Chapter 13
Thirteen
Journal Entry
Twenty-two years old
I know I have obsessive tendencies. Knowing that I have them and being able to stop the compulsions are two very different things.
I’ll fixate on something to the point it becomes unhealthy.
And Synthia no-middle-name Carmichael with cornflower-blue eyes from Dilliwyll, Virginia has become an obsession.
There’s no record of her birth or her life before she was adopted by Alana Carmichael, who also has a past as mysterious as her adoptive daughter’s.
They have zero online or social media presence, which is out of the norm for today when everyone wants to post about themselves in vivid detail for the world to see.
During my dive down the rabbit hole that is all things Synthia Carmicheal, I learned that she was a straight-A student.
She must have been held back at some point because her DMV record for her driver’s license lists her age at twenty.
She’s here at DF on scholarship, one provided by the Knight Foundation, Hendrix’s family, which ups the interest factor.
But what intrigues me the most about Synthia Carmichael is what happened to her before she was adopted.
Pyotr was able to access some of her medical records from Duke.
The full workup they did before her first skin graft showed evidence of past childhood abuse.
Scar tissue from old fractures and broken bones in multiple sites.
Healed knife wounds on her side near her kidney and lower rib cage.
Severe burns to her left arm, torso, upper thigh, and side.
Taken together, they show in graphic detail the horrific physical trauma Syn endured as a child.
And then there’s her diagnosed psychological trauma. PTSD and dissociative amnesia. Who is Synthia Carmichael? Even she doesn’t know.
Unfortunately, Tristan has put her on Francesco’s radar.
I found out about what happened in the alley the other night after Aleksei and I left the Bierkeller.
The guy I accidentally bumped into. Francesco sending his lap dog, Malin, to clean up the mess and his summon to Tristan the next morning.
And how following that summons, Syn has been living in the guys’ house near campus, even though she just leased an apartment off Chesterton Street.
A shitload of stuff has happened in a short period of time, and I do not believe in coincidences.
I almost feel sorry for the pretty redhead because she’s about to become collateral damage in my war against my father, Malin, my brother, and anyone else who had a hand in Aoife’s death.
“Your girl has shit taste,” Aleksei murmurs in my ear as Serena rambles on about a frat party this weekend.
I look up from my phone and immediately spot Syn walking across the quad—with fucking Constantine.
She’s wearing a powder-blue long-sleeved shirt and black leggings that conform to her shapely hourglass figure like a second skin.
Syn has a natural beauty that draws the eye.
Paired with her pale-blue eyes and red hair, you can’t help but notice her.
She’s like a single red rose in a garden filled with weeds.
The way Constantine has been smiling as Syn talks only proves how unique she is.
He never smiles. Or talks. Not since we were kids.
The latter because of his father. Gabriel Ferriera is the epitome of the enemy of my enemy is my friend and another vital piece on my chessboard of revenge.
Sensing he has eyes on him, Constantine’s grin falls when he sees me watching, but it’s Syn’s curious interest when she turns and looks at me that hits me like a blow to the chest. I don’t know what it is about this particular woman that pulls at something I thought I had buried a long time ago.
It must be her eyes. They remind me so much of the girl who owned my heart as a boy.
Pocketing my phone inside my messenger bag, I tear away from Aleksei and the girls he’s talking to, the impulse to follow Syn too strong to ignore.
I maintain my distance and stay out of sight as Constantine waits for Syn to go inside Barnaby Hall. As soon as he leaves, I jog up the steps and enter the building through the front double glass doors and get blasted in the face by a whoosh of chilled air being pumped out of the overhead vent.
I know which auditorium Syn will be in because I’ve seen her class schedule.
The main corridor past the entrance buzzes with excited chatter and the squeak of sneakers on freshly polished tile as students hurry to their first class of the day.
Just as I get to the open auditorium doors, I stop short, Syn’s long, crimson ponytail unmistakable in the back row, first seat next to the aisle.
Damn. That complicates things.
Unaware that I’m standing only a few feet away, Syn rifles through the backpack she set on the floor.
Her hair falls forward over her shoulder, giving me a flash of her profile—and for a second, I’m struck by how much she looks like her.
An invisible fist reaches inside my chest and strangles my heart until it barely beats.
Some days, I want to be free from the torture of Aoife’s memory.
Maybe, once I get her justice, missing her won’t hurt so fucking much.
“Dude, you’re in the way,” someone says as people squeeze past me, one by one, filling the auditorium with noise, anticipation, and the aroma of the dozens of to-go cups of coffee they picked up before class.
A girl wearing paint-splotched coveralls and green-rimmed glasses sits down next to Syn, and I use the distraction to slip inside. Keeping my head lowered, I skirt the outer edge of the tiered floor toward the farthest seat in the back corner where the overhead lights don’t quite reach.
For the next hour, my focus never strays from the woman who has become my instant obsession. Every smile, every head tilt, the long, graceful curve of her neck, the way she holds the pencil as she jots down notes, are etched into my brain in vibrant detail.
When the professor eventually dismisses everyone, I’m the last to leave, but I don’t exit the building because Syn is standing at the bottom of the steps, looking around, like she’s waiting for someone.
After four minutes, she checks her phone, her posture displaying her growing irritation.
Several more minutes lapse before she takes off down the sidewalk that cuts through the middle of the quad.
I don’t see any of the guys lurking, so I quietly stalk her, my feet having a mind of their own as they eat up the ground in her wake.
I should turn around and go to class, but I’ve already missed Comparative Politics and am in no hurry to get to my Leadership in Emerging Technology lecture.
With the last vestiges of summer holding on as long as they can before the cooler temperatures of autumn roll in, sweat beads on my neck from the intense August morning sun that burns through the upper haze of cirrus clouds.
A lot of students are already taking advantage of the beautiful day and warm weather.
A half dozen shirtless guys fling a frisbee back and forth.
A few sunbathers lie on blankets in the grass, while others sit under the shade of the maple and sweet gum trees and work on their laptops.
Syn ducks into the library, me close on her heels.
The guy behind the reception desk looks up when I walk in, then goes back to the book he was reading.
I hold back as Syn presses the button to summon the elevator, the number on the digital display counting down to ground level, and as soon as the doors whoosh open, I’m right behind her.
I feel, more than see, the tension that overtakes her when the doors close, sealing us inside the lift.
Her gardenia scent wraps around me, and I want to know if it’s something she uses like perfume or soap, or if it’s just her.
People carry a natural musk unique to only them, and I can usually tell who someone is without ever seeing them.
Mama smelled like vanilla. Aleksei has hints of cinnamon.
Tristan carries a more woodsy fragrance, similar to cedar. I have no clue what I smell like.
“Floor?” I casually ask. I hadn’t planned on approaching her yet, but here we are because my dumb ass decided it wanted to talk to her.
Like a trapped bird in a cage, Syn plasters herself against the wall, tucking her bag behind her. Her reaction to me is visceral, and I know right away that Tristan has warned her about me because she looks scared out of her mind. Fucking Tristan.
“Five, please,” she says with a soft, lyrical cadence that carries a whisper of a Southern drawl.
Her calm voice is in direct opposition with how her hands frantically fumble with the zipper to the front pouch of her bag. If she’s trying to be discreet, she’s failing big time.
Deciding to play the bogeyman she thinks I am, I press the button for five, then rest my shoulder against the metal operating panel. “You’re the first girl I’ve ever seen Constantine with. I wonder what makes you so special.”
Within the confines of the small space, my voice booms louder than intended, and she flinches, her hands moving more urgently as she searches her bag for something, probably pepper spray.
“I’m sorry. Have we met?” she asks.
Unnerved by her wide-eyed blue stare because her goddamn eyes are a ghost’s, I focus on the rapid flutter of the pulse point on the side of her neck. “Aleksander Stepanoff. I’m an…acquaintance of your boyfriend.”
I’m fishing for information, and I don’t like it when she doesn’t refute my assumption. Her nervousness is starting to fluster me, so I snatch her bag from her grasp to make her stop.
“Give that back,” she snaps.
Spotting her phone inside the front pocket, I zip it up and transfer her bag to my other hand to prevent her from retrieving it.
Her eyes sweep down the tattoos covering my arms to the ones inked on my hands where the words ANGEL and DEVIL are written across the upper knuckles of each finger, and I feel her visual perusal as if she were physically touching me.
My short time with Synthia Carmichael comes to an end when the elevator jars to a stop, and the doors open.
I hold my arm out. “After you.”
She bristles like a pissed-off cat, her demeanor flipping from scared to fuck-you, and for some bizarre reason, that fascinates me.
With more bravado than most men who face me show, she says, “Forgive me for not being one of the girls you see in the movies who stupidly follows the serial killer to their demise. I don’t know you, which means I’m not getting off this elevator with you.”
I can’t stop my amused grin, even though I’m also annoyed that she would assume the worst about me.
Again, I blame my half brother and whatever he told her that made her think that.
Tristan and I may hate each other, and I may want him dead more often than not, but I have never raised my fist to a woman.
I wouldn’t. I saw my mother with black eyes and bruises on a daily basis, and that’s a line I will never cross.
My tone is cold when I inform her, “If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done so already.”
Biting her plush bottom lip, Syn hesitates before replying, “Answer is still no. Give me back my bag.”
She appears shocked when I immediately comply and step out of the elevator, knowing full well she’s not going to join me. Wasting no time, Syn jabs at the buttons and heaves a sigh of relief when the doors start to come together.
“See you around, Synthia.”
That’s a promise I plan to keep.