Page 39 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

As he walks away, I can feel Cassidy’s arm slowly slide away from mine, her expression confused and concerned.

“Rhea, what the hell is going on?” she asks, but I barely hear her.

I glance back toward where Thatcher had been standing, but he’s already gone. Disappeared, like a ghost. And I’m left with the gnawing dread that this is far from over.

Chapter 9

I almost trip over it.

A plain white envelope, halfway under my door. No name. Just paper.

My stomach drops.

I pick it up slowly, like it might explode in my hands. It’s thin. Light. One sheet.

Inside, only a sentence:

I know what you did.

That’s it. No signature. No demand. Just a fact.

My hands start to shake.

My gaze flicks toward the windows. Locked. Then the hallway through the peephole. Empty.

I press the paper to my chest, like I can smother it there, like it’s not already carved into me.

Someone was here. Close enough to touch my door. Close enough to leave this. Close enough towatch.

This is no longer just a threat I can convince myself I imagined. It’s real.

The message plays over and over in my head like a broken loop.

I know what you did. I know what you did. I know what you did.

I should tell someone. Cassidy.

But the only person who really knows the truth—the whole, ugly truth—is the one who’s playing this game.

Thatcher.

And I don’t think this was a warning.

I think it was an invitation.

When I first came to college, I had made a pact with myself to not do anything that would bring too much attention to me. Fresh off a widely publicized murder trial where my dad’s face was plastered all over the news, where my mom and I were put under a microscope…I thought it was a reasonable goal. Just skate through college under the radar, not standing out.

To achieve this, I had to avoid a lot of things but at the top of my list was to avoid any affiliation with any Sorority or Fraternity as if my life depended on it. And yet, here I am, standing outside the Delta Sigma Rho house, about to walk right into the lion’s den.

The frat house looms in front of me, loud music thumping from within, the scent of beer and something else I can’t quite place hanging in the air. My stomach twists into knots as I stare at the massive oak door, contemplating my next move. The last time I was here, it was all a blur of chaos, masks, and blood. Now, it felt like walking into a trap, one Thatcher had carefully laid for me.

Do I just walk in?

Am I really doing this?

My mind screams at me to turn around and run. I’m not at fault until proven guilty, and I want to avoid any more trouble.Walking in there means I break the pact I made with myself. This will quickly turn into the exact opposite of the quiet, low-key college experience I promised myself. But Thatcher’s text, his threat…it feels like a ticking bomb. I don’t think I have a choice. Not if I want a shot at a normal life.

This is my only shot.

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