Chapter 2
By the time I’ve made the bed, organized the tiny closet, and tucked the last empty box beneath it, my roommate still hasn’t shown.
I’ve already checked my email twice to make sure I hadn’t mixed things up and gotten reassigned a solo room somehow, but according to the housing office, nothing has changed.
So where is she?
I grab my student ID, lock the door, and head downstairs in search of dinner.
My old school was mostly a commuter campus, and I rarely ate there since I’d lived at home.
Most students at Northeastern College cleared out by evening to grab takeout, meet friends at local bars, or simply head home.
I assumed SFU would be the same. Instead, I step through the enormous oak doors of Winthrop Commons to find the place packed.
The room buzzes with conversation, laughter bouncing off the cathedral ceiling as dozens of students weave between long wooden tables carrying overloaded plates.
Parents linger near the entrance, saying emotional goodbyes, while younger siblings dart between chairs with cookies clutched in their hands.
Everywhere I look, people are greeting each other like they’ve been separated for years instead of one summer.
I suddenly feel very alone.
At least Winthrop Commons is nice. Stunning, actually.
More like an upscale hotel restaurant than a college cafeteria.
Massive wrought-iron chandeliers hang from exposed timber beams overhead, casting warm pools of light across polished stone floors.
The smell alone makes my mouth water. Fresh bread. Garlic. Rosemary. Butter.
Actual chefs in crisp white jackets stand behind gleaming granite counters instead of bored students in hairnets, like the ones we had serving us at Northeastern.
One carves herb-crusted prime rib to order while another tosses fresh pasta in giant copper pans.
There’s a brick pizza oven, a sushi station, seafood packed over crushed ice, fresh-baked desserts behind glass, and enough pastries to stock a bakery.
Apparently, SFU takes feeding its students seriously.
Thankfully, all my campus dining is covered by my scholarship; otherwise, I’d never be able to pay for meals here. I’m usually more of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or microwaveable dinner kind of girl.
I build myself a heaping plate—roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, and dinner rolls smothered in butter—and begin searching for somewhere to sit.
Almost every table is full, crowded with students who already look like lifelong friends.
Expensive watches flash beneath rolled-up sleeves.
Pastel sweaters are draped effortlessly across shoulders in a way that somehow manages to scream old money.
A group of preppy, good-looking athletes in matching team jackets dominates one corner of the dining hall.
Lacrosse, probably. Maybe crew. I remember reading that those were the big sports here.
Eventually, I spot a tiny table tucked beside one of the arched windows overlooking the quad. I settle into a chair with a quiet sigh and take my first bite. The potatoes are incredible.
I’m halfway through my meal before I realize I’ve been scarfing food down like someone’s about to steal my plate. Old habits die hard, I guess.
Two younger women—juniors, probably—drop into the neighboring table.
One is blonde, the other brunette, both polished in that effortless East Coast way: glossy hair, delicate gold jewelry, and fitted V-neck sweaters.
The brunette catches my eye and gives a polite smile before they’re both immediately absorbed in their own conversation.
Not unfriendly. Just already established in their own private social circle.
“So are we doing The Witch’s Brew for drinks?” the blonde asks.
“Duh,” the brunette friend says. “I heard the lacrosse team rented it out tonight.”
The blonde grins. “So basically, every hot guy on campus will be there.”
Laughter circles the table while I take another bite of chicken. My Friday night plans consist of unpacking my toiletries next and wondering if my roommate actually exists.
Not that I came here for a social life.
Still, I can’t help the twinge of sadness that runs through me as I think about the life I left behind.
I’ve never had a close group of friends, but I had a familiar routine I enjoyed.
Pleasant coworkers. A few hot guys I alternated hooking up with whenever I was in the mood. Weekend dinners with Mom and Josh.
“… and that’s why my cousin didn’t come back this year. Said she couldn’t take another Halloween in Salem’s Fall.”
The mention of Halloween sharpens my attention, and I lean in ever so slightly, pretending to be interested in my food as I strain to catch every word.
“Oh my God, Grace.” The blonde rolls her eyes. “Not this again. Anyone with half a brain knows witches aren’t real.”
“It wasn’t just the witches, though.” Grace lowers her voice. “She was freaked out about all the disappearances. My grandmother says people go missing here all the time. She won’t set foot in Salem’s Fall anymore.”
“That’s ridiculous,” the blonde says.
“I’m serious, Nicole.” Grace’s eyes go wide and worried. “Grandmother says it’s been like this for hundreds of years. People here go missing… or get murdered,” she says. “That’s why she sold her place and got that killer beach cottage on Martha’s Vineyard.”
“Whatever.” Nicole scoffs. “People die in every small town. Accidents. Medical stuff. Freak injuries like when the tourists get drunk and do stupid shit. Everyone just likes to make up creepy stories because it’s Salem’s Fall.”
“Oh yeah? What about that fellowship student last year, the one who went missing on Halloween?” Grace asks. “You know they still haven’t found his body.”
My fork stills halfway to my mouth. They’re talking about Josh. I know it.
Nicole shrugs. “I heard he transferred schools.”
I don’t move while I wait for them to say more.
Please say more…
“So anyway, what are we wearing tonight?” Grace asks, already moving on. Their discussion quickly dissolves into a spirited debate over Prada mules versus loafers and whether knee-high socks are having a moment.
I stare out the window, my appetite suddenly gone. Josh is my whole world, but to these women, his whereabouts are nothing more than an awkward pause before discussing the latest shoe fashions.
Just as I’m about to leave, the conversation around me abruptly fades. Laughter softens. Even the women beside me stop their endless prattling.
“Oh my God,” one of them says, inhaling sharply. “They’re here.”
Half-curious, I glance over my shoulder just in time to see three guys stroll into Winthrop Commons.
I can tell immediately they’re important.
Students move without being asked, clearing a path through the crowded room as the three of them make their way inside.
It’s the sort of reaction people have around celebrities and professional athletes.
The muscular blond one walks slightly ahead of the others.
He’s handsome in an effortless, old-money way, wearing a navy blazer over an open-collared white shirt and tailored trousers.
His hair falls carelessly across his forehead, and he greets people as he passes with an easy smile and familiar nod, like he already knows everyone, and everyone is grateful for the acknowledgment.
There’s something instantly likable about him.
The second guy couldn’t be more different.
Equally good-looking, but everything about him is sharp.
Sharp cheekbones. Sharp jaw. Sharp gray eyes that seem to notice everything and forgive nothing.
His crimson Fair Isle wool sweater and pressed slacks are immaculate, not a crease in sight.
He walks with quiet confidence and makes eye contact with no one, as if the entire room is beneath him.
Then the last guy steps fully into view, and I almost drop the tray in my hand.
He is taller than the other two and dressed entirely in black, from the fitted cardigan pushed neatly to his forearms to the expensive loafers that make no sound against the stone floor.
His hair is nearly as dark as his clothes, falling just slightly across his forehead before sweeping back in a way that looks careless but probably isn’t.
Everything about this man feels controlled. Cold. Precise.
Like the others, he is also beautiful, but in the most unnerving way imaginable, as if he just stepped in from another world.
Not handsome in the safe, smiling way the blond one is.
Not aristocratic, polished, as-if-made-from-stone like the other one.
No, this is something darker. His is the kind of beauty that makes you look twice before your instincts catch up and warn you that some things are only beautiful because they’re meant to lure you closer before they strike.
Every nerve in my body goes taut as our eyes meet across the room, some primitive part of my brain recognizing danger before I can explain why.
His eyes have me paralyzed. Even from this distance, they’re startling—not because they’re bright, but because they’re not.
So dark, they seem almost depthless beneath thick black lashes, giving nothing away.
There’s no warmth in them. No softness. They look like the eyes of someone who has already decided the world is disappointing and refuses to be surprised by it.
For a moment, I forget everything.
I forget my mother, and Josh, and why I’m here in Salem’s Fall in the first place. I’m pretty sure I even forget my own name.
I didn’t know people could look like that. Real people, I mean.
Hell, maybe he’s not real.