Salem's Deadly Rites

Chapter 1

It’s been three hundred days since my brother disappeared.

Counting the numbers has become a habit I can’t seem to break. Every morning, I wake up and automatically calculate another day gone. Another sunset without answers. Another evening closer to accepting the possibility that I may never see him again.

This is the last place my brother was seen alive.

The school is the oldest and most prestigious private university in New England, founded centuries ago in the same town made famous by its witch trials.

These days, that history is less tragedy than industry, drawing in swarms of tourists every year with magical crystals, witch hats, and enough spooky decorations to last a lifetime.

The university sits perched on a hill overlooking the historic town.

Centuries-old stone pillars wrapped in thick ivy guard the entrance, an ornate crest carved above a Latin motto I don’t understand.

Just beyond are cathedral-like buildings of dark granite and limestone, rising above towering elms and ancient oaks, their pointed roofs, stone parapets, and narrow spires looking more like a medieval Gothic fortress than a college campus.

Weatherworn gargoyles crouch along the rooftops as if standing guard, while tall, arched windows catch the late-August sun.

For a moment, I simply stare.

The whole campus has a brooding, almost sentient quality, as though it has been quietly watching every new class arrive for generations. The university is beautiful, undeniably, but it also makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Something primal deep inside me screams that I should flee. Just tuck my tail and run, making the ninety-mile trip home, back to Millbrook and my mom. Forget this absolutely insane plan.

But I can’t do that.

I’m all my brother has.

Josh disappeared last Halloween after sending me one final message from somewhere on this campus.

The police called it an accident, then a voluntary disappearance, then eventually nothing at all.

I stopped trusting official answers the moment an officer told me, very gently, that sometimes men walk away from their lives.

Not my brother. He didn’t walk away from anything.

I follow the signs and drive down a maze of narrow cobblestone streets until I arrive at Hallowell Hall—the oldest residence hall at SFU. My new home for the foreseeable future.

I find an empty spot between a sparkling white Range Rover and a gleaming black Lamborghini Urus.

My old truck groans as I throw it into park.

All around me, volunteers in university T-shirts direct traffic while students and parents laugh as they unload fancy SUVs.

Friends call out to each other. Someone has music blasting from an open dorm window, and the unmistakable scent of coffee mingles with the salty breeze from the nearby harbor, the lingering warmth of late summer still hanging in the air.

Today is move-in day.

Everyone else seems excited to be here, but I can’t shake the nervous anticipation thrumming beneath my skin.

After nearly a year of planning, I’m finally here.

I’d spent months calling the university, emailing professors, tracking down students, and begging anyone who’d known my brother to tell me what happened.

Eventually, I realized the only way I’d ever learn the truth was to stop asking questions from the outside.

I had to get inside. I had to become part of the university.

I’d wanted to come months ago, but that wasn’t possible. My family didn’t have the money.

Instead, I spent the last year doing whatever I had to.

I cleaned equipment and scrubbed bathrooms at the local gym before my morning classes, which at least came with a free membership.

Most days, after I finished cleaning, I’d spend an hour lifting weights, hitting the heavy bag, or dragging weighted sleds across the fake turf until my legs burned.

On weekends, I picked up shifts bartending at a dive bar near our house.

Even with all that, I never could’ve afforded a year of tuition and housing at SFU without financial aid and scholarships.

I grab my keys and step outside, taking a deep breath of the warm, slightly sticky summer air before popping the rear hatch of my truck. It takes all of three minutes to unload everything I own. One old rolling suitcase. A beat-up duffel bag. A few cardboard boxes.

The families around me swarm the sidewalks, hauling expensive televisions, gaming systems, framed artwork, and enough throw pillows to decorate a luxury hotel.

Mothers fuss over their daughters while fathers wrestle with oversized designer suitcases.

For a second, I wonder what it must feel like to be them.

My father died in a car accident a few months after I was born.

I was too young to remember him, but that’s never stopped me from missing him.

My mother disappeared after that. Not physically.

That might have been easier. No, she stayed with us, living and breathing, but barely holding it together until my brother was old enough to take care of us.

It was Josh who made breakfast and dinner for everyone.

He taught me how to shop in a grocery store when our mother was too depressed to get out of bed, and he showed me how to throw a punch in case I got into trouble walking around the tough neighborhood we lived in.

Josh figured out which bills had to be paid and then he made sure it happened, so the power and water companies stopped turning off our services whenever Mom forgot.

“Need some help?”

I turn to find one of the student volunteers smiling at me. He’s giving me an appreciative once-over look, the kind I usually get from men.

I know what he sees. Copper hair that gleams red in the sunlight, escaping the messy ponytail I threw together.

Green eyes so bright and vibrant, they almost seem to glow.

Pale skin dusted with freckles across my nose that I’ve always hated.

They make me look younger than my twenty-two years, though they occasionally come in handy whenever I need someone to believe I’m more harmless than I really am.

A body lean and toned, though still curvy enough in all the right places.

I know I’m attractive. Guys have certainly made that clear over the years. It’s just that my appearance isn’t something I usually care about or put much effort into, unless I’m using it to get something I need.

“I’m good,” I tell him. “But thanks for the offer.”

He blinks, looking surprised, like the kind of guy who doesn’t hear no often. He’s good-looking and about my age, twenty-something, wearing a preppy plaid blazer and an orientation badge hanging around his neck.

“You sure? Those stairs are brutal.” He flashes me an easy smile that says he’s hoping I’ll change my mind.

“I’ve carried heavier,” I say, grabbing my suitcase and duffel in one hand and a cardboard box in the other before he can reach for anything.

“Well, welcome to SFU.” He laughs, clearly unconvinced, before giving me a little salute. “If you decide you need a tour guide, I’d be happy to show you around.”

“Thanks. I’m good,” I say dismissively. He’s cute, but I don’t have time for whatever… this is.

Still, as he walks away frowning, I immediately regret not accepting his offer because a normal woman, new in town, would’ve said yes to a handsome guy offering help and maybe even a date or two.

And I desperately need to appear normal at SFU.

Nonthreatening. Unassuming. I need to blend, even if it’s something I’ve never been particularly good at.

Josh always used to say that one day I’d let someone in—that living all alone in the world gets exhausting. But I’d never needed anyone else because I always had him.

Except I don’t have him.

Not anymore.

My forearms are already burning by the time I reach the front steps of my new dorm. Hallowell Hall is just as intimidating as the rest of campus.

Massive oak doors open into a lobby that looks more like the entrance to an old manor than a residence hall.

Dark wood paneling climbs the walls beneath vaulted ceilings crossed with thick beams, while portraits of long-dead university presidents stare down at me.

Everything here feels expensive and timeless.

I suddenly become very aware of my faded leather bomber jacket and jeans.

Most of the women passing me look like they just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren catalog.

Tailored wool skirts. Crisp white button-downs.

Riding boots that probably cost more than our monthly mortgage back home.

Even the guys manage to look effortlessly polished, laughing as they greet one another by name like they’ve all known each other forever.

And this isn’t even the nicest dorm on campus.

I know from the SFU pamphlet that Hallowell Hall is the “most economical,” with Wintermere Hall the most expensive option for the truly blessed.

Students there even have their own suites.

There isn’t a lot of student housing in Salem’s Fall, so the students here are all required to live on campus.

Apparently, that means giving the super-rich ones somewhere suitably luxurious to do it.

I shift my box higher against my hip and continue down the hallway toward Room 321, wondering if my roommate has already arrived.

Eleanor Graves.

We emailed a few times over the summer after I pulled her name off the roommate exchange letter the school sent me.

She seemed excited to meet me, sending messages with smiley faces and emojis and telling me how much she was looking forward to having me as a roommate. Definitely friendlier than I am.