in measured breaths, four counts in, four counts out, the same technique I taught to Quinn.
The irony doesn’t escape me.
As I struggle to slow my racing pulse, I stare at Pinecrest Academy, which fills my rearview mirror, half expecting Carson to chase me down.
But he doesn’t need to run me to ground. He already has what he wants.
Complete authority in a controlled environment where I have no choice but to return every day if I want to keep my job.
It’s only a matter of time before I’m back within his grasp.
Chapter Eleven
Emily
The clock on the kitchen wall ticks past nine, and I check it for the tenth time in as many minutes.
Leif should have arrived an hour and a half ago, and my phone screen remains blank. No messages, no missed calls, and no explanation. I tap my fingers on the counter, the hollow rhythm echoing through the quiet cottage.
“Come on,” I mutter to my empty kitchen, swiping open my messages to check if I missed a notification.
But the last message I have from him remains unchanged.
Leif
See you soon.
Pinecrest Academy isn’t that far from my house.
The coffee sits cold in the pot, an inky film forming on its surface. I dump it down the drain, the liquid splashing around at the bottom of the stainless-steel sink.
I grab my phone again and navigate to his contact, my thumb hovering over the call button.