The calculation is instant.
I can see it happening behind her eyes, the scroll through memory, the connection snapping into place.
Sheknows.
Not because I'm famous.
Because Morgantown has a long memory, and the name Halstead was front-page news in this town for nearly a year.
Some people still remember the face of the girl who sat in the courtroom every day behind a woman who used to love a monster.
I changed my name. Changed everything I could change.
But you can't change bone structure, and my father's cheekbones sit on my face whether I want them there or not.
The woman doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to.
The half-step back says it. The way her hand tightens on her purse strap says it.
I take my coffee and walk out. My face stays neutral. My hands stay steady around the cup. It doesn't sting anymore, but it used to.
When I was fifteen and kids at school whispered behind my back.
When I was seventeen, a boy I'd been dating for two months broke up with me in the cafeteria because his mother told him to, because of who my father was.
When I was nineteen and my psychology professor pulled me aside after class and asked if I was "coping okay" with a tone soaked in pity and morbid curiosity.
And lastly, a few weeks ago, when a girl at a party recognized me and announced it to the room like she'd spotted a celebrity, except the celebrity was a murderer and I was his fucking souvenir.
It used to sting. Now it's a weather pattern. Something you dress for and walk through without stopping.
My statistics class is in Armstrong Hall, second floor, room 224.
I take the stairs because the elevator in this building smells like old carpet and anxiety.
The classroom is half-full when I arrive. I sit where I always sit. Back row, end seat, closest to the door.
Not because I think I'll need to leave. Because having the exit at my shoulder makes the room feel bigger, and bigger rooms are easier for me to breathe in.
I pull out my laptop and open my notes.
Most of the seats around me are empty because the back row is where the students who don't want to be called on gather, and we've all silently agreed to give each other space.
A bag drops onto the desk one seat over.
I glance up.
Black hair. Brown eyes so dark they're almost the same color.
Swimmer's build, lean and angular.
A body built by actual movement, not a gym membership.
He's wearing a plain black jacket over some layers, with jeans and boots scuffed enough to have seen real dirt, not that fake fashion dirt they stain everything with these days.
No backpack, no laptop. A single notebook and a pen he clearly borrowed from someone because it's pink with a feather on the end.
He's been sitting near me for the last month. Not next to me. Near me.