24. Rowan
ROWAN
The law library is nearly empty—exactly the way I like it.
Late enough that no one’s hovering. Early enough that security hasn’t started their rounds yet. The overhead lights hum softly, tired and indifferent, casting long shadows between the stacks.
It feels abandoned. Perfect.
I’m on the floor between two shelving units, back against the stacks, legs crossed, papers spread across my lap in an order that makes sense only to me.
My eyes burn. My neck aches.
I keep going anyway.
There has to be more. There has to be something I’ve missed, some thread that hasn’t been pulled hard enough yet. Because I can’t afford to end up in prison. Not for this. Not when I’m so close.
And if I can’t get close enough to the two monsters I’m hunting, then I’ll do the next best thing. I’ll dig into their pasts. I’ll tear through old records, forgotten articles, half-buried mentions—anything that might tell me who the third man in that car was that day.
I’m scrolling through an article from eight years ago—a car show write-up where Marcus Delaney’s name makes a brief appearance—when the light shifts.
Not movement.
Stillness.
Something blocks the aisle. The space feels suddenly occupied, like the room has decided to squeeze me in.
I look up.
Justin is standing there.
He’s wearing dark jeans and a black T-shirt. His hands are loose at his sides like he belongs exactly where he is. He looks unhurried, unbothered, entirely too comfortable in my space. Like he didn’t stumble into this moment but chose it, and he’s not afraid to let me know that.
He smiles. Slow. Knowing. Like he understands the effect he has on me and enjoys seeing my discomfort.
“Hey,” he greets me casually.
My heart stutters, sharp and traitorous.
I hate that it does.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, too quickly.
He nods toward the carpet beside me. “Mind if I sit?”
“It’s a public library.” I give him a shrug. “You don’t need my permission.”
He lowers himself onto the floor with an ease that doesn’t match his size—close enough that I’m aware of him, far enough that he can pretend it’s nothing.
I tilt my laptop partly closed. He doesn’t need to know what I’m up to.
“Justin.”
“Rowan.”
“You’re everywhere I am.”
His head tilts slightly, considering. “Am I?”
“Yes. You know you are.”
“It would seem that my showing up at random points in your life has worked in your favor,” he comments.
It grates on me that he’s probably never going to let me live down the fact that he bailed me out of jail.
“I’ve seen you too many times-on and off campus-to chalk this down to coincidence. It doesn’t feel that way at all.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “And what does it feel like?”
I don’t answer.
“You keep showing up,” I say, lower now. “And you never explain why.”
We look at each other. Something passes between us—not attraction exactly. It’s like we’re both reaching the same conclusion at the same time, and deciding, silently, not to name it.
I break first.
“Let me see your ID.”
His brows lift a fraction. “You don’t trust me?”
“I don’t trust anyone,” I say. “If you’re really campus security, you’ll have some sort of ID.”
Without a word, he reaches into his back pocket and hands me a leather fold.
“And what will seeing my ID change, Rowan? Will you be more open with me about what you’re looking for?”
I open the leather wallet and check his photo and his name. It seems legitimate. It doesn’t mean I mistrust him any less.
“This could be fake,” I say.
He doesn’t bristle. Doesn’t seem to be offended. He smiles like I just confirmed something for him.
“You’re a cynic.”
“I’m realistic.”
“You’re difficult.”
“Same thing.”
He leans in slightly, voice dropping. “Most people don’t question me like that.”
“I’m not most people,” I snap back.
“I can see that.”
He smirks and my pulse kicks again, traitor that it is.
I set the ID between us on the carpet. “Why are you here, Justin?”
He watches me for a long second before answering. “Maybe I wanted to check on a student who keeps putting herself in precarious situations.”
“That’s not your job.”
“You don’t know what my job is.”
“I know what you say it is.”
He lets out a quiet huff of laughter. “And you think I’m lying.”
“Are you?”
He doesn’t look away. “Sometimes.”
The honesty lands sharper than any lie could have.
I snap my laptop shut. “I have work to do.”
“Rowan.”
I look at him.
“For the love of all that’s holy,” he growls, voice steady, “try to stay out of trouble.”
I cross my arms against my chest, defiant. A sudden chill slides down my spine.
He sees it. His jaw tightens.
“I don’t need you hovering over me,” I say.
“Everyone needs something,” he replies. “Some people just refuse to admit it.”
There’s no judgment in his tone. Just fact.
And the worst part is that he’s right.
He stands, brushing his hands on his jeans, indicating the conversation is over. “Don’t stay here past dark.”
“Why?”
He smiles—but there’s no warmth in it.
“You really want me to answer that?”
No. I don’t.
He turns to leave, then pauses, glancing back over his shoulder.
“Bad things happen to good people in the dark.”
It sounds less like a warning and more like something he’s had to remind himself of before.
I don’t say anything, but the words settle anyway—wrong in a way I can’t quite name.
As if darkness is the culprit. As if time or place is what tips the scales.
I want to correct him, to tell him that bad things happen to good people all the time.
In daylight. In familiar places. In moments that were supposed to be safe.
The dark doesn’t choose.
People do.
Some things feel pre-ordained when you look back on them, stitched into the past so neatly it’s tempting to call it fate.
But fate is just a softer word for blame when no one wants to look directly at the truth.
It’s easier to say it was meant to happen than to accept that someone made a decision so cruel it shattered everything that followed.
My parents spent years turning their grief on each other.
They didn’t blame the dark. They didn’t blame circumstance or chance.
They blamed each other. Like if they could assign fault close to home, the world might make sense again.
All the while, the real monsters walked free—unburdened, unnamed, untouched.
Those are the ones who should have carried the weight. The ones who chose violence. The ones who decided our lives were collateral.
I feel the anger rise again, sharp and familiar, pressing against my ribs until it aches to stay contained.
Then Justin’s gone.
And the silence he leaves behind feels heavier than anything he said.