/1/117360/coverbig.jpg?v=21066bd1b668ed958deec2041a0c38da)
em back,
but her chemistry notes were in his hand. Brock Stone, star quarterback and king of Ansley Preparatory Academy, held them just out of her re
, their laughter echoing off the brick. They
nting at the page. "Is this even English?
, her voice trembling.
h harder. "A test? Oh n
e with your re
the jeers with the clean precision of a scal
lo and khakis. Instead, she had on a pair of worn black jeans, a faded band t-shirt, and a thin ja
nto a sneer. "Look what we have he
e crumpled notes in his hand. She took in the scene in a single, cold
t wasn't a request. It was a statement
ghed, and with a deliberate, theatrical motion, he crum
s the t
a high school fight. It was a fluid, startlingly fast
s already gone, ducking under his arm with an economy of motion that
flash of pol
even process what they were seeingffed, sun-bleached blond hair drifted
. The laughter died i
stubbly patch of hair. His face, a mask of arrogant amusement just a second ago, twis
he bellowed, hi
used that single, precious second of their s
un
uced paralysis. She scrambled to her feet,
f rage was pri
n't run blindly. She guided Sarah, her movements sure and certain, weaving through a maze of campus shortcuts
the open green space suddenly feeling vast and exposed. Students mill
, Alison gave Sarah a firm shove towards the imposing
her eyes wide with fear and
ent chase, away from the library. But her momentum was too great. S
g into a solid,
health center, moving with an air of detached, unhurried
of her. She stumbled back, the pair of professional-grade barber shears she'd
s, steadying her. The touch was surprisingly firm, the fi
nnoyed and ready
died in
she had ever seen. They were the color of a winter storm, and they wer
culously overqualified school doctor. And he had se

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