Page 52 of Stalk Me

"Do we trust him?" I ask quietly.

Erik considers the question. "I trust that he wants to do the right thing. Whether he can actually help us remains to be seen."

I lean my head against his shoulder, the events of the day catching up with me. "Everything could go wrong."

"Or everything could go right," he counters, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "Either way, we're fighting back. That's what matters."

We stay like that for a long time, drawing comfort from each other's presence as night falls outside my window. Tomorrow, we'll set our plan in motion. Tomorrow, we'll start fighting back.

But tonight, in this quiet moment, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, there's a way out of the darkness after all.

The Big Move

My fingers tremble around the USB drive as I slip it into a small velvet pouch and tuck it into my bra. The emails I discovered with Professor Austin's help echo through my mind, each one a new level of horror. Erik and I have gone over our plan a dozen times, refining every detail. The stakes couldn't be higher—he's been invited to the gathering, and they're planning to take him to Munich for "recalibration," a word that still makes me wake up screaming from nightmares I can't shake.

I check my phone again. The campus map shows me the cafeteria is at peak capacity—perfect for what we need to do. Erik and I crafted our plan carefully after I shared everything I found in my father's emails. The irony isn't lost on me—I've spent my whole life learning to manipulate others, and now I have to use that training to protect someone I care about.

The hallway outside my dorm stretches before me like a gauntlet. Belle could be anywhere. Her father and mine are in this together, orchestrating our movements like pieces on a chessboard. My stomach twists at the thought of how close I came to trusting her, how easily I could've fallen into their trap.

"Time to move," I whisper to myself, squaring my shoulders. The walk to the cafeteria feels endless, each step weighted with the knowledge that this might be our last chance.

When I arrive, the noise hits me like a physical force—the clatter of silverware, dozens of overlapping conversations, the scrape of chairs against the floor. My eyes scan the crowd until they land on Erik. He's sitting at a table in the center of the room, exactly as planned. His eyes find mine immediately, and something passes between us—understanding, fear, determination.

I start walking toward him, feeling the weight of countless stares on my back. My heel catches on a crack in the floor, sending me stumbling slightly. It's not part of the plan, but I'll use it—every detail matters in a performance like this.

I stop at his table, letting every eye in the room follow me. Erik looks up, his storm-gray eyes meeting mine briefly in silent confirmation before his expression hardens into the mask we've practiced.

"You wanted to talk?" he asks, voice cool but loud enough to catch the attention of nearby tables. "Make it quick. I have class."

"Don't act like you don't know why I'm here," I spit out, projecting my voice just enough to draw more attention without seeming theatrical. "I saw the texts, Erik. Every single one of them."

His brow furrows in perfectly feigned confusion. "What the hell are you talking about?"

I slam my hands on the table, making his water glass rattle. "The ones between you and that bitch! Did you think I wouldn't find out? That I'm too stupid to see when I'm being played?"

The cafeteria quiets as heads turn toward us. From the corner of my eye, I spot Belle at her usual table, watching with that perfect blend of shock and delight that confirms she's buying our show. She's playing right into our hands, not realizing she's being played herself.

Erik stands slowly, towering over me. His eyes flash with a momentary glint—a silent reminder that we're in this together—before his expression hardens. "You're delusional. There's nothing between me and her."

"Then why were you in her room last night?" The lie rolls off my tongue easily, exactly as we rehearsed. "Why is she wearing your fucking sweatshirt today?"

His face twists into practiced anger, the performance so convincing that despite knowing it's an act, I feel a chill run down my spine.

"Maybe because you're too fucked up for anyone to deal with!" he shouts back, his voice echoing across the suddenly silent cafeteria. "You push away anyone who tries to get close, then act surprised when they give up!"

There's a collective intake of breath from our audience. I see phones coming out, recording our meltdown. Perfect.

"I trusted you," I hiss, letting tears well in my eyes. My voice breaks just enough to seem genuine. "I told you things I've never told anyone else."

"Yeah, well, maybe that was your first mistake," he says, and the hollow laugh that follows sends a chill down my spine. He's good at this—too good. "I'm done trying to save you, Luna. You don't want to be saved. You just want to drag everyone down with you."

I reach out and slap him across the face, the sound cracking through the silent room like a gunshot. His head snaps to the side with the impact, exactly as we practiced in the empty classroom the night before. He takes the hit perfectly, his shocked expression selling the moment to our audience.

"Fuck you," I whisper, forcing more tears to my eyes even as I send him a silent apology. "I was starting to think you were different."

"And I was starting to think you were worth the trouble," he shoots back, rubbing his cheek with practiced indignation. "Guess we were both wrong."

I turn on my heel, forcing my shoulders to shake slightly as if I'm holding back sobs. The crowd parts as I move through it, whispers following in my wake. Just before I reach the door, I risk one last glance back. Erik has sunk into his chair, head in his hands, executing the final move of our choreographed performance with perfect precision.

---