Chapter 6
ALICE
THE LENS BETRAYS
Iwake up hoping last night was a dream.
A nightmare, preferably.
That would make things easier. Nightmares lose their teeth in daylight. They turn stupid once you’re awake, all shadows, impossible sounds and your brain being a dramatic asshole for no reason.
Except my room is still my room.
Second-floor walk-up. Too small and cold. Radiator hissing beneath the window like it’s fighting for its life. Rain ticking against the glass above my desk. Boots by the door, crusted with mud from the woods.
So.
Real, then.
Great.
Love that for me.
I stare at the ceiling and try to stay perfectly still, as if my body hasn’t already started reporting every bad decision from last night in painful little bullet points.
Jagger was right.
I can still feel him.
No romance or soft-focus bullshit. Just the ugly proof of him sitting in my muscles, under my skin, between my thighs, in the sore press of my hips where his hands held me against cemetery stone like he’d caught something he had no plans to give back.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Mistake.
The woods come back fast.
The mask. The knife. His voice through the rain. My breath breaking in my chest. The way I ran and kept glancing behind me, telling myself I wanted distance while every stupid part of me listened for him getting closer.
I wanted him to chase me.
That’s the part I can’t make prettier.
I wanted the fear because it had his hands attached to it. I wanted the dark because he was waiting inside it. I wanted him to catch me.
And then I let him.
My stomach twists, but regret would be cleaner than whatever this is.
I sit up and immediately hate that choice when a dull ache pulls low through my body. My hand goes to the neckline of my sweater before I can talk myself out of it.
The cut is still there.
Thin. Red. Darker around the edges. Sitting on the curve of my breast like evidence with an attitude problem.
I touch it with two fingers and my breath catches.
Fantastic.
Apparently, humiliation is on the schedule before coffee.
The second my fingers brush the mark, I remember his tongue there. Rain on his lips. The mask lifted just enough for him to taste what he’d done. His eyes after, wild and locked on me like he’d found something he wanted to keep.
Or something in himself finally stopped pretending.
Both options are deeply concerning.
I yank my sweater higher, fall back against the pillow, and glare at the ceiling like it owes me an apology.
“We are not going to romanticize the psychopath,” I mutter.
A tiny scrape comes from the glass tank near my desk.
I turn my head.
Right.
My roommates.
Ernie and Bernie, my two hermit crabs, are awake and apparently already handling their morning business with more purpose than I have ever had in my life.
Bernie is halfway up the driftwood, hauling his tiny shelled body over it like he’s scaling Everest instead of a sad piece of pet-store decor.
Ernie is tucked under the little cave with one claw sticking out, clearly judging me from the safety of his shell.
Rude, but not surprising, I’d judge me too.
“At least one of us has a survival instinct,” I mutter.
Bernie slips, slides backward into the sand, and immediately freezes like that was absolutely the plan.
Okay.
So maybe none of us do.
I drag myself out of bed, pull on the biggest black sweater I own, and go to the tank.
Their water needs changing. Their food dish is mostly empty.
One of the spare shells has been dragged halfway across the sand, probably by Bernie, because he likes pretending he’s going to upgrade his life and then immediately getting overwhelmed by the commitment.
Relatable.
I refill their water, sprinkle food into the dish, and adjust the shells even though they’ll move them again the second I stop looking.
Hermit crabs are weird little things. They carry their homes around because apparently even nature understands the world can’t be trusted.
They hide when they need to. They switch shells when the old one stops fitting.
Must be nice.
Knowing when something doesn’t fit anymore.
My gaze drifts to the camera on my desk.
That used to be my shell.
The camera made everything easier. Safer. People are better through glass. You can crop them down to what you understand. Choose the angle. Fix the lighting. Freeze one second and pretend the rest of the person doesn’t exist.
That’s what Jagger was supposed to be.
A subject.
A violent one, sure, but still just a subject.
Then he looked back.
He followed.
Then I ran.
And the worst part isn’t that he caught me. The worst part is that I think some part of me slowed down so he could.
I sit back on my heels and press both hands over my face.
Jagger scares me because I understand him more than I should.
That might be the worst part.
There’s nothing confusing about the way he wants.
It’s direct. Ugly. Honest in a way that should make it easier to hate.
Jealousy sits right on his face, no matter how hard he tries to bury it.
Possession comes out of his mouth like a fact, like I’m the unreasonable one for thinking it should scare me.
Last night was fucked up.
The mask. The woods. The knife. His hands on me. Mine on him. Every chance I had to stop it sitting right there between us, waiting for me to do the smart thing.
I didn’t.
That part keeps sitting heavy in my chest because I can’t blame him properly. Not when I ran. Not when I looked back. Not when some stupid, reckless part of me wanted to know what would happen if he caught me.
And then let him.
Johnny is different.
Jagger’s danger has a shape. I can see it coming, even when I don’t move out of the way.
Johnny’s doesn’t.
I think about him in the library basement. Too close to me. Too comfortable in a place he didn’t belong. Smiling like he already knew which buttons to press and was just deciding how bored he felt.
He didn’t look at me like Jagger does.
Jagger looks at me like he wants to keep me.
Johnny looks at me like he wanted to see what would happen if he broke something Jagger wanted.
That’s the thing about the Cutter brothers.
Jagger makes me feel seen.
Johnny makes me feel hunted.
And unfortunately for me, I don’t think either one of them plans to stop.
By the time I get dressed, I’ve convinced myself I’m fine.
This is a lie, but I’m wearing enough eyeliner to sell it.
Black pleated skirt. Ripped tights with my doc martens. Cropped sweater under my jacket, even though the collar keeps shifting and making me aware of the mark underneath. I pull it up three times before giving up and grabbing my bag.
My camera sits on the desk, right where I left it.
I stare at it for a second.
Then I grab it before walking out the door, because apparently learning from consequences is not something I’m doing this week.
Class is useless.
The professor spends an hour talking about visual intention and negative space, and I spend the entire time pretending I’m listening while thinking about Jagger’s hands on my hips, his voice in my ear, and that stupid mask lying in the mud by our feet.
Very academic of me.
I take notes anyway, but none of them make sense. At one point, the girl beside me drops her pen, and I jump so hard she looks at me like I might need medical attention.
After class, Milo catches up to me outside the arts building with his skateboard under one arm and purple hair falling into his eyes.
“You look like shit,” he says.
I blink at him. “Good morning to you too.”
“It’s almost noon.”
“Then I’ve looked like shit for hours. Thanks for noticing.”
His mouth twitches, and he gives me that look again. The one that lingers a second too long before he remembers we’re supposed to be friends and drags his eyes back to my face.
“Rough night?” he asks.
I shift my camera bag higher on my shoulder and keep walking. “Something like that.”
“Do I want to know?”
“No.”
“Cool. Love the mystery.”
“Great. Keep loving it quietly.”
He grins and falls into step beside me like I didn’t basically tell him to go away. That’s Milo. Sweet enough to tolerate, persistent enough to be annoying, and constantly acting like if he stands close long enough, I might suddenly realize he’s been an option this whole time.
I won’t.
He’s fine. Funny sometimes. Harmless in the way people are when they don’t make your pulse do anything stupid.
“You’re extra pleasant today,” he says.
“I’m always pleasant.”
“You once told me my haircut looked like a cry for help.”
“It did.”
He laughs, and for a second, things almost feel normal.
Almost.
Then his shoulder brushes mine, light and probably accidental, except Milo’s eyes flick down like he’s checking if I noticed.
I did, I just don’t do anything with it.
Because that’s the thing about Milo.
He keeps waiting for at a door I never plan to open.
Milo starts up another conversation about some Halloween party, while I pretend to be interested, while my gaze flicks past him. Toward the courtyard and the chapel path. Toward every place Jagger should not be but part of me hopes to find him.
Milo notices because apparently everyone has decided to become observant at the worst possible time.
“You waiting for someone?”
“No.”
“You said that too fast.”
“And you’re standing too close.”
He lifts both hands, amused but a little wounded. “Damn. Okay.”
Guilt pokes at me.
Annoying.
“I’m just tired,” I say.
“Yeah, you look—”
“Choose the next words carefully.”
He grins. “Fantastic. You look fantastic.”
“Better.”
He leaves after that, and I hate how relieved I am when he does.
By the time my last class ends, the sky is already dark even though it’s barely evening. Fall does that. Steals daylight. Makes everything damp and gives people shadows to make stupid choices in.
Apparently, I’m people.
The basement darkroom is empty when I get there.
Which is good because honestly, tonight, I need empty.