The next day arrived like a sigh Brandon didn't know he'd been holding.
Weaver's gray skies cast a damp gloom over the campus, but the Deadfast Club still gathered in the old storage room like always. Out of routine. Out of obligation. Maybe even out of fear they refused to admit to.
Brandon arrived second to last, just before Beth.
She looked like hell, and not in the charming, gothic way she usually carried herself. No, this time her bruises had settled into ugly shades—yellow-green around the jaw, an angry scab just under her eye. She didn't look at anyone as she slid into her usual seat.
He noted her silence. Her stillness.
No smartass comment, no sharp observations.
She was withdrawing again.
He didn't like that.
Not because he was worried about her.
Because he was watching for patterns. And Beth slipping back into silence was dangerous.
The meeting was hollow. No big Ghostface theories. No real reason to be here. Just talk. Small stuff. Gossip. Liv asked about class schedules. Manny talked about his podcast. Kym made fun of Amir for accidentally going into the girl's bathroom again.
But Liv was watching. Always watching.
She was smarter than she let on, Brandon noted. While the others laughed and chatted, Liv's eyes danced between Beth's bruised face and his own hands—still bearing faint scrapes and a single cracked knuckle, now scabbed over.
She didn't say anything.
She didn't have to.
Brandon saw the calculation flash behind her eyes.
And that's when he knew.
She thought he'd hit Beth.
It happened right after the meeting ended.
Brandon felt it in the air.
Everyone filed out. Beth was the last one to leave, giving him the briefest glance that said, Don't do anything stupid.
Not that he planned to.
But the second he stepped into the quad, two campus security officers were waiting for him.
"Brandon Whitfield?"
He paused. Didn't answer.
"You need to come with us."
Brandon didn't resist. He already knew what this was.
He'd been expecting trouble from Beth. He didn't expect it to come wearing a badge and polyester uniform.
The interrogation room smelled like coffee, sweat, and Lysol.
"We're not accusing you," one officer said, though the tone made it clear they absolutely were. "We just want your side of the story. There's been a report of an assault."
"I haven't assaulted anyone."
"Really?" The officer flipped a page on the clipboard. "Because we have a student report that you were seen with bruised knuckles—same night Beth Sinclair came back with injuries consistent with blunt force trauma. Would you like to explain that?"
"I fell," Brandon lied flatly.
"You fell."
"Yep."
"On your fists?"
Brandon said nothing.
The second officer leaned forward. "Listen, we're just trying to keep students safe. This isn't about arresting anyone. If you were involved in an altercation, it's better to be honest. Tell us what happened and—"
The door opened.
Beth stepped in.
Brandon blinked. The room seemed to slow.
She looked just as wrecked as before, but her posture was different—upright, collected.
Sharp again.
"I asked to be here," she said to the officers. "I heard what this was about."
"Miss Sinclair—"
"He didn't hit me," she said, cutting the officer off. "It was a group of drunk frat boys. Five of them. I was walking near the dorms. They circled me. One of them hit me first, the rest followed."
"And Mr. Whitfield?" The officers turned to him.
Brandon watched her carefully, waiting for the moment she decided to pin it all on him anyway. But it didn't come.
"He saved me," she said, tone matter-of-fact. "I don't know how he showed up, but he pulled them off me. I passed out. Woke up in his room. That's the truth."
The officers exchanged a glance.
"Do you have any idea why you were targeted?" one asked.
Beth just smiled, lips bloodless. "Do I look like the kind of girl frat boys need a reason to mess with?"
The officer cleared his throat and looked away.
Beth leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Are we done here?"
A pause. Then a reluctant, "For now."
The officers nodded toward Brandon, silently dismissing him.
He stood, slow and careful, still watching Beth like she might shatter or explode.
The hallway outside was quiet.
Beth didn't say anything at first. Just started walking. Brandon followed a step behind, pulse tight in his throat.
"Why'd you do that?" he asked after a minute.
"You saved me," she replied simply.
"I didn't think you would return the favor."
"I didn't. I told the truth." She looked at him sideways. "I thought you liked that kind of thing."
He shook his head. "You could've gotten me expelled."
"I could've. But I didn't." Her lip curled slightly.
"You were supposed to be better than me, remember?"
He stared at her, unsure of what he felt.
It wasn't gratitude.
But it wasn't suspicion either.
Just confusion.
Finally, she stopped walking. Turned to face him fully.
"I still don't like you," she said. "I still don't trust you. But we're… tethered now."
Brandon raised an eyebrow. "Tethered?"
"You've seen me raw. And I've seen you hesitate. We both know each other's lies now." Her voice dropped. "We're monsters playing human. And monsters always recognize each other."
Brandon said nothing.
Beth turned on her heel and walked away.
Ashes would be waiting in his room when he got back, probably curled in his hoodie again.
Brandon didn't move for a long time.
The hallway hummed with the buzz of fluorescent lights.
Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang.
And still, he stood there—trying to understand why the girl he was supposed to kill had just saved him.