sweet writer girl who loves to people watch, sneering down on the fuckups of us normies. Let’s be honest, you wouldn’t even be friends with me if I weren’t such a pushy bitch.” She crosses her arms, convinced of that fact. “I don’t even know a damn thing about you, other than you write morbid short stories about monsters and drowning people. If I didn’t know any better, Dewitt, I’d assume you were ashamed of me.”
It’s my turn to play skeptical. “Says the girl who impressed so many professors on campus that they’ve practically begged for you to take their classes next semester.” Meanwhile, I had to rest on my grades to score the next credits I need. “I’m the idiot who banked all of my hopes on one program.”
“Well, there is that,” she concedes, beaming. “But it’s not like you don’t have a shot at entering the Fenwick program next year. I haven’t even bothered to apply, and don’t give me that look. Anyone would kill for that internship.”
“Like I really have any chance of winning,” I say with a forced laugh.
“Yeah, right. Your shit is so good you’ve already made the paper. I’m sure you’ll ace the entry essay. What’s the topic again?”
“Inner demons,” I say, recalling the assignment that’s been plaguing me since the semester ended. “We’re supposed to describe a narrative during which we faced an inner demon—”
“But with fancy descriptive prose. You’re the queen of that. If anything, tonight just gave you plenty of inspiration to draw from. ‘Inner Demon’ could perfectly fit Rafe Wei-Shen,” Mara declares with utter conviction. The tears have already vanished, and she’s back to her usual self. “Anyway, about tomorrow. Promise you’ll come?”
“I have to work. Mr. Zhang wanted me to stay late tomorrow to help close up the store.”
“Oh, come on! It’ll be great. You can trial balloon your essay!” She delves into a vivid description of how much fun it will be—how exhilarating—much like she had to convince me to come with her tonight. Though I barely register her words, I nod along anyway.
I’m too busy staring at the object clutched within my fist as if it appeared there by magic. Or… if I’d stuck my hand into a certain “punk’s” pocket and took it while he was distracted.
Stole it.
The brilliant orange ombre lighter looks more beautiful up close. Too lovely to belong to a monster—though one is etched onto the front of it in gleaming, brilliant gold.
A snarling, fire-breathing dragon.
Not all monsters are destined to be bad in the end. I’ll save this one.
Or at least protect it from its original owner’s reach.
Chapter Two
Hell.
Cigarette smoke.
Ash.
I can still smell him right up until the second I open my eyes…
Then poof. He’s gone like magic, and a new day begins fresh.
I’ve always been good at compartmentalizing things since childhood. With a little determination, scary events become nightmare fodder easily ignored during the daytime. When I wake up, thoughts of strange men and their taunts are a long-forgotten memory.
It’s how I cope.
As is rifling through the old shoebox tucked beneath my bed the second I lift my head from my pillow. A yawn stretches my mouth as I feel along the floor for the box, drag it out, and tug aside the lid. One by one, I grasp the objects inside it.
The first is just an old newspaper clipping, the headline unoriginal—Local Girl Found Drowned in Lake Beaver. I set it aside and run my fingers over the items resting beneath it. An old piece of taffy long past its sell-by date. A handful of unopened ChapSticks. Two never-used bottles of nail polish. A gold bracelet decorated in tiny, delicately crafted ivory daisies. And finally, the newest member of my collection—a gold lighter that feels dangerous when held after the others.
I take my time observing the shape of it in the pale dawn glow. It blazes against my yellow bedspread, the most eye-catching detail in my sparsely furnished room at the moment. I start to return it to my box, only to place it on my nightstand instead. It’s too bold to belong with my other trinkets. Maybe looking at it will remind me to get some new décor.
Anything, really.
I sigh as I take in the narrow space, devoid of any posters or pictures. Just books, most of them damaged stock foisted onto me by my boss, Mr. Zhang. I think he took pity on my lack of thrifting success and decided that volumes of history and literature make for