I check my watch. It should be empty.
Against my better judgment, I walk right up to the front door and try the handle.
It opens easily under my hand.
They don’t lock it? They probably think they’re invincible—if Knox hadn’t already infused that in his starters, I would’ve been sure Greyson brought it with him. The aura that accompanies people who are used to getting their way.
I hesitate in the doorway and listen. They left the lights on. It smells faintly of booze in here, the aftermath of too many celebrations. When only silence greets me, I close the door and hurry to the stairs.
Greyson’s door is closed but not locked either. Not that I would’ve anticipated it… that would’ve thrown a wrench in my plans.
His room is as neat as I remember, if a little more lived-in. There’s a hamper in the corner that’s overflowing with clothes, but that’s the only sign that he might be losing it.
My fault?
I run my finger along the edge of his desk and rifle through his papers. There’s a printed copy of the research paper due for one of our shared classes, environmental economics. I am actually liking that class a lot more, now that I’m paying better attention.
Turns out, I don’t have much of a social life when I take away dance.
I fold up the stapled pages and tuck it in my jacket pocket. Then I head for the true prize.
It sits on the bookcase, slightly pulled out like he’s recently looked at it. The photo album he practically begged me not to touch.
This is how I strike back and get Greyson to abandon me once and for all.
I almost feel guilty zipping my jacket around it, keeping it hidden and protected from the elements. It could’ve gone in my bag, still looped over my shoulder, or I could’ve kept it tucked in my arms. But part of me wants to treat it as well as Greyson has.
The book is thin and easy to conceal. I can examine it later, but for now I just hurry back to the street. My skin prickles, and I glance around. The street is dark, with illuminated circles from the spread-apart street lamps.
I can’t pinpoint why I feel the hair raise on the back of my neck, so I bolt. I shouldn’t run—I’m still trying to get my leg back into better condition, after all—but I can’t stop myself. I fly along the sidewalk for a block, then another. The book rubs against my skin. My bag bangs my hip with every step.
Finally, I slow and take a breath.
Back safe in my apartment, I pull it out. Leather-bound, withDevereuxstamped into it. I want to know more about where it came from and who chose the photos that fill it. I only saw a few, and I have the urge to scan the rest of them.
I can’t.
I search the apartment for a hiding place and eventually find one.
Once it’s safe, I go back out. To the studio.
To dance my adrenaline away… and prepare for Greyson’s next move.
38
GREYSON
Violet, Violet, Violet.
I can smell her sweet, floral scent in my room, like she rubbed herself along my walls, my sheets. There’s no imprint. No sign of her at all except for the smell. Something I don’t think I could concoct in my imagination.
I sit on my bed and inhale again, not wanting to exhale.
My father calls me. I consider sending it to voicemail, but the last time I did that, he showed up at my game.
Him. At a game.
I haven’t seen him witness me play in years, let alone speak to me after the fact. It probably has something to do with our clashing reputations. Can a beloved senator really have a bloodthirsty hockey player for a son?