Page 1 of The Toy Collector

Chapter 1

Piper

The late August sun is relentless, baking the pavement as Lena and I walk across the quad, bags slung over our shoulders, cold drinks in hand. Campus is alive with first-day energy—students reuniting after the summer, freshmen looking lost, and professors checking their watches as they head to class. It’s our final year of grad school, but the excitement of being back still lingers, that rush of new schedules, new classes, new possibilities.

“God, did we ever look that young and scared?” she giggles, nodding toward a group of freshmen.

“Us? We’ve never looked young, Lee,” I laugh back. “I swear I had crow’s feet at eighteen. And I think I found my first gray hair the day of my final high school exam.”

I take a sip of my iced coffee—whipped cream, caramel drizzle, borderline dessert but absolutely necessary—Lena cradles her iced chai tea like it’s holy. She eyes my drink with disapproval but wisely doesn’t comment on my drink choice. As my best friend, her word is law in many areas of my life, just not the calorie goodness that is this drink.

“This is the year, Pipes,” she says, confident as ever. “We own this shit.”

“Damn right,” I mutter.

“We need to manifest good energy. Straight A’s, zero drama, and a thriving social life.”

I snort, licking whipped cream off my straw. “Yes, cause nothing says thriving social life like being a political student,” I mock good-naturedly.

Sighing, she slashes her hand through the air in a dramatic gesture. “Hey, it’s your birthday today, bitch. I don’t want to talk about capstone, internships, or anything else. We’re celebrating this weekend, right?”

Shrugging one shoulder, I avert my gaze. “Umm… what did you have in mind?”

While we make our way across the quad and into the office building, Lee lists off suggestions, each one involving copious amounts of alcohol. I try to keep my facial expression neutral, pretending to consider the options.

It’s not that I don’t like alcohol. But cocktail bars are more my scene than the loud clubs she’s prattling on about. Seriously, I don’t get the point of those places since you have to scream if you want to have a conversation.

“Give it up,” Lena laughs, hip bumping me as we stop outside the career center where I have a meeting with my advisor. “I know you hate going out. But seriously, Pipes. This is not just our last first-day. It’s your birthday, and our last year in this place. That deserves the kind of celebration that leaves a hangover.”

Groaning, I push the door open. “I’ll think about it,” I promise before I slip into the office.

“It’s happening whether you want it to or not,” Lee announces, and when I turn around to look at her, she’s pointing finger guns at me. “Might as well get with the program.”

Shaking my head, I slip into the office, immediately throwing my now empty plastic cup in the trash can by the door. Damn Lena and her over-the-top ideas.

A smile splays on my lips as I look up from the floor, confidently striding toward the secretary. But as I take my next step, my heel gets snagged on the carpet. I stagger backwards, my ankle wobbles, and just as I go down, I’m mentally cursing the shoes I’m wearing.

“Motherfucker—” Okay, I guess I’m not only using my inner voice.

I throw my arms out to stop myself from falling on my ass in the pristine Georgetown office.

Jesus H. Christ. In the three years I’ve been here, I’ve done everything in my power to be professional. Dressed for success, never skipped a day or delayed an assignment. Yet, here I am, my ass about to be intimately acquainted with the plush carpet, while a curse slips from me.

This distinctly feels like I’ve somehow offended a higher being, one that’s in turn decided to take revenge via humiliation.

My cheeks burn as I hurry to get back up, not sparing a glance at the people sitting in their chairs and waiting for their name to be called. After picking up my laptop bag, I roll my shoulders back and march up to the secretary.

“Hi,” I sing-song, throwing my dark brown hair over my shoulder. “I have an appointment with Mrs. Ellis.”

“Name,” the grouchy woman utters, not once looking up from her computer.

“Piper Harrington,” I reply, trying not to laugh as my gaze lands on her reflection in the window behind her. She’s playing solitaire, not curing some kind of rare disease.

Just as she starts telling me to take a seat, my advisor, Mrs. Ellis, sticks her head out of her office. “Come in, Piper,” she smiles.

I follow her into her den, which is exactly what it feels like. Everything from the walls to the furnishings is cloaked in dark wood and deep jewel tones—mahogany shelves lined with dense books, a Persian rug muted by time, and emerald velvet chairs that look more decorative than practical. The air is warm and slightly stale, laced with the scent of old paper and something faintly floral—like a perfume that’s long since faded into the walls.

We sit down at her desk, my back to the door. While she opens her laptop, I crane my neck, looking at the single lamp that glows in the corner. I’ll never understand why Mrs. Ellis always has her dark and heavy curtains drawn, especially not on a beautiful day like today.

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