Chapter 2 Two

"George Bennett is supposed to be dead."

For three seconds, I forgot how to breathe.

Then I laughed.

Not because anything was funny, but because Alex Anderson had just delivered the most ridiculous sentence I had ever heard, and some part of my brain refused to accept it as reality.

"Are you serious?"

He did not answer.

"Alex, that is not something you say to someone as a joke."

"I am not joking."

I studied his face, searching for the familiar smirk, the teasing expression, anything that would tell me he was trying to frighten me.

There was nothing.

His jaw was tight, his shoulders rigid. He looked as though he regretted saying the words but could not take them back.

I snatched my phone from his hand.

"What do you mean, George is supposed to be dead?"

"Keep your voice down."

"Do not tell me to keep my voice down! You just told me that someone I knew is dead, and I have a message from that same person warning me about you."

"I said George was supposed to be dead. I did not say he was."

"That distinction is not helping."

Alex dragged a hand through his hair and glanced toward Cathy. She had stopped pretending to be busy and was watching us with wide eyes.

"Cathy," he said, "could you give us a minute?"

"No," I answered before she could respond.

Alex looked at me.

"You want answers, do you not?"

"I want you to stop acting as though you are in charge of everyone in the room."

"And I want to know why someone is sending you messages about George."

"Perhaps you should ask yourself that question."

Something hardened in his expression.

For a moment, I thought he would argue. Instead, he picked up the folder from the table and pushed it toward me.

"Read the campaign schedule. We start tomorrow at nine in the morning."

I stared at him.

"You cannot be serious."

"Unfortunately, I am."

He walked toward the door.

"Alex!"

He stopped but did not turn around.

"What happened to George?"

His shoulders stiffened.

"I cannot explain something you do not understand."

"Then explain it."

He looked back at me, and the expression in his eyes made my stomach twist.

"Stay away from him, Sabrina."

Then he left.

I stood frozen beside the table, staring at the empty doorway.

Cathy approached slowly.

"What did he mean?"

I turned to her. "You tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"Everything you know about George and Alex."

Her face changed.

It was small, almost imperceptible, but I caught it. Her eyes shifted toward the door, and her fingers tightened around her coffee cup.

"Cathy."

"I do not know what Alex was talking about."

"You are a terrible liar."

"And you are asking questions I cannot answer."

"Cannot or will not?"

She looked at me with an expression that made my anger falter.

"Please, Sabrina. Let it go."

That frightened me more than Alex's words.

Cathy was many things, but she had never been a coward. She had defended me against people who mocked my clothes, argued with professors over unfair grades, and once threatened to report a senior student for spreading rumors about me.

If she was afraid to discuss George Bennett, there had to be a reason.

I picked up my bag.

"I have to go."

"Where?"

"To find out whether George is alive."

By noon, I had checked every social media account I could find connected to George Bennett.

His old university profile had disappeared. His photographs were no longer available on the account he used to share football updates. Even the messages I had sent him before he left Westbridge were buried beneath years of unanswered conversations.

I had not spoken to him since the end of my freshman year.

Back then, I had convinced myself that he had simply moved on with his life. People left universities. Friendships faded. Crushes remained unspoken and eventually became embarrassing memories.

But dead?

I could not accept that.

I was sitting beneath an oak tree outside the communications building when my phone vibrated again.

Unknown: Did you ask him?

I typed a reply before I could change my mind.

Me: Who are you?

The response came almost immediately.

Unknown: Someone who knows what Alex did.

Me: If you know so much, tell me what happened to George.

For several minutes, nothing happened.

Then my phone vibrated.

Unknown: Ask Alex why he was the last person to see George before the accident.

My stomach tightened.

Accident?

I read the message again, hoping I had misunderstood it.

A shadow fell across my notebook.

"You look like you have just failed every class you are taking."

I nearly dropped my phone.

Alex stood in front of me, holding two bottles of water.

I stared at him.

"Do you make a habit of appearing whenever someone is thinking about you?"

"Only when they are thinking unpleasant things."

"I assure you, my thoughts are much worse than unpleasant."

He held out one of the bottles.

I did not take it.

He placed it beside me and sat down anyway.

I shifted away.

He noticed.

"Am I contagious?"

"Only to people with poor judgment."

He gave a quiet laugh, but it faded when he noticed my phone.

"You received another message."

It was not a question.

I slipped the phone into my bag.

"That is none of your business."

"It becomes my business when someone uses your name to threaten me."

"I was not aware the messages mentioned you personally."

"They do not have to."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Listen to me. Whatever you think you know about George, you are missing important information."

"Then give me the information."

"I cannot."

"Convenient."

His eyes met mine.

"I know you do not trust me. I know you think I am the worst person on this campus. You are entitled to your opinion. But this is not a game."

"Then stop treating me like a child."

"I am trying to keep you out of something that could hurt you."

I almost laughed.

"You do not get to decide what I can handle, Alex."

"I know."

His answer was so quiet that I paused.

He looked away, watching a group of students cross the courtyard.

For the first time, I wondered whether the arrogance I associated with him was covering something else. Guilt, perhaps. Regret. Fear.

Whatever it was, I had no intention of making it my problem.

I stood and slung my bag over my shoulder.

"Tomorrow morning, I will do the interview. I will write the profile. I will complete every assignment the university gives me."

"Good."

"But outside that project, stay away from me."

He rose to his feet.

"That might be difficult."

"Why?"

"Because the campaign rules require us to attend the same events, travel together for away games, and work closely on the final documentary."

I stared at him.

He had the audacity to look amused.

"You are enjoying this."

"Not nearly as much as you think."

"Then stop smiling."

He lowered his gaze to my mouth.

"I was not smiling at your request."

My heart gave one ridiculous, traitorous beat.

I hated him for noticing.

I hated myself more for noticing that he had noticed.

"Stay away from me," I repeated.

This time, his expression became serious.

"I will, Sabrina. As long as you stay away from George."

I walked away without answering.

But halfway across the courtyard, my phone vibrated again.

I stopped beneath the building entrance and opened the message.

It contained a photograph.

The image was dark and grainy, but the two men in it were unmistakable.

Alex stood beside George outside a building I did not recognize. They appeared to be arguing. George's face was turned toward the camera, his expression furious, while Alex held one hand out as if trying to stop him from leaving.

A timestamp sat beneath the photograph.

October 14, 11:47 p.m.

I remembered that date.

It was the night George disappeared from Westbridge.

Another message appeared.

Unknown: Alex told everyone George was gone because of an accident.

My throat tightened.

The next message made my blood run cold.

Unknown: But the accident happened after this picture was taken.

I stared at the image, my fingers trembling around the phone.

Then a final message appeared.

Unknown: Ask him what was in the car, Sabrina.