Friday
8 DAYS UNTIL PROM
CHAPTER ONEChoke
Bennett Library is the perfect place to stalk my next kill: public and full of witnesses. A behemoth of Spanish architecture, Oleander Bay Academy’s crowning jewel looms over me and my best friend, Anton. The stucco walls are bleached bone white under the unrelenting Florida sun. Heat rises off the pavement, making the entire building look like it’s underwater.
I’d rather be underwater right now. I swear, it’s one hundred degrees out here. A few straggler students inch their way toward the classroom buildings at a pace that would make a sloth look fast. It’s so quiet, I can hear Anton breathing beside me.
“We have fifty minutes until this period ends,” I say. “Walk faster, please?” I’m anxious to get inside the air-conditioned library before I faint dead away. May through September in Florida is miserable, like living on the surface of the sun.
Anton huffs out a breath and readjusts the handheld fan he’s always carrying, so it’s aimed at his underarms. “Uh, no way, Ruby. Speed equals sweat, and sweat equals stinky pits. I’m not about to smell more than I have to.”
We trudge to the library’s main entrance. Anton fiddles with one of his backpack straps. It’s covered in a brightly patterned scarf, one of a dozen personal touches he’s added to his daily look to detract from his school uniform. The only personal touch I’ve added to my look is the woven bracelet with a bear charm around my wrist, but it doesn’t really count as style since it’s ratty and frayed. My grandmother gave it to me when I was in ninth grade—one month before she died. I haven’t taken it off since.
Inside, we are surrounded by carved walnut bookshelves that spiral around the perimeter of the space like a nautilus shell. A cozy gathering spot called the Serenity Circle in the center of the room is filled with tufted leather sofas and antique side tables, and beyond it is the large staircase that leads to the second floor. Above us is a grand domed ceiling, purposefully aged so it appears to have been here for centuries, not decades. Like most of Oleander Bay, this building—and the people within it—consists of more lies than truths.
I angle Anton toward the tables directly across from the Serenity Circle. Each one holds several computers and a line of bronze reading lamps that cast circles of light on the spread of Prada and Gucci backpacks.
I slip into a chair
and drop my backpack—a JanSport—beside me. Adrenaline buzzing, I grab my burner phone from the side pocket, unlock it, pull up the camera, and very casually aim it at my target. Click. Today’s kill will be my biggest yet, the crowning achievement of the past four years.
Magnus Bennett is holding court at the center of the Serenity Circle, his long legs sprawled out in front of him, his arms draped casually across the back of a sofa. Oleander Bay Academy’s most rarified students—who the rest of us call the Bling Brigade—have gathered around him like worshippers in a church service for their biweekly Honor Cabinet meeting. In their navy-blue-and-gray uniforms, they look like an army of Stepford Children, all perfectly styled hair and flashy white teeth.
Magnus is dressed to blend in, but even so, he stands out. It’s the air of utter confidence that radiates off him. He’s the son of Phillip Bennett, the most sought-after divorce attorney in town. We are in the library that was literally named in honor of his family’s generous donations. This is his realm.
Which is why I chose this spot to stalk him. I want him to know he’s vulnerable. No place is safe from me.
Click. I take a second picture of him in profile.
Magnus scans the library with narrowed eyes as he takes a sip from his iced coffee. I shoot a look at Anton and glance heavenward. He’s drinking a Guillermo, the trendiest coffee drink in town thanks to his influencer girlfriend, Violette. She was the first to post herself on social media with one the other day. It’s an espresso with milk and lime over ice. I think it sounds weird, but all the members of the Bling Brigade have one in their hands today.
Of course they do.
I suppress a groan.
By next week, the rest of the kids at school will be drinking them too. It’s idiotic. The Bling Brigade—and Magnus in particular—are the last people anyone should follow. Beneath their gilded popularity, they are shady as hell.
Like, Violette shoplifts when she thinks no one’s looking—mostly drugstore makeup that she can easily afford—then does high/low makeup comparison TikToks with her stolen goods. And Eddison, the boy who’s just finished high-fiving Magnus and is heading toward the downstairs bathrooms, terrorizes freshmen for sport, particularly the scholarship students. Once, he blackmailed one of the smartest kids at school to take the SATs for him—which is ironic, given his name.
Anton settles into the seat next to me and pulls up a YouTube video of the latest Balmain fashion show on his computer. His gaze flicks to the Bling Brigade. He lets out a low whistle.
“Alexander’s looking tasty today,” he says, his mouth quirking into a wicked
smile.
I shift my gaze to Alexander Duquette, the newest addition to the Bling Brigade. He started at Oleander Bay Academy at the beginning of last year. Within seconds of entering town, he was absorbed into Magnus’s crowd because of his impressive family pedigree and bottomless wealth.
I silently curse my stupid stomach and the dumb lizard-brained part of me in control of it. Why does it insist on doing somersaults every time that boy comes into view?
He’s the second most popular person at school, but only because he’s chosen not to be first. He should be, based on looks alone, with those perfect golden curls and green eyes the color of sea glass. Magnus is objectively handsome, but Alexander is…practically otherworldly. Greek statue material.
He’s taken his uniform jacket off and his shirtsleeves are rolled up, so his tanned forearms are on full display. Beside him, his ex-girlfriend, Daphne, sits with her legs crossed primly at the ankles like she’s a member of the royal family or something. Her platinum blond hair gleams under the overhead lights, and her lips form the perfect pout. She strokes Alexander’s forearm with one manicured finger. So…maybe not his ex?
Okay. Stop, I order myself.
Alexander is not my target…Magnus is. Besides, it doesn’t matter how hot Alexander is. Magnus is one of his best friends, he’s dated pretty princess Daphne, and he’s a member of the Bling Brigade. That’s all the proof I need that this boy’s trouble.
I get online and pull up the day’s news, so it looks like I’m doing something other than spying. The first image is of the Mannequin Man, this creepy serial killer currently using Oleander Bay as his hunting grounds. It’s a freeze-frame of some security footage taken outside a gas station. The image is grainy and out of focus, but I can still make out his matte black mask made to look like a mannequin face and the black hoodie he wears. My heart squeezes in my chest, and I tighten my grip on the mouse. It’s as if he’s staring through the computer at me. He looks more like a slasher movie murderer than a real-life one, like Michael Myers or Ghostface—inhuman. So far his victims are all from my side of town, which is surreal because South Oleander has always been relatively safe—even if the Oleander Elite claim it isn’t.
The headline beneath the photo reads “Mannequin Man Claims His Fifth Victim.”
My palms start to sweat. Is it someone I know? Out of the first four victims he’s murdered, I’ve known two. Fernando, who owned a Cuban bakery a few miles from my house, and James, this kid I used to go to school with.
Anton leans closer so he can read over my shoulder. “Crap. They found her in the
South Oleander Mall parking lot.”
“Two gunshot wounds,” I say. “Like all the others—the head and heart.”
I stare at the victim, who looks enough like my mom that I feel sick. She had a husband and two kids. Thinking about them makes me want to cry. I’ve lost people close to me too, in horrible ways. I was fifteen when I lost my grandparents, and I still miss them every day. If it was my mom in that parking lot? No. I don’t want to imagine it.
Anton shakes his head. “Bet this’ll be enough to close the mall for good.”
I sigh. “Remember freshman year? When we camped out at the Barnes and Noble for hours, then stuffed ourselves with Cinnabons?”
Anton laughs. “And raced each other on those scooters that looked like stuffed animals? Yeah, I do.”
The mall will be just another casualty now. The South Oleander I love is being destroyed piece by piece.
Suddenly Magnus lets out a laugh so loud it reverberates across the library.
I peer over my computer at the Bling Brigade again. They’re huddled together, talking quietly. From the conspiratorial looks on their faces, it’s obvious they’re up to something that might be worth recording—for future use. But no way my phone’s going to pick up anything from here.
I slip out of my seat, waving at Anton to stay put. We’ll attract attention together. With his mop of dark curls and glassy-smooth brown skin, he is straight-up pretty. Besides, he makes a point to stand out with his style—he wants to be noticed.
I am practically invisible to most people. I mean, I don’t consider myself plain or anything. I have a perfectly nice head of brown hair, and my eyes are hazel, same as Anton’s. But my goal is to be forgettable, one of the masses. It makes investigating people so much easier.
I head for the deserted bookshelves tucked under the staircase, closest to the Serenity Circle. I pretend I’m browsing and aim my phone camera at Magnus, who stretches languidly as he continues making cutting remarks to the Bling Brigade about the other students in the library, just loudly enough so most of the main floor overhears. As he talks, he strokes his collarbone with one hand, a self-satisfied gesture he probably thinks is sexy. It sets my teeth on edge. That boy is so confident in his indestructibility. He deserves what’s coming to him, and so does his father.
“Enjoy your last day on top,” I murmur.
Suddenly, a rustling sound breaks my concentration, coming from somewhere in the
stacks. I glance down the row I’m in. No one’s there.
Swish.
I hear it again and lower my phone. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flicker of movement one row over. A blur of black material, the dull pounding of feet on carpet.
“Hello?” I ask in a low voice.
I rise on my toes so I can peer through the shelves. Someone rushes past on the other side, so fast I can’t tell who it is. They’ve got their sweatshirt hood pulled too far over their face.
“EEEEEEEEEEE!”
A girl with red hair rounds the corner and runs headlong at me, eyes wild. She slams me into the bookshelf. Hard. Pain blossoms across my upper arm, and I nearly drop my phone.
What the hell?
The girl shrieks again, louder, and keeps on running. Cursing softly, I rub my arm. A second later, the person in the hoodie turns down the aisle and comes straight for me. They’re wearing a featureless black mask, beetle-shell shiny, all hard angles…and carrying a gun. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
The Mannequin Man is here. In the school library. I’m frozen in place as he hurtles toward me.
This is it. I’m going to die.
This thought knifes through my brain as he stops abruptly, a few feet away.
Laughing softly, the Mannequin Man raises the gun and aims it at my head. ...
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