Midnight Scent Amour Toxiqu

MIDNIGHT SCENT (AMOUR TOXIQUE BOOK 1)

DORI LAVELLE

This book was given to JOANNA Rączkowska on Instafreebie. www.instafreebie.com

CONTENTS Book Description Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Also by Dori Lavelle Connect with Dori Lavelle

Midnight Scent (Amour Toxique Book 1) Copyright © 2016 by Dori Lavelle All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Cover Design: Dori Lavelle Editor: Leah Wohl-Pollack ISBN: 1-5336-4252-4

BOOK DESCRIPTION

I find the love letters in my new dorm room, left behind by a previous occupant. They’re meant for someone else, but the words speak to me. They slide off the page and wrap themselves around my body, touching me in places I never knew existed. I’m falling in love with each word, unable to stop myself. And I don’t even know his name. Until they tell me. His name is Judson Devereux. They say he’s toxic. Falling for him will be a mistake. I want to believe them. I want to walk away. But the words refuse to be erased from the invisible parts of me. I’m hooked on the scent of his poison. It’s bad for me. It could kill me. But I’m in too deep. *This series contains sexual content, dark themes, and violence that could trigger emotional distress in readers.*

PROLOGUE

light from the flickering candles enflames her The copper hair. Some men are turned on by legs, a great ass, or boobs. Not him. Nothing puts his groin on fire like a gorgeous red-head. He can make himself come just staring at those fiery strands of silk. She’s sitting ramrod straight, her chocolate doe eyes on him—accusing, threatening, hating, and loving him— all in the same glance. That doesn’t stop him from wanting to be with her, to bury himself into her flesh every night. She needs time, he assures himself as he loosens his tie. They’ll have a perfect marriage again. He’ll make sure of it. He regards her uneaten baked Dijon salmon. “You’re not eating,” he says. “I told you I wasn’t hungry.” Her soft lips twist into a sneer that only enhances her beauty. “Fine. Let’s forget dessert.” He dabs his lips with a monogrammed napkin. “Go upstairs. Have a relaxing shower. You’ll find something nice on the bed for you to wear. I’ll be right up.” She pushes her chair back and stands without

objection. That’s my girl, he thinks, watching as she glides up the winding staircase to the master bedroom. As soon as she disappears up the stairs, he orders the help to clear the table while he goes into his office to make some calls. Twenty minutes later, he’s called some of his business managers and partners across the globe, and signed the important documents his assistant had left on his desk. Before heading upstairs, he stops by the wine cellar and picks out a bottle from his vintage collection. He takes his time ascending the stairs, his pants tightening with each step. A grin spreads across his face when he pushes open the door with a shoulder. The sight that meets his eyes is as heart-stopping as he expected—only not in the way he’d hoped. This has to be a fucking joke, he thinks. He blinks once, then twice, but the image is clear as day. His wife’s pale, naked, lifeless body is dangling from the crystal chandelier. He doesn’t have to check her pulse to know she’s gone. He feels it in his gut. Her eyes are empty and redveined as they stare back at him. Her mouth is parted in a silent scream. Her body sways from side to side. The only thing still vibrant with life is her red hair. His numb fingers unravel and the bottle of wine hits the natural stone floor. It shatters and bleeds out in time with his heart. There’s a note on the carpeted floor below her body. It’s over. My love for you is dead. Forget me.

CHAPTER ONE

fifth soggy photo hits the bottom of the trashcan, The making a wet slapping sound as it lands on top of the others. Another memory come; another memory gone. None that I care about. As I continue to go through the open album, searching for more water-damaged photos, my roommate, Chelsea Anderson, walks to my side of the dorm room. Chelsea, a photography student, is a curvy AfricanAmerican woman with curly, jet-black shoulder-length hair and an easy smile. Her outgoing nature makes her my perfect opposite. At twenty-one, Chelsea is two years younger than me, but brings so much more to the table in terms of life and college experience. Claiming to be an old hat at romance both good and bad, she’s determined to help me find my perfect match. She has her work cut out for her, since men are not on my agenda. My only plan was to get as far away from Boston and my stage mom as possible, and pursue my dream of becoming an interior designer. Chelsea and I hit it off the moment we met at the end

of August, and were inseparable during new student orientation. She’s my best friend in Oaklow. Oaklow, the place I plan to start again. The second I flipped open a random catalogue in a travel agency and laid eyes on the breathtaking university town in South Florida, with its narrow, palm tree–lined streets, whitewashed and red-brick houses, and vibrant yet laid-back culture, I wanted to be there. At first I felt ashamed to be starting university later than most, but Chelsea has helped me fit right in. “Ivy, I think we deserve a break, don’t you?” Chelsea raises an open bottle of champagne and two clear plastic champagne flutes, then slumps onto our black-and-white striped couch. She crosses her legs. I’m surprised at her outfit today—a classic red plaid top over taupe linen shorts with a drawstring and elastic waist. Her go-to clothes are jeans and a t-shirt, unless she’s going on a date. “Sounds good to me.” I slap the heavy album closed, breathing in the musty smell it releases into the air, and drop the whole mess into the trash. I rise from the floor and sit next to Chelsea on the couch. The golden blond liquid crackles and fizzes as Chelsea pours it into the tulip-shaped glasses. She hands me one and it cools my palm instantly. “Thanks.” I lean back, watching the bubbles rise to the surface before bursting, and revel in the fruity bouquet of aromas. “To hell with burst pipes. To us.” Chelsea taps her glass against mine and takes a sip, briefly closing her dark eyes. “I hope you didn’t lose all your modeling photos. Though, does it even matter? You’re all over the Internet. You can always print them out again.” “I don’t care about those photos.” I sip my

champagne, washing away the bitter memories of my modeling days. Chelsea and I shared a different dorm room before— until we were flooded out. On the positive side, we’ve been rewarded with a killer view. Our previous room faced the street, which was lined with the local post office, a few cafés, the Pansy Blooms flower shop, and the small Costas grocery store. Our new abode overlooks the Dunkin Hall gardens, and if I squint enough, I can make out the distant sea. Sometimes I can even fool myself into believing I hear the crashing waves. Nothing calms my mind like the sea. The sound of wind chimes fills the air. We both turn to look at my phone on my desk, tucked away underneath my loft bed. My own little personal space. Chelsea has personalized her side of the room by hanging her three landscape photography posters on the wall above her bed. “Are you going to get that?” Chelsea drains her glass and pours herself another. I shake my head. “Nope. I don’t think it’s important.” Chelsea shrugs. “I can’t believe you’re not pissed that your modeling photos are damaged. I would be.” She glances at her thighs, then back up at me with a resigned sigh. “But I don’t think I have to worry about that in my lifetime.” “Modeling isn’t as glamorous as you think.” I blink at the slight dizziness brought on by the alcohol. “It was nothing more than a job for me. A career I was forced into.” “You baffle me. Who wouldn’t enjoy getting dressed up for a living and smiling for the cameras… oh, and having hot guys drool over you.” I slide a hand through my wavy red hair and rest an

elbow on the arm of the couch. “I admit, there are some models who enjoy being in the limelight, being admired by strangers. It wasn’t for me.” Chelsea’s breath—a mix of booze and minty mouthwash—sweeps my cheek as she leans into me. Curiosity has turned her brown eyes from weak tea to dark chocolate. “I’m sure you had so many guys hitting on you, though. Look at you, even in that crappy man shirt, you look camera-ready. I wish I could hate you right now.” I lower my glass onto the varnished mahogany coffee table. “There were several interested guys.” More than several, I want to add, but I bite my tongue. What does it matter? “Not the kind I was interested in.” “Have you ever dated a famous person?” I smile. “Jason Singer. Ever heard of him?” “The actor?” Chelsea blinks furiously. She places her glass on the table next to mine. Stories from my rejected life of glamor excite her like nothing else. “Yep.” “He’s like the best thing since sliced bread. God, I grew up wishing I could lick his dimples.” We both crumple into laughter. I pull my legs up and underneath me on the couch. “He certainly likes to think he is.” Since I came to Oaklow, I held back a lot of details about my previous life—the life that suffocates me just to think about, the life I wish would dissolve into the past and remain there. Maybe it’s the champagne or the comfort of Chelsea’s presence, but I open up. “You know what? Jason was an experiment. One that flopped.” Truthfully, I wanted to see what the big deal was. “No.” Chelsea’s eyes widen. “Come on, spill the beans. Did he suck at kissing or something? Don’t you

dare leave any juicy bits out.” I laugh until my eyes water. “I’m going to have to disappoint you,” I say when I catch my breath. “There aren’t any juicy bits. We only went on two dates. The kiss killed it for me.” A shiver runs down my spine at the memory. The moment Jason pushed his too-big tongue into my mouth, I almost gagged. I knew then, even with my lack of experience, that there had to be more to kissing than choking on someone else’s tongue. “Trust me: he’s not all that.” “That’s a damn shame.” Chelsea returns to her champagne. “He looks so delicious on TV. He looks… he looks like he knows how to use his stuff, you know.” “We both know looks can be deceiving.” “Let’s move on then. Goodbye, Jason. Any other famous guys?” “Not really. There might have been, if I’d had more time for going out and dating.” As a homeschooled pageant child, and later as a top model, I didn’t have much time left over to be lived. Now’s my chance to hopefully recapture the time I lost running from one photoshoot to the next. The corners of Chelsea’s mouth quirk up in a sad smile. Her warm eyes tell me she feels my loneliness. “Well, forget the past. You’re here to start again, to have fun.” “Damn right.” I rise from the couch and glance out the window at the blanket of night. “I better make up my bed. I’m exhausted.” I approach the corner with the rest of my unpacked belongings and lift up a see-through bag filled with my bedding—various shades of red, lavender, and blue butterflies scrambling for space on a snowy white background. Chelsea stands as well. She’s a little unsteady on her

feet. “You did more than me today.” With a deep sigh, she eyes her overflowing metal platform bed. She prefers it to the loft-style bed, which makes me feel on top of the world. “It’ll be a long night for me. And I still have to finish a presentation on human emotions for Friday. I haven’t even edited the pics yet.” “You better get to it, then.” I toss my freed bedding onto my bed and climb up after it, only to throw it all down again. The individual pieces land on the couch. I proceed to flip over the old mattress, determined not to think about what the previous occupant did on it. As I lift one end, something catches my eye: a small package tucked under one corner of the mattress. Careful not to fall from the ladder, I stretch to reach it. It’s not actually a package, but a stack of letters held together by a thin ribbon the color of pink cotton candy. I turn the stack of letters over in my hand, lips pursed. “What’s that?” Chelsea calls out. I glance at her. She’s holding one of her many pairs of jeans in her hands, about to fold them. Before I can answer, curious Chelsea is up on a chair and next to me. “Love letters. What fun.” She snatches the letters from my hand. “You don’t know that.” I finish flipping the mattress. “They have to be love letters. No one hides innocent letters under a mattress.” Chelsea frees one of the folded pages. “Let’s find out, shall we?” I can’t help myself. I lean in to see. Both our eyes scan the hand-written note. I’m a complete failure at trying to forget the feel of your body in the circle of my arms. Your heart plays the most perfect song. One written just for me. My blood still hums to the rhythm of your tune. I miss the sound. I miss all the sounds of you. Your screams, your moans as you moved

underneath me, fill my mind every night. Do you remember, Jen? Does your body still hold the memories of me pulsing inside you? Until we’re together again, I hope you also fail to forget the love we’ve made. Hold on to me. I’m yours forever. J.D.

CHAPTER TWO

crap.” This time it’s me who pulls out another “H oly letter. I try hard not to tear it while yanking it from the ribbon as my heart flutters inside my chest. “Now these are the kinds of words that bring romance to life. You can smell the passion.” Chelsea is practically vibrating next to me. I lean over to Chelsea so she can see. I hold my breath as I take in every word. Next to me, Chelsea’s breath is coming in quick, audible gasps. My beloved Jennifer, If you think your silence will stop me from loving you, you don’t know me at all. Nothing will ever make me give up on us. How can I, when you invade my mind, my senses? I’m drowning in you, but I’ll be damned if I come up for air. Each time I lick my lips, I taste you. You taste of summer rain and strawberries. I long to taste you in the flesh again, to slide my tongue between your lips. I hunger so much for the sweetness of your skin. I want to taste you in places you can’t reach, can’t even see. I dream of being able to trace a path across your body until I reach my favorite place, tucked away just for me. Babe, I ache

for you every night. For now, the memories breathe life into me. They keep me whole until I can return to you. J.D. I swallow hard and pull the letter to my chest. Fire spreads across my cheeks. “This is wrong. We can’t read them. They’re personal.” Chelsea grabs the letter from my hand. “So personal that Jen, whoever she is, didn’t think twice about leaving them behind?” She pouts as her eyes glint with mischief. “I say these babies are now public property.” “You have a point.” I chew on the edge of my nail. “What should we do with them after? I can’t just put them back where I found them. I’ll never be able to sleep knowing I’m lying on top of them.” Chelsea, deep in thought, twirls a lock of hair around her finger. “I wonder who this J.D. is. How about we read one or two more to find out?” “And if we find out who he is? What then? You think we should return them to him instead? They can’t mean that much to Jen if she left them here.” “Maybe she forgot where she put them.” “I doubt that.” I pause. “I think we should find out who she is and give them back. Then she can decide what she wants to do with them.” Chelsea stops unfolding one of the letters and glances at me. A finger is pressed to her lips. “Jen… Jennifer… hmmm… doesn’t ring a bell.” Her eyes come alive again. “I still want to know who this hottie is, though. He has a way with words. I’d dump Neil in a heartbeat for a guy like that.” She climbs off the chair and I join her on the couch. “I find that hard to believe. You and Neil are made for each other.” “You’re right. I wish he’d get over his guilt, though.”

Chelsea has been dating Neil Mead, a design student, for a year. After meeting and dating online for six months, Chelsea transferred from a university in Michigan —where she’d already completed two years of her fouryear bachelor’s degree program—to Oaklow University to be near her guy. But despite her sacrifice for love, she often complains her relationship is far from perfect. Neil suffers constant Catholic guilt over their sex life, and it drives Chelsea insane. “You’re still perfect together.” I shift closer to her. “Come on, let’s find out more.” My heart rate picks up pace. I can’t remember a time I was more excited about anything—except, of course for the day I stepped foot on campus. Nothing beats that. The distance between us is nothing but air. You’re here with me even when you’re far away. Everything smells of you. Everything tastes of you. My crappy food tastes like caviar, seasoned with memories of you. You know the one thing I miss the most? Licking drops of champagne from your lips, from your belly button, from your pussy. Baby, even the most expensive champagne has nothing on you. “Wow, this is getting pretty graphic.” After two more erotically charged letters, I let out a breath. “I don’t know if I can do this. I feel so guilty.” “We’re reading for a reason. We have to find out who these people are. It’s too late to stop now.” Chelsea grins. “For God’s sake. You already know how her nether regions taste. How much more personal can it get?” I slap Chelsea on the arm and we leaf through more letters. Some we read completely, and others we only glance over. I shake my head and place my palms on my glowing cheeks. “We’ve read their deepest secrets and we’re still no closer to knowing who they are. We need something

to start with… a last name.” So far, the letters we’ve read are all addressed to someone named Jennifer and signed with the initials J.D., but without the envelopes, we’re stuck. “Lucky for us, I can’t resist a mystery.” Chelsea’s short, chipped nail taps one of the letters. “I think I found something to occupy me tomorrow.” I raise an eyebrow. “I thought you were up to your neck in lectures and presentations. How will you find time to hunt down the name of a stranger among ten thousand students? Who knows how many Jennifers there are?” “Then I’ll find out who J.D. is.” Chelsea jumps to her feet. She glances at her watch and frowns. “If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s this: I always have time for a good mystery. It shouldn’t take me long to figure out who the lovebirds are. For now I need a good night’s rest. It’s way past midnight.” A yawn assails her as she shuffles to her bed. “I’ll finish unpacking tomorrow.” “Good idea.” I return to my bed as well, and finish making it. Then I go to the bathroom to wash my face and change into my pajamas—if an oversized plain t-shirt can be called that. Less than thirty minutes later, the lights are out. By the time my eyes drift shut, a faint tingle is still dancing on my spine.

CHAPTER THREE

I wake to find Chelsea already gone. A white pushup bra is draped over one of her unpacked bags. I pull back the sheer curtain to allow the sun’s glow to enter. On my way to the bathroom, I eye the letters. Some are still scattered on the couch the way we left them last night. Goosebumps scatter across my skin as I remember the erotic words shared between the two lovers. I complete my morning routine of brushing my teeth, taking a cold shower to wake me up, and detangling my hair, then get dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. All the while I force myself not to think about the letters. After unpacking the rest of my stuff and putting everything in its place, a mix of ’80s hits blaring in the background, I gather up the letters to tie them with their ribbon. Big mistake. The desire to read one more is stronger than my guilt over invading someone else’s privacy any further. I pull out one of the letters, but then my phone rings. I know it’s my mother again, so I don’t pick up. I’ve even stopped reading her texts. After the way we left

things when I moved away from Boston, there’s nothing left to say to each other. We always had a strained relationship, but the fight we had before we parted set a new record. The moment I stepped out the door with my packed suitcases, she shouted at me, “You’re making a huge mistake! Your looks won’t last forever, you know. If you let them fade, you’ll be left with nothing.” “See, Mom,” I’d retorted as I walked toward the waiting taxi. “That’s exactly why I’m choosing to do something else with my life. I don’t want to bank on my looks forever.” I left without saying anything more—without a goodbye. It hurts that it had to come to this, but some relationships are so damaged they don’t stand a chance at repair. The biggest mistake would be changing my mind and modeling again. Dad died last year, but he would have been proud of me for choosing another path. When he was lying in bed, the cancer eating away at him, he asked me for a promise. With tears in his periwinkle eyes —the same shade of blue as mine—he begged me to get out from under my mother’s control and go live my own dreams. My mother had once dreamed of growing up to become an international top model, but that dream died when she became a mom. She never said it outright, but I always felt she wanted me to repay her for what she had lost by having me. She wanted me to live her dreams. Those last few words with my father prompted my application to design schools all over the country. Oaklow University offered me a full scholarship, and a way out. I didn’t hesitate to accept. The last thing I want is to end up like my mother, grieving for her youth. With her bottle-

blonde hair, over-stretched face from too much plastic surgery, fake boobs, and a wardrobe more suited to a twenty-year-old, she’s definitely not my kind of role model. And I’m not her personal cash cow. “Sorry, Mom,” I say to the now silent phone. “There’s no way in hell I’m going back to being just a pretty face.”

AFTER ALMOST TWO hours in an interior design studio lecture, I grab a mango smoothie from the cafeteria and take it with me to one of the study halls. My plan is to complete some sketches for a group project. I choose an isolated corner at the far end of the hall, separated from the rest of the room by two royal blue plush chairs and a white bean-shaped acrylic table. I want to be as far as possible from the door. It’s not that I’m afraid the other students will disturb me; I just don’t want people staring at me every time they step into the hall. Word about me and my modeling career has already spread through campus like wildfire, with students wondering, sometimes out loud, if I’m the girl who ran away from the limelight. Even worse, I don’t have many friends; most guys want to date me, and the girls feel intimidated. I can’t wait for the day everyone sees me as one of them. I ache for a normal life. I groan when someone calls my name. Not Milton, please. But of course it is. “Hey, Ivy.” He drops, uninvited, into an empty chair at my table. He reeks of hair gel and too much aftershave. “I hope you don’t mind a little company.” His perpetual smirk rubs me the wrong way. I pick up my smoothie. “Actually, I do. I’m kind of busy right now.”

Milton Weiss is nineteen, and one of the first people I saw when I arrived on campus. He gawked at me for ages before removing his faded navy cap and shoving it into his pocket. He proceeded to wrestle my luggage from me, insisting on carrying it to my room; he never gave me a chance to say no. Since then, he’s made it clear he’s interested. But I feel nothing for him, not even a flutter. To be fair, although he’s a bit too skinny for my liking, and his skate punk style and spiky medium-brown hair aren’t my cup of tea, he doesn’t look half bad. He has the deepest gray eyes I’ve ever seen, and perfect teeth. Unfortunately you can’t force your heart to like someone. And younger guys are not my thing. He studies me for a moment while I try not to squirm under his gaze. I continue sipping my smoothie, watching him watching me. “You look nice,” he says finally. “I like what you did with your hair.” My hand instinctively goes to my head and I run a hand down my side braid. My mother used to say my waist-length hair was my best feature, my money maker. It was one of the reasons she made sure to get me into as many hair product commercials as she could. They were a nightmare. Flinging my hair from side to side for long stretches of time left my neck aching and my heart shriveled. My mother used to throw a fit each time I chose not to wear my hair down. “You never know who you might bump into,” she said. “Always walk out of the house with perfect hair and makeup. Treat the street like your personal catwalk, Ivy.” “Thanks, Milton.” I say now, picking up a pencil. Now please get the message and leave me alone.

“Of course, you’d look even hotter with a splash of color.” He eyes my black t-shirt and purses his lips. “You wear way too much black.” “Black is also a color, Milton.” I can’t help smiling. “As an interior design student, you should know that.” “I agree.” He smirks. “Got me. But tell me, did the other colors offend you in some way?” “I wear what I feel comfortable in.” I push my smoothie aside and start drawing parallel lines on my paper. “Have dinner with me.” His voice is lower. “I want to give you a little time to get to know me.” “Really? How about getting to know me?” God, he’s so full of himself. “I’ve known you for years, baby.” That smirk again. My stomach clenches. “The person you saw in magazines is not me.” “Well then, give me a chance to meet the real you. How about dinner at eight?” “I already have plans with my roommate.” “I’m sure Chelsea wouldn’t stand in the way of love.” He waggles his eyebrows. I laugh, because what else can I do? “Milton, I’m honored that you want to spend time with me, but I’m busy right now.” “Are you on the youth center design team?” “Yep. We’re meeting in an hour. That’s why you have to leave. So I can get to work.” “Okay, I’ll leave you to it.” He stands, but plants his hands on the table. His face is almost level with mine, his eyes holding me in place. “I won’t give up, you know. I like you. I know you think I’m only interested in… Anyway, I’m not that type of guy. Trust me. You’ll never know how good we’d be together unless you give it a chance.” “You’re crazy.”

“Yes, baby. I’m crazy for you.” He flings his backpack over his shoulder, winks at me, and swaggers off. I don’t want a guy like Milton. I want real love—like the love I experienced secondhand through the letters under my mattress. I want a guy to write those words for me, someone who can touch me without even being there. Someone I can’t stop thinking about. As soon as my group meeting is over, I rush back to my room. It’s 5:15 p.m. and Chelsea still isn’t back. After a moment of trying to resist, I read one more letter. I’m helpless: the words draw me like a magnet. Baby, There are so many reasons why I love you. But mostly I love how your eyes change shades when you come for me, the way your muscles clench around my dick, so tight I fear you’ll break me. How you wrap your silky legs around my waist when I dive into you. I jump when the door opens. Chelsea is standing there, her face unusually pale. My heart is still racing, the warmth between my legs impossible to ignore. Holding myself together, I try to calm my breath, to stop it from bursting in and out of my mouth. Maybe she won’t notice how disheveled I am. “Ivy, you have to stop reading those.” There’s a hardness in her voice I’ve never heard before. Her eyes are a darker shade of brown, filled with something I can’t decipher. “Are you okay? What’s going on?” Chelsea flings her leather tote bag onto her unmade bed and sinks into the chair at her desk. “Remember when I said the letters are public property? Well, I’ve changed my mind. I think we should get rid of them.” “What changed? Did you find something out?” My heart sinks. A part of me wants to keep them, as though

they’re mine now. I’m well aware of how sick that is. “You won’t believe this.” She tucks her hands between her knees. “The guy who wrote those letters is a man by the name of Judson Devereux… Professor Judson Devereux, as a matter of fact. He used to be an art history professor here at Oaklow. Guess who one of his students was.” “Jennifer? You’re kidding.” I’ve been turned on by words written by a professor? I swallow hard, praying Chelsea doesn’t see the shock on my face. “Okay?” There has to be more—she looks like she’s seen a ghost. “So we return them to the professor. Or Jennifer. No big deal.” “No. I think we should get rid of them. We can’t contact Professor Devereux or Jennifer.” She gulps in a huge breath of air. “Ivy, Professor Devereux is a murderer.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The morning sunlight wakes me before my alarm does. As I roll to one side to face the window, I make a mental note to talk to Chelsea about getting heavier curtains. My cell phone clock tells me it’s six a.m.—fifteen minutes before the alarm goes off. I choose to forgive the sun and lift my head, glancing over the edge of my bed. As usual, Chelsea’s bed is unmade and she’s not in it. After I’m up, I find a note from her on top of our minifridge. Went to yoga class before lectures. You should consider joining. Chelsea Yeah, I should, but I hate anything to do with exercise. Though it would be nice to do something with Chelsea. Our schedules are getting so busy, it will be hard to see each other as much. I walk over to my desk and pull out a piece of paper and pen. Things to do: Go see Paulette Stevens (guidance counselor), Think about joining yoga class (seriously) Unable to think of more things that need doing, apart from the obvious, I drop the note into a drawer. I’m about to walk away from the desk to go have a shower, but I tip

my head back and look up. From down here I can’t see anything but the wood planks supporting my mattress, but in my mind I see the letters tucked underneath. They’re not there, of course. Two days ago, Chelsea shocked me with the news that Judson Devereux was not only a professor, but a murderer. I promised her I’d get rid of the letters; luckily she didn’t insist on doing it herself. I still have them in my possession, safe inside one of my backpacks. I’m still struggling to believe the hands of such a passionate guy are stained with blood. Not long after Chelsea gave me the news, she had to cancel our dinner date; Neil had a bad cold and she wanted to go take care of him. I haven’t seen her much since then, which means I still don’t know much about the murder rumors. At least, I’m assuming they’re only rumors. Only I can decide the letters’ fate, the fate of the words that touch me so deeply, even when I’m not reading them. I’ve read most of them now. I remember each word as though it’s dancing before my eyes. I keep telling myself to stop thinking about them, to let them go. I want to destroy them, pretend they never existed. But how will I ever be able to destroy the words inside my head? How can I stop imagining the way they would sound if he said them in person? I can’t help wondering how old he is. The thought that he could be a lot older than me actually makes me feel more drawn to the idea of him. What’s wrong with me? I take my shower, get dressed, and switch on our new blender. I watch the mango, apple, and grapes swirling inside the machine, merging into one. Once the smoothie is done, I pour myself a glass and enjoy the sweet taste as it awakens my tongue. I move to the window and look out into the garden. Students are already hanging

around the pond, riding past it on bicycles, or hurrying down the little path close to the bike shed with books tucked under their arms, and a coffee or sandwich in hand. A group of skinny girls dressed in tight-fitting prismatic patterned sportswear, push open the heavy doors of the Dunkin Hall gym, where some of the hottest guys hang out to show off their six packs before or after lectures. My phone rings. This early in the morning, the wind chime ring tone is gentle on my ears. I lick drops of smoothie from my lips and pick up. I don’t bother to check the caller I.D. I know who it is, and I can’t avoid her forever. “Ivy Hollifield, I’m your mother. How dare you not answer or return my calls?” “I’ve been busy settling in, Mom.” “It took that long?” Mom coughs her raspy smoker’s cough. “I just moved into a new dorm room. A pipe burst above my old one and we had to move out.” I place my smoothie glass on the coffee table. “We?” “My roommate Chelsea and me.” My throat is tightening, and I swallow. “What is it, Mom? If you’re calling to tell me what a mistake I’m making, I’m not in the mood for it. I have to get ready for class.” “Ivy, are you really stupid enough to throw away your life like this? God blessed you with beauty and you’re letting it go to waste.” “Just because I no longer want to model doesn’t mean I’m wasting my looks. Seriously, I can’t do this. Not now. Not ever.” “Think of all the money you’re throwing away.” The dark poison dripping from her voice makes me shiver.

“I earned money from pageants as a kid. I modeled for your agency for years. I earned a lot of money, yes. But do I need to remind you where it all went? I’m no longer interested in funding your gambling and plastic surgery addictions.” “You rotten, ungrateful piece of—” Before I can stop myself, I end the call and switch off the phone. I’ve never done that to her before. Coming to Oaklow has shown me another side of myself, one brave enough to stand up to her. I feel rotten all the same. The tight knot inside me begs for release. I’m almost tempted to switch the phone back on, to call her, to apologize. Almost. Our conversations will always end in tears. Why torture myself more than I already have? She should be the one apologizing, not me. I drop onto the couch with my head in my hands, drawing in deep breaths, and expelling them slowly. Maybe I really should try yoga. The doorbell rings. For an insane moment I wonder if it’s my mother, and she was in Oaklow when she called. But it can’t be. My mother is incapable of leaving her precious modeling agency in anyone else’s hands, even for a day. Maybe Chelsea forgot her key. Opening the door, I drop my gaze to find a large bouquet of baby pink roses resting against the doorway. The Pansy Blooms logo sparkles on a glossy piece of paper hanging from the end of the string that holds the slender stems together. I pick up the flowers and bring them inside, pulling out the little yellow envelope tucked between them. Maybe they’re for Chelsea, from Neil. I place the flowers on top of the small fridge and sit on the couch. There’s no name on the envelope, so I take a

quick look inside. Ivy, don’t deny us the chance to create something beautiful. Milton I run a frustrated hand through the ropes of my stilldamp hair. After the upsetting conversation with my mother, the last person I want to deal with is Milton. When I bump into him—and I most certainly will—I’ll have to make it clear once more that I’m not interested. “Stay away from guys like him,” Chelsea warned me when I told her about my latest encounter with Milton at the study hall. “I heard he’s nothing but a player who’s dying to get between the sheets with a cover girl.” Maybe it’s my need for a balsam for my wounds after Mom’s insults; maybe it’s an attempt to search for the romance I’m failing to find in guys like Milton. But before I know it I’m back on my bed, surrounded by Jennifer’s letters. I tell myself I’ll only read one, but I keep going. I’m scared Chelsea will return from yoga to find I still have the letters, but I can’t stop myself. The letters are like a forbidden fruit, calling for me to take one more bite. I have a visual communications lecture in an hour— one whole hour to myself. As I read, I’m afraid, guilty, and aroused all at once. And in a weird way, I feel as though there’s someone else in the room. Him? He’s not talking to his girlfriend, Jennifer, anymore. He’s talking to me. It’s so hard to believe the man behind these sensual, loving words is capable of taking someone else’s life. Maybe it’s a lie, a rumor. Surely Chelsea got the wrong information. I run the tips of my fingers over the pages, the words caressing me back. Is this how Jennifer felt when she read them? His words reach out like fingers, touching my heart, my skin. Following the path my desire wants me to take, I drop one of my hands from the letter I’m currently reading, and push my fingers under the waistband of my

jeans and then my underwear. I’m unable to stop myself from responding to his words, from doing what he tells me to do to myself. I gasp when my finger slides deep inside. My muscles clench around it as my back arches. Blood surges from my fingertips to my toes as I move my finger in and out, imagining it’s him inside me. Then my whole body tightens as the orgasm takes hold of my senses. A delicious shudder heats my body, and the air in my lungs gushes out, followed by a low groan. My head is spinning as though I’ve just stepped off a rollercoaster. Even though I’ve never felt a man inside me, I’ve touched myself before. But I have never experienced an orgasm like this. When my body relaxes again, the heat of shame rushes to my cheeks. I start to pack away the letters, but stop. As I lift the last letter—one I had been saving—I find another underneath. This one is inside an envelope, with a return address on the back and Jennifer’s full name on the front. Why wait any longer? I unfold the last letter on top of the envelope. It has a different tone to it—no longer sweet and sensual. There’s a desperation to the words now, as if each letter is dipped into the ink of pain and frustration. Ma chérie, Don’t be fooled into thinking your body could belong to someone else. After tasting what we had, it would reject anyone who dares touch you in the places that belong to me. My hands have marked you; my lips have sealed you. You belong to me, my love. All of you. Please write back and we’ll pick up where we left off. You know you want this as much as I do. I fold up that letter and pick up the final one, the one

inside the envelope. My heart is thudding as I pull it out. A tinge of disappointment taps my heart; there will be no more letters after this. Your silence is thick and solid in the night, a silver sword that plunges into my heart, burns my soul to ashes. I want to see your smile, to hear the laughter between your words. Life without you is an empty shell. Worthless. Death is more appealing than a second of knowing you don’t want me. This is the last letter I’ll write to you. If you don’t respond by the 10th of September, I’ll be left with no choice but to leave this empty world behind. Only you can choose if this is truly goodbye. Forever yours, J.D. The letter slips from my hand and flutters to my lap. Monday, the tenth of September, is less than a week away. Shit. What do I do now? I have to do something—I don’t want to be responsible for a suicide! My stomach burns. Why didn’t I listen to Chelsea and just throw the damn letters away?

CHAPTER FIVE

A fter my second lecture of the day—design technology —I rush out of the lecture hall, waving Milton away as he approaches me. “Thanks for the flowers. I’ll see you around,” I throw over my shoulder and rush off before he can respond. I’m not trying to be rude, but there’s something I need to take care of. Five minutes later, I’m on the third floor, entering the Student Support Department. Breathless, I knock on my guidance counselor’s door. The name Paulette Stevens stands out in bold black letters. “Come in,” she calls from inside. Her husky voice has a soothing effect on me. As I push the door open, I know I’ve made the right decision. I need to talk to someone or risk going crazy. Paulette is standing at her window, watering a small indoor palm with a brown plastic watering can. When I enter, she turns, her narrow cornrows sweeping the shoulders of her pinstriped suit. I close the door and take a few steps toward her. We shake hands. Since coming to Oaklow, I’ve only met her

three times; mostly we correspond through email. But what I have to discuss with her today requires a face-toface conversation. “Have a seat, Ivy.” She puts the watering can on the floor next to a portable air conditioner. The scent of lemongrass hangs in the air. “Thanks.” I force a smile and sit at one end of her armless faux leather couch. She sits in the middle of it, legs crossed, hands clasped in her lap. “I’m sorry I came without an appointment,” I say. “That’s all right. Today is not a busy day.” She narrows her chestnut brown eyes. “Are you settling well into your new room?” I hesitate before answering. “Yes… Yes, I am.” “I’m glad to hear that.” Her lips curl into a faint smile. Paulette is one of those people who are both distant and approachable all at once. But I like her. She makes me feel comfortable. “What can I do for you?” “I have something to show you. I didn’t know who else to go to with this.” I reach into my drawstring backpack and pull out the letters. “I found these under my mattress the day we moved into the new dorm.” Paulette reaches for the stack and pulls at the ribbon holding the letters together. The envelope is at the top. She regards it for a moment. “They’re addressed to Jennifer Hanson.” A deep furrow forms in the milky brown skin between her eyebrows. “Yes she… she must have lived in our room before us.” I’m hesitant to tell her I read them. I know I have to, and I will… but the thought of the sexual content in the letters stops me. Paulette lifts one of the letters to eye level but doesn’t open it. “I used to be Jennifer’s counselor.”

“She’s no longer a student here?” Paulette is quiet for a heartbeat. “Not anymore.” She gives me a ghost of a smile, and something unreadable flashes in her eyes. Before I can try to work out what she’s thinking, she expels a breath and stands. “Tell you what—thank you for showing me these. I’ll hold on to them. Should I see her again, I’ll pass them on. Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?” I take a deep breath and nip at the corner of a naked nail. I never wear nail polish, preferring to keep my nails short and buffed to a shine instead. “There is something else. I… I read the letters.” “You did?” She taps her chin, eyes narrowed. I nod and feel my face turning scarlet. “They’re love letters sent to her by someone named Judson—” “Devereux.” Paulette sinks back down onto the couch, her chest rising and falling way too fast. “You know him as well?” She bobs her head. Her eyes take on a serious expression. “He was an art history professor… a part-time adjunct, who only lectured here during summer semesters.” I want to ask her if he works full-time elsewhere, but I bite my tongue. It’s none of my business, and it’s also not why I’m here. “In one of the letters he threatens to commit suicide if she doesn’t respond by the tenth of September.” Paulette glances at a nature calendar on the back of the office door. “That’s next Monday.” Her voice is as calm as a still pond. How can she remain so serene? I’m a complete mess inside. “I… had to come and see you. I wasn’t sure what else to do. I couldn’t keep it to myself.” “You did the right thing.” Paulette’s expression is

unreadable as she stands again and walks over to her desk. She picks up a jug from a tray and pours a glass of water. The gurgle of it spilling into the glass calms me. “Want some?” “I’m fine, thanks.” She takes a sip, and brings the glass with her as she sits down on the couch. “Ivy, I don’t know how much information you got from reading the letters, but maybe you should know the whole story, in case Professor Devereux sends a letter to your dorm again. You have to be careful.” Paulette downs her water and wraps both hands around the empty glass. “Jennifer was Judson’s student here. Though it’s against university policy, to my knowledge, they dated for a few weeks. Then something tragic happened.” I hold my breath, waiting for the whole story. Did he kill Jennifer? If so, why would he send her letters? “Professor Devereux claimed he caught another one of his students raping Jennifer.” Paulette inhales deeply, and glances at the door as though afraid someone might hear our conversation. My breath comes out in an audible gush. “That’s horrible.” “Jennifer said it didn’t happen, but Professor Devereux was adamant.” Paulette nods and blinks several times. “That student was found dead two days later… he’d been murdered. It all happened at the end of last semester, a few days before break.” “Professor—” I’m finding it hard to think of this man— who makes me feel all kinds of things—as Professor Devereux. “Do you really think he murdered the student?” Surprise flashes in her eyes. “You already know?” “I thought—”

“It’s not proven yet, but all evidence points to him. It’s been a difficult time for the university. Professor Devereux is now in police custody, awaiting trial.” It must have been a huge scandal. Why is it that no one at the university is talking about it? Not even Milton has brought it up. Are they all trying to shut it out, cover it up in some way? I wouldn’t be surprised if the students are forbidden from discussing what happened. What university wouldn’t want to hide such a stain on its reputation? But how about the community as a whole? Everyone acts as though there are no skeletons in Oaklow’s closets. Though perhaps I wouldn’t know what people talk about off campus, since I hardly go out. I remind myself to change that. “And Jennifer, what happened to her?” Paulette runs a slim finger around the mouth of her glass, as though wiping away invisible dust. “She left town.” “Did she transfer to another university?” Paulette clears her throat. “I’m afraid I don’t have any information on her whereabouts.” One of her knees is bouncing up and down. For the first time since entering her office, I detect a slight tremor to her calm exterior. She doesn’t want to talk about this. But I can’t let go—I need to know more. “Shouldn’t we try and get a hold of her? Judson… Professor Devereux might commit suicide if she doesn’t respond.” “Professor Devereux is obsessed with Jennifer. At least he was before she left. The threat of suicide is a manipulation tactic.” Paulette sighs and rises. The strength has returned to her voice. “Ivy, I suggest you move on with your life. Focus on your studies. Even if his suicide threats are serious, it’s not your responsibility to

save him. He’s safe in police custody, anyway. Thank you for coming to me with this. If he sends any more letters to the dorm, let me know immediately.” I leave Paulette’s office feeling heavier than when I’d entered.

“I’M SO FED up with his guilt episodes,” Chelsea says as she braids her hair for the night. He makes me feel bad about having sex, and I’m not even religious. He cries after every damn time we sleep together. Who does that?” I say nothing as she spits out her frustration. “The sex is so good. But we’ve been dating for a year —he either wants it or he doesn’t. I’m only twenty-one once. I want to go wild, and I want to do it with him.” I envy Chelsea for her free sexual spirit, her hunger for experimentation. I want to feel what she feels with a real man… not a mysterious murderer I know only through letters. “But you love him, right?” I ask. “I do. He’s crazy, but he’s mine. I’d strangle any bitch who even looks his way.” “Well then, you have no choice but to wipe away his tears.” I laugh and pull my sheet up to my chin. “I guess you’re right.” Chelsea climbs into her bed and switches off her lavender shabby chic bedside lamp. “I went to see Paulette Stevens today.” I’m braver in the darkness. “Your guidance counselor? What for? Are you having problems? I haven’t seen mine in ages.” “I made a huge mistake,” I admit. “Spill.” “Remember when you said I should get rid of

Jennifer’s letters?” I chew on my bottom lip. “I kind of didn’t.” “Kind of?” Light floods the room again as Chelsea switches on her lamp. She’s sitting up in bed now, hand on her chest. Her pearly nail polish is chipped. “Are you crazy? The man is a murderer.” “I know.” I slide my gaze from her face, planting it on the faint cracks in the ceiling instead. “I guess I was curious.” “So you read more of the letters?” “Yes, and in one of them he threatened to kill himself if Jennifer doesn’t respond by Monday.” “Which Monday?” “Next week Monday.” “Fuck.” Chelsea’s voice rises in pitch. “That’s messed up. We don’t even know where Jennifer is. Do you think she read that letter? Maybe she did but couldn’t care less? After what he did, I wouldn’t be surprised. I’d have run from the monster as fast as I could.” “I don’t think she read the letter.” I place my hands over my eyes like a toddler playing hide and seek. “That particular letter was inside an envelope… unopened.” Chelsea’s mouth drops open. “Oh my God, you opened it?” I swallow hard and force myself to look at her. “I didn’t want to. It… well, it just happened.” “Just happened, huh?” Chelsea laughs. “That’s what they always say. So what do we do now?” “Nothing. I went to see Paulette because, I don’t know, I thought she might know what to do. This is bigger than us, I think.” Chelsea draws her knees to her chest and hugs them. “What did she say?” “Turns out she used to be Jennifer’s counselor too.

She told me what happened between her and Devereux.” “The whole sordid story?” “Pretty much.” In a few words, I relay everything Paulette told me. “Holy shit. That’s something straight out of a movie. Funny no one around here talks about it. Maybe the scandal sort of died down during the summer holidays? Every scandal has an expiration date, I guess. Neil told me bits and pieces yesterday, but he doesn’t know many details. He’s useless at gossip.” “I’m sure the university wants to forget the scandal, pretend it never happened.” “What else did Paulette say?” “She said the professor and Jennifer’s relationship was unhealthy, and that he’s obsessed with her. She also said I shouldn’t worry about the threats in the letter. That it’s not my responsibility to save him.” “I think she’s right. You never know what he might be capable of, even from behind bars.” She gazes up at the ceiling. “Such a shame. He must have been a catch for a student to fall for him. A student-professor affair… how hot is that?” “I wonder what he looks like. I mean—” “I don’t care how he looks. His surname says he’s French.” Chelsea sighs. “French is one of those languages with the power to blind women. An ugly guy only has to roll a few sexy French words off his tongue and he’ll turn gorgeous.” “You’re silly. But I won’t argue with you on that one.” Chelsea’s and Paulette’s words swirl around my head until I fall asleep. I want to heed their warnings, but I can’t shake the feeling that I need to do something more than sit back and let it all unfold. I want to let go, as Paulette suggested, but something inside me won’t allow

it. Somewhere between midnight and dawn, I make a decision that might get me into trouble. In the morning, as soon as Chelsea leaves for her yoga class, I pull out a sheet of paper from my drawer, where I’d hastily scribbled the return address I’d found on the last letter. I’m pretty sure the address doesn’t belong to a prison. Maybe someone else picks up the mail and delivers the letters to Professor Devereux in person? After a moment’s hesitation, I start writing. Dear Professor Devereux, My name is Ivy. I came across the letter you wrote to Jennifer. She no longer lives in this dorm room. You don’t know who I am, but I’m begging you to reconsider committing suicide. You might think life is not worth living, and I have no idea what you’re going through, but I thought I’d write and ask you not to do it. I’m sure there’s something in your life you might want to live for. Isn’t there anything at all? Please think about it. I wish you well. Ivy

CHAPTER SIX

A s my laptop screen lights up, my chest feels as if it’s about to burst. I might regret what I’m about to do, but after a week of indecision, I’ve reached a point where I’m unable to stop myself. It’s been a week since I sent off the letter I hope will change his mind. A week with no response. What if he doesn’t listen to me? What if my letter had the opposite effect on him? I’m a stranger, and I pretty much told him the girl he loves has moved on without letting him know. What if that was the final nail on his coffin? As my fingers fly over the keyboard, acting of their own volition, my mind screams warnings that make my ears ring. I’m typing Judson Devereux’s name into the search bar. A few social media accounts belonging to different Judson Devereuxs pop up. I have no idea which one is his. I don’t even know what he looks like. Unable to determine which of the many faces is his, I think about quitting, but I don’t. The murder he committed has to have been in the press at some point. No way would the news of a professor killing a student

go unnoticed by the local press. Next I type “Oaklow University Professor Judson Devereux.” The screen explodes with links leading to the story. Professor Judson Devereux: Monster of Oaklow University Art history professor murders star student out of jealousy. Find out more… Murder taints the sleepy town of Oaklow, Florida Professor-Student Romance Turns Deadly I run my damp palms over my jeans, wiping away the clamminess. I refrain from clicking on the links. The only reason I searched for his name was to find out whether he’d committed suicide. A little voice inside my head nags at me to click on one of the stories. Relenting, I click on the first one. My stomach lurches when I read that Oliver Banes, the murdered student, died from stab wounds and bleeding out after being castrated. I’m conflicted at this point. What Professor Devereux might have done is gruesome, but I also can’t help feeling that the rapist deserved to be punished for what he did, if the claims are true. Though that doesn’t justify murder, of course. Devereux should have allowed the cops to handle it. I click on a few more links. As soon as I see him, air rushes into my lungs, forcing my spine against the back of my chair. My eyes focus on his mugshot. I don’t normally like it when people call men “beautiful,” but Professor Devereux is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. And I have come across many handsome men in my day. He has a chiseled jaw, close-cropped dark hair that is slightly gray at the temples, and intense emerald eyes. Classic handsome features. The prison jumpsuit

somehow enhances his good looks. Gazing into his eyes, I’m hypnotized. No wonder Jennifer couldn’t resist him. I can’t pull my eyes away. Professor Devereux is not looking into the camera; he’s staring at me, into my soul, shifting things I don’t want moved. So this is the man behind the words that affect me so deeply. I don’t know what I expected. A small part of me had hoped he wouldn’t be my type—that he’d be much older, that I’d feel nothing at the sight of his face. But now, with my eyes transfixed on the screen, my temperature rises. The words he wrote to Jennifer float in my body, clouding my mind, tickling sensitive nerve endings. His hypnotic eyes stay with me, even when I leave the image to search for an article that reveals his age. Now that I know how handsome he is, and that he’s only thirty-five, I can no longer call him Professor Devereux. From now on, he’s Judson to me.

CHAPTER SEVEN

arrives after ten long days. It finds J udson’s response me in bed with a splitting headache that seems determined to stick around no matter what I do. It’s Friday and I’ve skipped my lectures. At eleven, the doorbell rings. I wince as the harsh sound bounces off the walls of my already tortured head. It’s the pizza delivery guy. Instead of letting him in downstairs and allowing him to come up to my room, I throw one of Chelsea’s trench coats over my pajamas, stuff money into the pockets, and drag myself to the elevator instead of the stairs—my only daily exercise. I keep my fingertips pressed to my temples on the ride down. I open the front door and accept the warm pizza box. The aromas of dough, onion, and pepperoni make my mouth water. “Thanks.” The delivery boy’s china-blue eyes—he’s only fourteen or fifteen—glint when our eyes meet. He pushes back the strawberry blond hair hanging over his forehead and stares at me without blinking. Even though he doesn’t say a word, I know he

recognizes me. I ignore the unspoken questions in his eyes. “How much do I owe you?” I ask him, as he seems to have lost the ability to speak. He shakes his head and mutters the amount with a slight lisp. I press the cash into his hand. “Keep the change.” “Thanks, ma’am.” He stumbles off, glancing behind him every few steps, until he reaches his blue bike. He rides off with a quick, unsure wave. Inside the front hall, I check our mailbox. I’m surprised to find a single letter addressed to me. The headache melts away and my heart starts to gallop. I wrote Judson three weeks ago, and I’ve been worried sick that he ignored my pleas. I’ve been unable to forget him, the words he wrote to Jennifer, the image of his emerald eyes from spinning through my mind. I slam the door of the mailbox shut and lock it with my key. Back inside the room, my heart lodges itself at the base of my throat, making it hard to breathe. I place the greasy pizza box on the coffee table, forgetting about it as anxiety and anticipation move in to replace my appetite. I rip open the envelope. It’s not an actual letter, not really… more of a note. Dear Ivy, Who are you and what gives you the right to read someone else’s personal letters? Judson Devereux The words hammer in my already pounding head. The same words also bring along a fury that’s bitter at the back of my throat. I can’t let him talk to me like that. He doesn’t even deserve a new sheet of paper. Since he wrote in blue, I pick up a black ballpoint pen from my pen cup, and below his note, I write mine.

Those so-called personal letters were left in MY personal space. If you are looking to be mad at someone, be mad at the person who left them behind. My only mistake was telling you not to commit suicide. Sorry about that. Goodbye. Ivy I fold up the paper, get dressed, and storm out of the room. I send off the letter before I change my mind. My anger only lasts as long as my headache. As soon as I can think again without agony, I feel horrible. I sent an angry letter to a man who is struggling with not only a failed relationship, but enough pain to consider the escape that is suicide. He’s lashing out at me because Jennifer isn’t there. And he’s right. Much as I thought I was doing the right thing, I shouldn’t have meddled. It was none of my business in the first place. I should have swallowed my anger and ignored his arrogant note. When my eyes drift shut for the night, I pray my words haven’t added another layer of darkness to his heart. Three days later, Judson surprises me with a response. His words are scribbled on the back of the same sheet of paper as our previous correspondence. Dear Ivy, My behavior was uncalled for. I’m disgusted with myself. You’re right, I directed my rage at the wrong person. Consider this my apology. Please accept it. If I may ask, do you know where Jennifer is? I really need to talk to her. Judson P.S. Keep your response on the same page. Great way to save the trees.

Relieved to get proof of life, and seeing no reason as to why I shouldn’t accept his apology, I write back. Judson, Jennifer left Oaklow University a while ago. She might have transferred to another university. Sorry, I can’t give you more information on her whereabouts. I have no idea where she is. Take care. Ivy

CHAPTER EIGHT

I exit the elevator, my gym bag slung over my shoulder. Chelsea has finally talked me into trying yoga, and I’ve been attending an evening class with her once a week. Given our busy schedules, and Chelsea’s hot and heavy relationship, we don’t get to see each other so often anymore. The milkshakes we share at Milky Lake after yoga give us a chance to catch up on each other’s lives. She doesn’t know I’ve been in touch with Judson, but I have no intention of telling her or anyone else. There’s nothing to tell, anyway. Our correspondence seems to have died. Two weeks have gone by with no more letters. Not that I expected him to ever write to me again. I answered his question, and the answer probably bruised his already broken heart. Two hours later, Chelsea and I have finished our milkshakes, and she’s leaving for dinner with Neil while I return to the dorms. As I walk past the mailboxes, I hesitate, then open the damn box. My heart leaps when I find a letter addressed to me. It’s his handwriting. I know

I’m crazy, but skip to my room with a grin on my face. I wait until I’ve had a shower before opening the letter, which calls for me on the other side of the bathroom wall. When I finally open the envelope, I’m sitting on the couch, eating Chinese takeout and washing it down with apple cider. Again, it’s far from a real letter, and it’s still on the same page we’ve been using all this time. Get over yourself, I muse. It doesn’t mean anything that he’s kept it. Ivy, quick question. Are you by any chance Ivy Hollifield, the model? Feel free not to answer. I couldn’t help myself. I had to ask. Judson I smile as I write back. No, I’m not Ivy Hollifield, the model. I’m Ivy Hollifield, the ex-model. I’m no longer in the business. His response lands in my mailbox a week later, written on the same now worn-out correspondence page. That’s a shame. You are stunning. I’m sure you left a dent in the modeling industry. Ivy, I have to thank you for saving my life. I shake my head as I respond. You saved your own life. The final decision to live could only come from you alone. I only reminded you that death is not the answer. His next response, a few days later, leaves me breathless. Words straight from the lips of an angel. I never believed in angels. Until you. Before I can decide whether or not to write back, Chelsea struts into the room. Luckily, I have time to throw the letter into my open purse before she sees it. She eyes me suspiciously. “Are you up to something? You have a strange look on your face.” I shake my head and stand up from the couch. “Nope.

I’m just surprised to see you back today. It’s Friday. I thought you were staying over at Neil’s apartment.” “I am. We’re here for movie night.” She opens one of her drawers. “And I need a clean pair of underwear.” Dunkin Hall has a small projection room, where a movie night takes place one Friday a month. I’ve never been to one before. I’ve heard they usually watch comedies. Call me cliché, but I’m more of a drama and thriller kind of girl. I prefer the heavy stuff that stirs my emotions and leaves me feeling just a little ruffled. I throw back my bed sheet. “Great. What are you guys watching?” “No idea.” I climb onto my bed. “Have fun. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Chelsea turns to face me. “Not so quick. You’re coming with.” “I don’t think so. I had a brutal day. I need to conserve my energy.” “I’m not leaving without you. Ivy, you came here to have a life.” Chelsea places her hands on her hips. Today she has ditched her jeans and t-shirt for a beige romper that shows off her curves and long legs perfectly. “I’m here to help you do that. Now stop fighting me on this.” I know she won’t take no for an answer, so I shrug and climb out of bed. Five minutes later, I’m wearing a pair of jeans and an oversized t-shirt. “You win. Let’s go.”

CHAPTER NINE

The Dunkin Hall projection room, situated next to one of the shared dorm kitchens, has a wine burgundy carpet and resembles a miniature movie theater. There are at least twenty padded seats the same color as the carpet, round overhead lights, and a large popcorn machine. The only difference is that there’s no elevated seating, and instead of a white screen, a massive state-of-the-art flat screen TV covers most of the wall, framed on both sides by a red velvet curtain, which has been drawn back in preparation for the evening’s entertainment. As I walk past other students sprawled on chairs— some from Oaklow University, and a few strangers— spilled popcorn crunches under my ballerinas. “Hi,” someone says as I walk by. It’s Milton, sitting with legs wide open and a popcorn box tucked between them. “Hi,” I say, and push past him. I feel his eyes on me as Chelsea leads me to a seat at the end of the row. I avoid looking back. A minute or two later, the lights dim and the screen turns on. I take a sip from the bottle of water I brought with me. On the way down I promised Chelsea I’d try to

have a good time, and for the next hour and a half I keep my promise. I force myself not to think about Judson’s letter back in our room. The comedy is about four rich guys who take a break after high school to tour Europe. Their misadventures are hilarious, but even though I laugh at the right places, and feign shock at the characters’ outrageous behavior, my heart isn’t in it. At least Chelsea can’t say I didn’t try. I give a silent sigh when the movie finally comes to an end, and one of the students, Jacob Ramey, who studies journalism, stands up to go fiddle with the DVD player. For a second the screen goes blank, only to light up again with a local news channel. A brunette news reporter with extremely long eyelashes and ruby lips says something, but I don’t hear; my eyes are fixed on a small photo in the upper right corner of the screen. The whole room goes quiet, and Chelsea grabs my hand so tight I think she’s going to break my bones. “That’s him. That’s Professor Judson Devereux,” she whispers. “The monster is delicious.” “Yeah.” I give a small nod. She doesn’t need to tell me that. His name scrolls by at the bottom of the screen. As I listen to the words of the pretty newscaster, hands clasped in my lap, my body tenses up. No one knows I’ve been in touch with him, but I feel as though they know every word I’ve written. My heart is slamming so hard against my chest, the sound vibrates in my ears. I’m barely listening to what the woman is saying, but the words that do hit my ears leave me trembling within. There’s nothing new—the same information I came across online. But somehow everything seems more real on the big screen. “On Monday, May 7th, 2012, the murder of Oliver Banes, a student at Oaklow University, shook the town of

Oaklow, Florida. Judson Devereux, a former art history professor at the same university, is currently behind bars as he awaits trial for the murder. Although Devereux maintains his innocence, several witnesses have come forward to dispute these claims. Devereux was rumored to have had an affair with Banes’s girlfriend, Jennifer Hanson, one of his students. Oliver Banes was found naked and stabbed to death inside one of the university lecture halls. The autopsy report states the cause of death as blood loss due to castration. After months of waiting, the trial date has finally been set for Thursday, December 12th.” My breath is struggling to find its way to and from my lungs. I grab my throat and without saying anything to Chelsea, get to my feet and push my way out of the row, careful not to trip on popcorn boxes and empty paper cups. I finally stumble out onto the nearest balcony and grip the rail as I take a deep breath of fresh air. I keep my eyes squeezed shut. I want to drown out the words I heard on TV. I want to erase the pictures of the covered corpse that was Oliver Banes being wheeled out of Oaklow University. Someone taps me on the shoulder and I jump. I turn around so fast my head spins. “Milton, what the hell.” I try to calm my breathing. “Why are you sneaking up on me like that?” He chuckles. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. You okay?” “Why wouldn’t I be?” I swallow hard. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He reaches out to touch a lock of my hair, but I move out of his reach. “That’s because you scared the shit out of me.” He drops his hand and tips his head to the side. “I’ve never seen anyone look so cute when they’re frightened.”

“Why are you here, Milton?” My question is stupid, because like me, he has every right to be on this balcony. “I saw you walking out of the movie room. I thought it was the perfect opportunity for us to talk.” “Talk about what?” He leans against the railing and licks the corner of his lip. “About you coming to dinner with me.” I shake my head. He’s almost as bad as my mother. “Milton, when are you going to get it? I’m not interested. Thank you for the flowers. Thank you for the notes. But I’m not changing my mind.” It dawns on me that I’m being a bit too harsh. I place a hand on his shoulder. “Look, you’re not a bad guy. I’m just not interested in dating right now.” I drop my hand and my eyes. “I want to be the guy who helps you change your mind.” “You never quit, do you?” “Not when I like somebody. And I really like you.” He lowers his voice. “I think we could be good together.” “Are you sure you don’t just want to sleep with me? Word around campus is that you’re not really a relationship kind of guy.” “All lies.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Fine, maybe that was true in the past, but not anymore. The first time I saw you, I became a changed man.” He leans into me and whispers, “Ivy Hollifield, I can’t stop thinking about you.” I lean a few inches away to avoid his popcorn breath on my cheek. “I’m interested in nothing more than friendship. That’s all I can offer you. Take it or leave it.” “Come out on a date with me. Give me one date and I’ll change your world.” I laugh out loud and shake my head. “I do like one

thing about you. You’re funny. But the answer stays no.” “I’m glad I make you laugh. I’ve noticed you don’t do much of that.” “You’re perceptive. I’m working on it,” I admit. “I want to teach you how to laugh. Let me take you out to dinner tomorrow night.” “I don’t think so. I’m sorry. I like you, but not… like that.” “That’s a shame.” He pauses for a moment, glancing briefly at the entrance to the balcony. When he looks back at me, his eyes are a shade darker. “I don’t like hearing that, Ivy. I don’t like it at all.” “You have no choice but to accept it.” I attempt to walk past him, but he stands in my way. And then, without warning, one of his hands is on the back of my head, pulling me to him, and the other is on my butt. “What the hell, Milton.” I grip the hand on my butt and yank it off, followed by the one on the back of my head. “Don’t you ever touch me again.” “I’m sorry.” He takes a few steps back. “I don’t know what got into me. I wasn’t thinking straight. Please forget it.” “Don’t do it again.” I grit my teeth. “Seriously, never touch me like that again. Not unless you want to end up like Oliver Banes.” I’m taking it too far, but the shock on Milton’s face is satisfying. “Hey, I said I’m sorry. No need to get nasty.” He wipes a sheen of sweat from his brow and raises his hands, palms facing me. Regret wrinkles his features. “It won’t happen again. I promise.” I sigh. “Fine, let’s forget about it. See you around.” I shove past him. Instead of returning to the movie room, where I hear the sound of a new movie playing, I return to

my room. I’ve had enough drama for the evening. I lie on my bed in the dark, plagued by thoughts of the news report and Judson’s words to me. Part of me believes he’s guilty, but something else holds me back. Either way, after a long, sleepless night, I wake up to a decision that hurts my heart. I have to cut off my correspondence with him. If he really murdered that guy, I don’t think I can handle it. This time I use a brand new sheet of paper. Dear Judson, I’m sorry, I won’t be writing you anymore. Don’t ask me to explain. Good luck with everything and take care. Please do not respond. A week goes by with me trying to get on with my life, trying to forget him. And then he ignores my request and writes back anyway. The letter he sends this time is not a brief note. I was shattered to read the letter you sent me. I can’t even begin to tell you how much I’ve enjoyed our conversations in the last weeks. My life is broken, but you have given me something to look forward to. I know I have to respect your decision. I do wish you would reconsider, but I understand why you feel the need to pull away. I’m behind bars. It’s normal for you to think of me as dangerous. I need to say one thing, however: many people behind bars are no more dangerous than some of the people you see walking the streets every day. I’d like to tell you I’m a good person, but I’m not one to brag. That said, I do know you are a good person. That’s why you reached out to me in the first place. You didn’t know me, and yet you wanted to make sure I was okay. Our conversations started because of Jennifer. I loved her, but the truth is, it was over long before you found those letters. You helped me deal with her departure. Life

doesn’t always give us what we want, I guess. This might sound weird, but in a way I’m glad it didn’t work out with Jennifer. At the same time I’m grateful to her. She led me to you. If it weren’t for her leaving behind my letters, you and I would never have entered each other’s lives. I feel as though I’ve known you forever, and I can’t deny the connection between us. I know you feel it as much as I do. Otherwise you wouldn’t have corresponded with me for as long as you have. While other people call me a monster, you gave me the benefit of the doubt. My wish is that you will continue doing that. Write back, Ivy. Or better yet, come and visit me. I know it’s too much to ask, given the circumstances, but it might help for you to come and see for yourself that I’m not the monster everyone thinks I am. I don’t believe in coincidences. Everything happens for a reason. Why don’t you stick around to find out why we ended up in each other’s paths? Please write back. By the time I’m done reading, the letter is stained with my tears. After a week of reading and rereading Judson’s first real letter to me, feeling things I still don’t know I have the right to feel, I write back. I decide to stick around, to give him the benefit of the doubt, as he’s asked. Not because I think it’s the right thing to do, but because some unseen powerful force inside me is driving me to do it. In a weird, twisted way, my connection to him feels like life support. It’s hard to breathe when I think about cutting off that support. He’s a stranger to me in my head, but so familiar to my heart. Everyone says he’s a monster, but my heart won’t let me believe it. I want to resist his pull, but the harder I try, the quicker I fall into his web. He’s right: there has to be a reason why we ended up

in each other’s paths. Nothing else can explain this insanity. I hate myself for what I’m doing, but it seems I’m no longer in control of my actions. My heart holds the key to my sanity. In the coming days and weeks, our letters bounce back and forth while I navigate my way through university life and my friendship with Judson. We never talk about his trial. Our communication starts off supportive, with him telling me about his lonely life behind bars, and me telling him about the university and life outside. Even though he ignores questions about his background and family, from his letters I manage to glean information that at least points to his character. He’s an enthusiastic art collector who loves to paint in his free time. He also runs every morning no matter the weather, and enjoys classical music. He didn’t lecture for the money, he tells me, but rather for the pure joy of it. The one hint at his background I do get is that he isn’t actually French, despite his French surname. He began learning the language as a child and is now fluent in it. Before I know it, our conversations turn in a different direction. Our letters return to brief notes again—his flirty, with an erotic undertone that leaves me breathless. Our correspondence slowly but surely develops into a bizarre but intense long-distance romance that sucks me in without my explicit consent. His words echo the ones he wrote to Jennifer, but these are meant for me, and they’re beyond intoxicating. When he talks about being together one day, I humor him, but it’s mostly out of pity since I doubt he’ll ever be free. Still, I find myself dreaming about him. I allow him to spend most nights with me in my bed, inside my mind. He’s far away but feels oh so near. He fills my dreams

and my reality. He could be dangerous, but he’s my comfort zone. He could be poisonous, but he’s my elixir. When I’m thinking straight, I struggle with wanting to let him go. But the need to keep him is so much stronger. So many times I find myself aching to see him in person, to look into his eyes. If he can have such a hold over me from afar, am I brave enough to withstand what might happen in person?

CHAPTER TEN

I wake with a rock planted in the center of my stomach. I can’t seem to get enough air, even as I fill my lungs with deep breaths. Nothing can fill me. Not air. Not water. Not food. Only Judson’s words. I haven’t heard from him in almost two weeks, and it’s driving me nuts. We’ve gone from exchanging letters frequently to radio silence. I try to tell myself it’s not a big deal, but without his letters, a part of me feels cut off, and I can’t seem to find a replacement for it. Is it over between us? Then again, I don’t really know what we had in the first place. Maybe he has realized, unlike me, that we have no future together. With him behind bars, possibly for life, being together and having a normal relationship feels like an unreachable dream. My mind keeps going back to our last letters. Did I say something wrong? Is he upset that after a month of correspondence, I’m still refusing to visit him? He has no idea how much I want to see him. At the same time, there are parts of me that are frightened of him. They say he’s a monster. What if he really is? What if he’s dangerous to me? What if someone sees me visiting him and my secret

is exposed? What will people think of me then? Am I ready to risk my reputation for him? So many questions with no answers. With a groan, I pull myself up in bed and blink away the tears from my eyes. I climb down to my desk. It’s November eighth, and Chelsea is in Destin for an academic conference, which leaves me alone with my loneliness. Milton invited me to a party tonight, but I’ve never gone to a party in Oaklow without Chelsea by my side. She has been my shield in a way I cannot explain— she makes me feel less vulnerable than I am. I turn on the computer and do a quick search on Judson. Has there been a change to his circumstances? Has he been transferred to another prison, in a different town? The articles on him are brutal, so full of hate. Reading them is the last thing I want to do. But I have no choice. They might hold the information I need. From the look of things, nothing has changed, nothing new reported. Left with nothing but stomach cramps, I rise from the chair and head to the fridge. I pull out the box with the pink birthday cupcakes Chelsea left me. I doubt they’ll make me feel better, but I settle down on the couch with them on my lap anyway. The moment I take a bite into one, my phone beeps. A text from Chelsea. Happy birthday, girl. Try to have a blast today. Do something crazy. A little fun doesn’t hurt. See you tomorrow. Before I finish reading the text, the phone rings. It’s my mother. As usual, my stomach twists when her photo pops up on my screen. I want to ignore it, but maybe she really wants to wish me a happy birthday. That would be a first. She has forgotten so many times in the past, even though I remembered every one of her birthdays. I need

distraction, so I take the call. “Mom? Hi.” The last time we spoke was three weeks ago, and as usual, that call ended in a fight. “Don’t hang up,” she begs. “Please, I need to talk to you.” “Okay, I won’t.” I’m still holding out hope that her next words will be “Happy birthday.” “Something amazing happened.” She pauses, and I can hear her breathing heavily on the other end. “Great news. I got a call from Maureen Adams, the producer of an upcoming romantic comedy series. They want you in it. It’s the break we’ve been waiting for, baby.” My stomach plummets and fresh tears well up in my eyes. I grab my midsection to hold down the bile. “In case you still haven’t noticed”—I put the cupcakes on the coffee table and lean my forehead on my knees—”I’m no longer interested in modeling. Acting doesn’t appeal to me either.” “Ivy, baby, listen.” She pauses. “You have no idea how amazing this opportunity is. Once you go into movies, your career will soar.” I massage my temples. “I don’t care. I’m not interested in any of it. I’m out, remember?” “Then do it for me.” “I’ve done enough for you. I’m sorry, I have to go. I have birthday cupcakes to eat.” My face breaks into a bitter smile. “You forgot, didn’t you?” The silence, broken only by the sound of her heavy breathing, stretches between us. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.” I take a deep breath. “I’m going to hang up now, but for the last time, I’m not interested in making your dreams come true. Let me live my life.” I hang up before she responds. Fighting back tears, I

eat up the cupcakes. Surprisingly, they do make me feel a tiny bit better. Left with nothing else to occupy me, I lie back on the couch with a romance novel. An escape is what I need. Later I might spend a few hours at the beach. At eleven o’clock there’s a knock on the door, soft but still audible. I’m confused as I go to open it. I’m not expecting any visitors. Just like when Milton left me the flowers, I don’t find anyone at the door. On the doorstep is a flat square box wrapped in gold and silver wrapping paper, with a silver silk ribbon tied around it. Confused, I lift it into my hands and take it inside. I open it so fast, the pretty paper is in shreds when I’m done. The unwrapped box is also silver. I lift the lid and gasp. Fragile silk and satin spills over my fingers as I pull out the gift. A matching set of black-and-white lingerie— panties and a bra—framed by soft, pretty ruffles. There’s a note, but I’m a little afraid to read it. I don’t know how I know, but somehow I do: it’s from Judson. I bite my bottom lip as I open the small envelope. It doesn’t matter where I am. I’ll always remember the day you were gifted to this world. I hope you like my little gift to you. Bon anniversaire. J.D. At first I wonder how he knows today is my birthday, and then I remember I had mentioned it in one of our letters. Here I was thinking he had changed his mind about us, and he sends me a birthday gift. One that freaks me out and excites me all at once. The earlier tension of the morning melts away, leaving my heart lighter. I remain on the couch for almost an hour, wondering

what I should do. Judson has reopened our line of communication and seems to have taken our relationship to another level. Am I prepared for this level of intimacy? The flirty letters were one thing. This makes it so much more real. My phone rings again. I expect it to be my mom, calling to apologize. I’m on too much of a high to hold a grudge right now, so I pick up without looking at the screen. “Hello?” “Ma chérie?” The voice hits me like a thunderbolt. I grip the phone tighter. “Prof—Professor Devereux?” My voice is a soft whisper on my tongue. “Is that you? Where are you calling from?” He chuckles. “Where else? Anyway, I thought we were on a first-name basis.” His voice turns my knees to water. Good thing I’m sitting. “I can’t talk for long. Did you receive my gift?” I’m silent for a heartbeat as conflicting emotions course through my body. My mind is numb. I wanted this. I wanted him, longed for him to contact me, dreamed of hearing his voice so many times. Now everything is happening so fast. My heart gallops like a wild horse inside my chest. “Yes. Judson.” My fragile voice shakes as the words leave my lips. “Good. I want you to wear it tonight and think of me. Will you do that?” He speaks with strength and authority. The intensity in his tone sends a shiver through me. I take a deep breath and bite my bottom lip. His voice. Oh my God. I had expected it to be sexy. But the real thing is beyond my wildest dreams. My senses reel, short-circuited by his raspy baritone.

Realizing that he can’t see me nodding, I reply, “Yes.” From his end, I hear a distant bell and the sound of metal against metal. He’s still in locked up. What did I expect? “How did you get my number? How did you deliver the —?” “I have my ways. I’ll always find a way to get close to you. Never forget that.” The line goes dead, but I hold the phone to my ear for a while longer, hearing his voice inside my ear. I have so many questions. I want to listen to him talk to me forever, but he’s gone.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

a breath before knocking on Paulette’s door. I’m I take not at all looking forward to the session. Paulette is perched on the edge of her desk, eating a Granny Smith apple. She looks up when I walk in, and places the apple on a small ceramic plate. A smile forms on her lips as she wipes her hands with a Kleenex. “I’m so glad to see you, Ivy. It’s been quite a while.” She stands up and comes to shake my hand. Then she waves at the sofa. I take a seat. My mouth feels like sandpaper. “I’ve been busy preparing for exams.” It’s partly true. I have been busy lately, but if I’d wanted to, I’d have found time to come and see her. “Well, I’m glad you made some time.” Paulette sits down on the couch. “How are things going? I’m guessing you’ve settled in completely now?” I nod and run my hands over my camel capri pants, smoothing out the wrinkles. “Really well, thanks.” We’re both quiet for a while. I feel her eyes on me, though I keep mine downcast. Can she read my mind? Is she able to see what I’m hiding?

Paulette crosses her legs, the material of her melon pleated skirt spilling onto the couch on either side. She clasps her hands over her knees. “The reason I asked to see you was to find out if any more letters have arrived for Jennifer.” “No. None.” I avert my gaze again. Please, don’t ask more questions, I silently plead. I’ve never been good at lying. Paulette is quiet again, and I swear I can hear the wheels turning inside her head. She knows I’m avoiding something. I look up to meet her eyes and force a tiny smile. “Ivy, is there something you want to tell me?” “No, nothing at all. Things have been great.” The words tumble out of my mouth too fast. I must sound completely full of it. Paulette leans back on the couch, eyes glued to me. “I hope you’re not in contact with Professor Devereux, Ivy. He’s a dangerous man.” “I don’t know why you would think that. There’s no reason for me to be in contact with him. I don’t… I don’t even know him.” “I see.” Paulette stands and goes back to her desk. She lifts her apple to her lips and takes a bite. She chews silently for a while as she moves toward the window. She turns back toward me. “I’m sorry if I’m getting it wrong. But in case you are in touch with him, I want to warn you. Psychopaths can be charming. You have to be extremely careful.” “You think he’s a psychopath?” I realize too late that I haven’t disputed the accusation. Have I dug a hole for myself? I’m better of letting her believe what she wants to believe, and refrain from confirming her suspicions.

“The man murdered somebody… brutally. There’s something terribly wrong with him. And he can be dangerous to any person he comes into contact with, even from a distance.” Paulette returns to the couch, still eating the apple. Something hot and furious forces its way up my throat, forming words that pour out of my mouth before I can stop them. “What if—what if Oliver Banes really raped Jennifer?” Paulette dips her head to the side. “If that’s the case, if he really was a rapist, you think he deserved his fate? You think he deserved to die like that?” “I’m only saying Jud—Professor Devereux might not be the only bad guy in all of this.” I can’t seem to stop myself. “I mean, does righting a wrong really make someone a psychopath?” “I don’t know how deep you are in this, but the simple fact is, if that’s the case, Professor Devereux’s act of vigilante justice still makes him dangerous. Any person who kills another human being is dangerous. I really hope you haven’t gotten yourself wrapped up in his web.” A little too late for that. “I should go.” One second I’m sitting on the couch, and the next I’m on my feet, my eyes burning hot. I can’t let her see me cry; that will certainly give me away. I pick up my backpack and walk to the door. “Ivy? Is something troubling you?” Paulette gets to her feet and attempts to walk toward me. I hold up my hand. “I’m okay.” I’m blinking too fast. “Really, I’m fine. I just… I have a lot of work to do today. I’ll send you an email to make an appointment for another day.” With each word my throat constricts, clogged by the sobs I’m forced to swallow. “Please do that.” Paulette’s voice is tinged with worry.

I shut the door quickly. As I rush down the stairs and away from the Student Support Department, the tears come. Why am I even crying? What Paulette told me is the truth: Judson could be a murderer, and murderers are dangerous. Any normal person would think that. Whatever Oliver Banes might have done, it does not justify his death. And yet, here I am, feeling as though I have to defend Judson from the world. Even though I know there’s a one hundred percent chance he will be found guilty in a court of law, I can’t seem to make myself let him go. At the entrance of the snack bar, I bump into Milton, who catches me before I slam straight into him. Why is he always everywhere I happen to be? “Hey, hey.” He places his hands on my shoulders. “You’re crying. You okay?” I shake my head. Tears spill over my cheeks. “Fine. I just… I need to go to the dorms.” “Did you hear some bad news or something?” I swallow hard. “No, nothing like that.” Nothing new that I didn’t already know, at least. “I’m sorry, Milton. I really need to go.” He lets go of my shoulders and digs into the pockets of his scuffed jeans. Change jingles as he pulls out a pack of Kleenex and hands it to me. “You need this.” In spite of myself, I give him a tiny smile. Probably the first genuine smile I’ve given him since we met. “I’m sorry you’re hurting. If you need anyone to talk to, I’m here. Seriously, I’m a good listener.” His eyes tell me his concern is genuine. “I really appreciate that, Milton.” I pull a Kleenex from the pack and return it to him. I dab at my eyes, sniffing. “If I happen to need a good pair of ears, I’ll make sure to let you know.”

“You should. Now go, before everybody else starts asking you what’s wrong.” I give him another smile and walk quickly toward the exit. Maybe Milton isn’t such a bad guy, after all, I think as I walk out into the sunshine.

I BURST into my room and crash against the closed door. My heart is way too heavy inside my chest. My lungs hurt when I breathe. I raise my hand to wipe away the tears. Why do I feel this driving urge to protect a man I’ve never even met? It bothers me that I can’t answer the question. It bothers me even more that my heart is behaving so foolishly, going against my head. The right thing would be to stay away from Judson Devereux. The fact that he’s behind bars should send me running for cover. If only I knew how. After catching my breath, and before the rational side of me catches up and warns me that I’m walking into the arms of danger, I move to my desk and pull out a sheet of paper. I want to visit you. Let me know how. Ivy I simply slip the short note into an envelope and seal it. Fifteen minutes later, I’ve sent the letter and I’m back in my room with my head in my hands, hyperventilating as the voices inside my head scream their reprimands. What have you done? Are you out of your freaking mind? My hands drop from my face. A sheen of sweat is clinging to my palms. I draw in a deep breath. Maybe it’s not so bad. The letter doesn’t have to change anything. There’s no guarantee he will want to see me too. He could have changed his mind. Or maybe only friends and family are

allowed to visit inmates. What am I to him, anyway? A pen pal? I’m not his next of kin. I stand on shaky legs and go to the fridge, where I pour myself a glass of wine from the half-empty bottle left over from one of Chelsea and Neil’s dates. I’m still standing at the fridge as I take a huge gulp, then lick the bittersweet liquid from my lips. I’m normally not much of a drinker, but I take another sip. There, no need to panic. If he says he wants to see me, I can always say I changed my mind. Maybe that will piss him off, and then I’ll be forced to cut off contact and let him go. Is that even possible? I knock back the rest of my wine and sway to my desk. At my computer, I pull up a few project assignments and get to work distracting myself. It is possible. One morning, I’ll wake up and not even remember the stranger who captured me through his letters. The only problem is my body. Will it forget the sensations that vibrate through me when I read his words?

CHAPTER TWELVE

The day after Chelsea returns from Destin, she crashes into the room, her raven hair wet from the midnight rain, eyes wild. “You okay?” I save the assignment I was working on before she walked in, and switch off my laptop without clearing my Internet search history. It’s become a habit of mine, one that persists even when I’m not looking at anything scandalous. “Not sure.” She throws her purse at the foot of her bed and climbs on top of her sheets. She clasps her hands behind her head, eyes gazing up at the ceiling. “Neil and I broke up.” There’s silence in the room as I digest her news. She normally spends so many nights at Neil’s place that despite her complaints about him, she’d fooled me into thinking they were fine. I rest my elbow on the desk and balance my chin on my balled hand. “How? What happened?” “Truth is, the past few days were amazing. And then he dropped a freaking bomb on me tonight.” I go and sit on her bed, lifting her French-pedicured

feet into my lap. “He didn’t cheat on you, did he?” A peal of laughter escapes Chelsea’s lips. “Neil would never cheat. If having sex before marriage yanks his guilty plug so hard, how would he be able to live with himself if he cheated?” She pauses and sighs. “We broke up because of the whole sex before marriage thing.” I place what I hope is a comforting hand on her feet. “He broke up with you because he can’t live with the guilt?” “He proposed to me.” Chelsea sits up in bed and hugs her knees to her body. Her brown eyes are murky pools of rage. “The answer is yes—he can’t handle the guilt. He wants us to get married as soon as possible so we can stop living in sin.” “You guys have only been together a year.” “Not long enough. That’s what I told him. But he doesn’t want to hear it. His Catholic guilt is destroying him. And it is getting to me too.” She puffs her cheeks and blows out a frustrated breath. “You know, maybe it’s for the best. I think sin is fun; he doesn’t. Maybe it’s best we go our separate ways.” “But you love him. I know you complain about him and everything, but I can see it on your face.” “My face is a damn liar.” Her lips turn up at the corners. “Fine, maybe I do love him. But love is not always enough. I don’t want to be forced into something I’m not ready for.” “You can try explaining it to him. He might understand.” “What do you think we did all of last night? I need a drink.” Chelsea slips out of bed, opens the fridge, and takes out a lemon soda. She sits on the windowsill as she cracks the can open. “Who broke up with whom? I mean, was it him who

told you it’s marriage or nothing?” “I’m the bad guy… girl, whatever. Why stick around when I can’t give him what he wants?” “I’m so sorry, sweetie.” I go and give her a hug. “So am I. But life goes on. Plenty more fish in the sea.” She pauses and pulls away. “But I have to admit, for a guy who feels guilty every time he has sex, he’s a monster in bed. I’ll really miss his you-know-what.” She gives a throaty laugh. I join in the laughter, shaking my head. “You’re something else.” In truth, I want what Chelsea has… or had. I want someone to be fully committed to me, someone who can’t keep his hands off me. When I think of that guy, the only face I see in my mind’s eye is Judson’s. A shiver snakes down my spine. Chelsea glances at my overflowing desk. “You work too much. The only thing that would keep me up this late is sex or a good party.” I smile and follow her gaze. I take in the piles of notes and books stacked on both sides of my laptop, a halfeaten bar of chocolate on the edge of the desk next to an empty cup of coffee. A perfect snapshot of my life as a student. “I guess we’re too different. Maybe we should part ways.” “No chance. You are stuck with me, my friend.” She takes another sip from her soda. “Have you heard from your mother lately?” “She’s tried to call a few times. When I pick up we always end up fighting. Now her texts are driving me nuts. I stopped reading them. Next thing she’ll start sending letters in the mail.” Chelsea’s eyes light up. “Oh! Speaking of mail.” She places the can on the windowsill, goes to her bag, and

pulls out a large manila envelope. “I found this in the mailbox. It’s for you. Maybe it is from your mother.” I grab it quickly. “Thanks. It could be.” I wait until Chelsea is snoring into her pillow before I open it. Inside the envelope is a small note attached to what looks like a stack of forms, held together by a metal paperclip. My heart is in my throat as I read. Nothing would make me happier than seeing your pretty face. Fill out the forms and we can finally meet in person. I’ll let you know once the application is approved. For now, I’ll be here, waiting patiently for you. I put the note aside and study the forms. I had no idea you had to fill out paperwork to visit an inmate. During the past week, while waiting for him to respond, I tried to convince myself I should change my mind about visiting him. Right now, I’m back to needing to see him. So I fill out the forms. First thing in the morning, I mail them off to the address provided and prepare myself for the longest, most terrifying wait of my life. If I’m lucky, I’ll get to see him before his trial. Given my strained relationship with my mother, I can imagine I’ll be spending the holidays in Oaklow.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

in the middle of answering a question on the I ’m decorative arts of Asia when my phone beeps loudly with a text. The visiting Chinese professor and author, Biming Liu, is listening intently when it sounds. Thank God it’s not a phone call. I force my attention away from my phone and finish my thought without further interruption. Then I sink into my seat and dig inside my backpack for the phone. I find it sandwiched between the pages of my Asian Design Principles textbook. I’m about to switch it off without reading the text, assuming it’s my mother. But the number isn’t in my contacts. While the professor is expanding on what I said, I click on the message and read it quickly. My heart expands so much I’m afraid it might burst inside my chest. Surely the whole room has to hear how hard it’s pounding. But they don’t seem to; they continue listening and making notes, while a few sleep discreetly. Sweet Ivy, your application to visit me has been approved. When can you come? I can’t wait to see you. Questions scramble for space inside my head. In

particular, how did he manage to get hold of a cell phone in prison? Regardless, I relish the warmth spreading through my gut. His words, simple and straightforward as they may be, pull me in all over again, drugging my senses. I put my phone back in my bag. I’ll respond later. Now that it’s real, now that I have the opportunity to meet him in person, I need time to think, to brace myself.

AS SOON AS the last lecture of the day comes to an end, I head to the library to do some research for a presentation I’m scheduled to give in a week. I try to keep Judson at the back of my mind, but after half an hour, I quit and gather my things. On my way to Dunkin Hall I grab two sandwiches from a small deli close to campus. Since it’s already five, this will have to be dinner. I hate eating alone, but there’s no one to share a meal with. The only person I normally do that with anyway is Chelsea, but lately she spends most of her free time with Neil. A day after they broke up, they got back together. Apart from Chelsea, I still haven’t let many other people in; I have the feeling that if I do, they will see my deepest, darkest secrets immediately. Once they discover I’m in contact with the professor who put the university’s name in the same sentence as the word “murder,” I’m doomed. No, the fewer people I let in, the safer my secret will be. As I walk through the residential gardens, I pull out my phone, expecting another text from Judson. There are several messages and a missed call, but they’re all from my mother. I ignore them. I sigh deeply as I climb the steps. Walking down the corridor, my mind is absent. At first I don’t notice the woman pacing around the door of our dorm room. When I

finally do look up—and recognize her—I stop walking. My stomach drops as she sees me and crosses the few steps between us. She’s a mess. Her gray eyes are bloodshot, and the normally neat bun at the nape of her neck is a blonde bird’s nest on top of her head. Her hands are shaking. Looking at us, one would never assume we’re mother and daughter. I got my ginger hair and hazel eyes from my father. The only things I took from my mother are her height and slender figure, if a body shape can be inherited. At five feet nine, I’m only a few inches taller than she is. “Honey,” my mother says. “I know this must be a shock. In my defense, I did try to call you several times. But you won’t pick up my calls.” She attempts to hug me, but I raise my hands to stop her. I take a few steps to the side and push my way to the door. “I wanted to talk in person. I miss you.” I wish I didn’t hear the lie poisoning the platitude. Ignoring her, I pull out my key, unconsciously hook a finger through the silver keyring, and open the door. I want to enter my peaceful place, to close the door and pretend she isn’t even here, but I can’t bring myself to do that. She’s still my mother, and she came all this way for a reason. As I step aside to let her in, my shoulders hunch forward. I’m not strong enough to handle another fight. I offer her a seat on the couch. She crosses her long, fake-tanned legs. Her stretch miniskirt is so short, I swear I see her underwear. I swallow my disgust. “Do you want something to drink? We have apple juice and sparkling water.” I’m only asking out of politeness. “Do you have anything else? Something stronger?

Wine?” I shut the fridge a little too forcefully, killing its inner glow. “No, we don’t.” “I’m sorry,” she says and places her shaking hands in her lap. “Please sit with me. Let’s talk. I’ve really missed you.” I know exactly what she missed, and it isn’t me. But I want to give her the benefit of the doubt, so I sit and turn my body to face her. When I speak, I do my best to keep my voice calm. “Why are you really here? I know it’s not because you miss me.” She shrugs and purses her red lips. “I’m in trouble, baby. My company… our company is in financial trouble. If we don’t save it now, I have to sell within a month.” “Wrong,” I retort. “Elite Faces is your company, not ours.” I pause. “I’m sorry it’s in trouble. I know how much it means to you. It’s your whole life.” “You do?” Her eyes sparkle. “So you’ll help me?” “Help you how?” “I need you to come back, baby. Since you left, everything went downhill. You were our star model. It’s you the designers want. Without you, we’re finished.” “I’ve told you many times. I don’t want to be a part of that world anymore. My life is here. I’m tired of smiling for cameras. I’m tired of pretending I enjoyed what I was doing. I’m tired of telling you this over and over again.” I wave a hand at my small room. “This is my life now. I love being here. I love studying to become someone I’m proud of.” “You’re wasting your talents. Many girls would kill to have your body and face…your gorgeous hair.” “I don’t care about my looks.” I attempt to keep my voice steady, but it rises with each word. The time has come for me to stand up for myself. “I want to use my

brains for a change.” “After everything I did for you?” Her voice is edged with steel. “You’re turning your back on me when I need you most? I’m the one who gave you those looks. I spent a fortune on your lessons, your clothes, your makeup… everything. You ungrateful little bitch.” “I paid for all those things many times over. I made you a lot of money. And all those things you did for me? I never wanted them. All you did was stifle me and all I wanted was out. Now I’m out, and I’m not coming back.” “In that case, you’re dead to me.” My mother, shaking with rage, stands and sways slightly before heading for the door. She turns to me before walking away. “Don’t fool yourself into believing you’re smart. You are nothing without me. Nothing.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

G oose pimples break through my skin as soon as I step through the Oaklow Correctional Facility’s metal doors. The air inside is much cooler than outside, though I don’t detect any air conditioning. Maybe it’s just me. The chill increases as I pass through the metal detector. I’m not a fan of metal detectors—they make me feel exposed, as though I’ve been stripped naked. Soon I’m sitting on the other side of a scratched sheet of soundproof glass, staring into the intense green eyes of a man everyone believes is a murderer, a man who could possibly be my biggest mistake. But it’s my mistake. My mother’s visit is what tipped me over the edge of indecision. I’m done doing what she tells me to do. For a moment I felt sorry for her, but the sword of my fury destroyed that sympathy. The other reason I’m here is to confirm to myself that he is wrong for me, to find a reason to run from him before it’s too late. But now, gazing into his eyes, I realize I’m lost. I don’t see a murderer there. I see an attractive man who takes my breath away. A man who captures my

soul at first sight. In person he looks much younger than thirty-five. If it weren’t for the sprinkling of silver at his temples, it would be hard to imagine him being past thirty. I pick up the phone attached to the wall by a thick metal cord and press it to my ear. He does the same. One side of his mouth tips in a shadow of a smile. I return it. My stomach churns, and my heart hammers painfully against my ribs. I remind myself to breathe. “I didn’t think you’d come.” I’m relieved he started talking first, because even though my lips are parted, nothing wants to come out. “I didn’t think I would.” I run a sweaty hand over my thigh, drying it on my jeans. “Why did you?” His voice is raw and husky, and it caresses my senses. “I don’t know.” “I’m happy you decided to come. I guess I have something to be grateful for on Thanksgiving.” I say nothing. Thanksgiving break is four days away, and I’ve already requested permission from the Campus Housing Department to remain on campus during the break. Chelsea was horrified and insisted I accompany her home, but I declined. I don’t want to impose on anyone’s holiday. As I watch Judson, my stomach does flips. I’m drawn to him and yet also intimated by his very presence. “You’re stunning. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” A hot blush creeps up my neck, filling my cheeks, scorching them. “Thanks.” I suddenly feel the strong urge to be closer to him. I want to touch him, to feel the stubble on his cheek, to wrap his hair around my hand.

“How are you?” I ask. Under the circumstances, it’s the right question. Judson turns to look at one of the guards in the corner of the room. “Some days are better than others.” “Did you do it? Did you really kill him—the student?” My question is a whisper. I glance at the note above the glass: Phones are subject to monitoring. He grips his phone tighter. I notice a pale mark around his wrist, a tell-tale sign that he used to wear a watch. The veins beneath the skin look like they’re about to pop. “Would that change anything between us?” he asks. “I don’t know.” I grip my knee with my free hand. “Maybe.” The green of his eyes darkens. “What are people saying on that side? Do they still say I’m a monster who deserves to rot in prison for the rest of his life?” “I don’t listen to what people say.” “That’s wise.” He pauses and runs a hand through his thick hair. My fingers itch to feel its silkiness and the warmth of his scalp. I want to see the silver on his temples up close. “It’s up to the jury to decide.” The articles, the news reports, the rumors—they all say Judson is guilty. But how can a guilty person be so relaxed? Despite the confidence in the letters he sent to me, I expected to find a broken man—the same man who wanted to kill himself because of a love gone sour. I run a hand through my hair. “The papers say you claimed Oliver Banes… that he raped your… that he raped Jennifer Hanson. Since you were with her, the public sees it as motive for murder.” “Oliver Banes deserved to die the way he did.” An invisible knife slices into my gut. “So you did it? You took matters into your own hands?”

“Like I said, that’s for the jury to decide.” He narrows his eyes. “Let’s not talk about me. Time is short. Let’s talk about us.” “I don’t know if there’s an ‘us’, Judson.” “If you didn’t believe there was, you wouldn’t be here. You would have cut off contact with me a long time ago. Why didn’t you stop writing?” “I really don’t know.” “I do. I read between the lines. I’m aware we barely know each other.” He clears his throat. “But I also know I get excited to hear from you. It touches me deeply that you cared enough to come see me, to hear me out.” He places a hand on the glass as though trying to touch me. “I feel more than friendship for you, Ivy. And I know you’re falling in love with me too.” I shift uncomfortably. “Judson… I don’t know if I’m in love with you.” “You don’t need to know. Don’t complicate things by thinking too much. Just tell me one thing. Tell me you haven’t been dreaming about me at night. Tell me I don’t fill your mind during the day.” “You don’t know that.” Even as I murmur the words, I can’t deny the electric spark between my legs or the blush contradicting my words. “Actually, I do. Your eyes are telling me everything right now, like your letters did. It’s all right, sweetheart; you don’t have to hide the feelings. Keep doing what you are doing. One day soon I’ll be out of here, and your fantasies will become reality. So will mine.” He leans back, but his gaze intensifies. “I’ll make sure of it. Reality is so much better than fantasy. Promise you’ll wait for me. Promise.” His eyes have filled with something dark and sexy that makes my heart pound harder. “I don’t think you’re right for me,” I whisper. “I should

go. I—” “Because I’m older?” I shake my head. “Not that. I just… I can’t do this.” “Of course you can. You’re standing in your own way, listening to the voices of doubt inside your head. I know I’m older than you by a few years, but I’ve long learned that love doesn’t care about such boundaries.” He rubs a palm over one stubbled cheek. “The heart is a stubborn thing. It won’t listen if you tell it what it should and should not want.” “I’m sorry.” I close my eyes in an attempt to drown out his words before they reach my brain. “Goodbye, Judson. I’m glad you’re okay. Good luck with… everything.” “Goodbye is a lie when two people will meet again.” I place the phone back in its cradle, stand, and walk away. The moment the warm sunshine hits my face, at a safe distance from Judson’s hypnotic gaze, I inhale deeply, wishing the air could replace the thoughts of him. It doesn’t work. His words repeat inside my head like a broken record. I’m trapped in a self-constructed cage I want to escape from, and at the same time, I never want to leave. What now? Now that I’ve seen him, what do I do? I know what I have to do. Leave him behind, because as much as he turns me on, he also scares the hell out of me. The dream of me and Judson Devereux has to remain an unattainable one.

MY PHONE BEEPS as I enter my room. I consider not reading the text, but I can’t help myself. I rummage inside my bag for the phone, and before I change my mind, before I can

remind myself that I’ve made the decision to move on, I’m reading his message. I saw your gorgeous face. I looked into your eyes. Now I want to see you in the lingerie I sent you. I swallow hard and drop the phone on the couch. He’s acting as though nothing is amiss, like we didn’t end the visit in an awkward place. I made my decision, and now he’s rendering it useless. We’re far from being over. As I pace the room, my body is already reacting to the words with a thrum of ecstasy that shoots through my veins. I’m trembling as I move to the window and throw it open for some fresh late evening air. Two students are making out on the bench closest to the pond. They have a normal, uncomplicated relationship. I want that. Judson feels out of reach, an illusion. I ache for something I can count on, something I can measure and understand. But there’s something about him. What if I never find the same electricity that connects Judson and me again? I’m not sure if I’m ready to trade that for something more tangible. And that’s why I’m afraid to let go, to lose my destiny. I turn away from the window and get undressed. Chelsea will be home soon. We’re planning on having dinner at Marco’s Pizzeria. I don’t respond to Judson’s message. Not yet. I don’t know what to say. His request makes me feel uncomfortable and aroused all at once. The temptation is there—the idea of him holding a photo of me, being turned on by my body, is thrilling. I don’t think about the message again, until Chelsea and I have finished a family-sized pizza diavolo between us and are sitting outside the seaside restaurant sharing a white chocolate mousse. “Hey, I have a question.” I lick mousse off the back of my dessert spoon. “What’s your take on long-distance

relationships?” Chelsea’s spoon pauses between her mouth and the bowl. “They suck. That’s why I moved here… partly.” “You think you and Neil wouldn’t have worked out if you hadn’t come to Oaklow?” Chelsea shrugs and dips her spoon into the mousse. “Maybe, maybe not. Seriously, most long-distance relationships fail. I didn’t want to wait and find out.” She pauses. “And for your information, I didn’t move here only for Neil. Oaklow University offers one of the best photography programs in the country. If it doesn’t work out with Neil, I’ll still be left with a degree in something I love.” “Right, but let’s say you didn’t move here…” I avert my gaze so she doesn’t read anything there. “To keep the romance alive, would you, like, send him snaps of you in lingerie?” “So my photos can end up on the Internet or used as blackmail? Hell no. He’d just have to look forward to the real thing.” Chelsea folds her arms on the table and leans forward. “Why all the questions? Do you have a distant lover you haven’t told me about?” I wave a dismissive hand and attempt to laugh, but only a squeak comes out. “You’re being ridiculous. Of course not.” My eyes meet hers. “I was curious, that’s all.” Thankfully she doesn’t dig deeper, and we change the subject. It’s ten when we head back to the dorms. After a quick call with Neil, Chelsea falls asleep. I spend a few minutes thinking about it, and then I finally send a response to Judson. I’m sorry. I don’t feel comfortable doing it. I fall asleep only to be woken by another message from him, long after midnight. Can’t blame a man for trying.

I smile in the darkness, relieved that he understands. He sends another message before I have a chance to think of a response. I’m alone. No one is watching. Guess what I’m doing right now… Oh, God. I close my eyes and my mind instantly conjures an image of him in his bunk, a hand inside his pants. What’s wrong with me? Are you trying to corrupt pure innocent me? I bite my lip as I send it off. I might have just told him indirectly that I’m a virgin. Do I want him to know? The phone beeps again. I want to make you so dirty, you won’t be able to wash me off. One day I will. I send a final reply, put the phone on silent, and bury it under my pillow. My whole body is on fire. Who knows, maybe I’ll let you.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I dream I’m inside Judson’s cell, wearing nothing but the lingerie he sent me. The bra and panties fit perfectly, molding themselves around my body like a second skin. As I step further into the cell, I wrap my arms around me. A chill radiates from the iron bars. Without turning my head, I take in the closet of a room. The naked bulb hanging from the ceiling outside the cell provides enough light for me to see graffiti on the pitted walls of concrete—inmates’ desperate cries for help, anger, and frustration. I lower my gaze as a smiling Judson stands up from his cot, the worn-out springs squeaking with his movements beneath the faded sheets and thin mattress. As he approaches me, the echo of footsteps coming from distant walkways reaches my ear. A toilet flushes. Someone clears his throat behind me. It’s the guard who brought me to see Judson. His gaze bores into my bare back. Judson’s shoes squeak as he walks toward me. All other sounds die as I focus on his presence. “You came.” His voice is deep and dusty, seductive. “I came.” I swallow hard and smile.

“That’s my girl.” Judson moves in closer and wraps his arms around me. Like his cell, he smells of sweat and metal. The talking stops without warning as he unclasps my bra. I gasp as the straps slide down my arms, releasing my breasts. Judson’s warm breath fans my skin. He starts to kiss my neck, first one side, then the other. He moves on to my shoulders, sucking and kissing slowly, a man with all the time in the world. I’m aware of the presence of the guard behind us, but I’m too intoxicated to care that he’s watching. Judson moves to my face, his hot kisses searing the surface of my eyelids, my forehead, my cheeks, my chin. Judson is fire and I’m plastic. My skin melts wherever his lips touch it. “We’re not alone,” I say in a fragile whisper, coming to my senses. “The guard… He’s watching.” “Let him.” Judson pushes a finger into the elastic of my panties, and slides it from hip to hip. “Let’s give him something to talk to the others about.” I run my tongue across my bottom lip before slowly sliding it between my teeth. His words and his touch are driving me insane. My whole body boils with unquenched desire for him. “And allow me to give you something to remember me by.” I want to respond, but a lump inside my throat prevents me from doing so. The next moment, my back is against the graffitied wall, with Judson holding me up. The wall is cold, but his body warms me. He kisses me first, sucking on my nipples, massaging them, pinching them. I throw my head back and close my eyes so I cannot see the guard on the other side of the iron bars. He’s not even hiding the fact that he finds us entertaining. But I no longer see

him. Instead I choose to feel everything Judson is giving me. No one has ever touched me this way. No man has ignited the place between my legs like he is now. Judson lowers me back to the cement floor. I open my drowsy eyes and moan, afraid he wants to stop. “Don’t you dare,” I say, but only my lips move. Judson grins as he pushes down his pants, leaving them bunched around his ankles. Then I’m in his arms again, back up the wall, my legs around his middle, as his dick forces itself between us, hard and thick and throbbing hot, the tip glistening in anticipation. “I don’t think it—” “—will fit?” His throat rumbles with the low chuckle. “Sweetheart, we are made for each other. I will fit perfectly inside you. You’ll swallow me whole—you’ll see.” “But I’ve never done it before.” “There’s nothing to worry about.” He covers my nipple with his warm mouth, encircling it with his tongue, and I moan, my worries melting away. “Unless you resist.” He hoists me higher up the wall and then lowers me down gently onto his shaft. As he glides into me an inch at a time, I bite my lip hard and swallow a scream. I feel both uncomfortable and good, and he hasn’t even filled me up completely yet. He plunges deeper, until he’s halfway in. I force myself to relax my inner muscles, to give him an easy entry into the most sensitive part of me. The more he glides in and out of me, the more the pain melts away, turning into liquid ecstasy. “That’s it, baby,” he whispers roughly into my ear, his sweat clinging to my skin. “Let me in.” I do. I open up to him until he slides in smoothly without hindrance. Once he has filled me to the hilt, he stops moving, though I feel him pulsing inside me.

“Don’t you… Don’t stop.” My words are desperate. “I want you. I want you Judson… so bad.” “Ivy, you have me. All of me.” With that, he moves his hips from side to side, shifting inside me, and then pulls out slowly. Before I can catch my next breath, he shoots into me so hard I slide higher up the wall and bounce back onto him. My screams refuse to be contained. They ricochet off the naked metal bars and concrete walls. With my eyes closed, I don’t see anything, don’t allow myself to be distracted by anything outside of me, outside of this cell. Right now, only Judson and I exist. Right now, this jail cell is the most beautiful place on earth. Judson grunts as he moves inside me, pushing and pulling, deeper and deeper, grinding from side to side, up and down, driving me out of my mind. My hands are in his hair, my nails scratching his scalp as I try to hold on to him. If he lets me go now, there’s no doubt in my mind that the fall will break me. He doesn’t let me fall, though, except onto him, over and over and over again. My breasts bounce against my ribs as I move to his rhythm. He’s teaching me to dance, and I’m following along just fine. Our dance becomes faster, following the beat of my screams, and his groans and grunts. I want to freeze the moment so it’ll last forever. I tremble as he parts my butt cheeks so he can drive even deeper into me. I bury my face into his shoulder. Our sweat mixes, gluing us together. Then suddenly, a ball of fire builds inside the pit of my stomach, raging and spinning through everything in its path. A tornado I can’t slow down. I most certainly cannot stop it. It takes over my entire body before it finally breaks me into a million pieces. Through the rush in my ears, I hear Judson getting louder, feel him moving faster, slamming deeper, ripping

me apart. Then he moves me to the floor, the bumpy surface rubbing against my back as he grinds me into the dirt. He yanks my arms above my head and holds them together with one hand. As he pounds and pounds into me, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoes off the walls. Then the tornado inside my core comes to life again. This time, Judson and I explode at the same time, and a bell goes off.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

bell is my cell phone alarm. The harsh ringing The drags me out of my erotic dream, and I groan with frustration as I reach for it under my pillow. My body is still quivering in the aftermath of Tornado Judson. With my blurry eyes I check the screen. Unknown number. “Hello.” I rest my spinning head onto my pillow, watching the morning light as it pours in through the thin curtain. “Hi, ummm, is this Ivy Hollifield?” I rub my tired eyes. “Yes, this is Ivy. May I ask who is calling?” “This is… this is Jennifer. Jennifer Hanson.” I snap to a sitting position so fast, I swear the contents of my brain shift out of place. “Jennifer?” After reading her letters, invading her privacy, I feel as though we know each other on a certain level. She’s like an old friend… whose boyfriend I stole. “How did you—” “Paulette Stevens, your guidance counselor, gave me your number. She asked me to reach out to you. I hope you don’t mind me calling so early.”

So Paulette lied to me. She said she didn’t know where Jennifer was. I glance at the clock above Chelsea’s bed. Six-thirty. The alarm clock on my phone is scheduled to ring in about twenty-five minutes. “I’m sorry, Jennifer, but why are you calling?” My cheeks heat. Why would Paulette hand out my number? I draw my knees to my chest and hug them. As my legs press together, the post-orgasm hum between them reminds me of my dirty dream. “I found your letters. I gave them to Paulette.” “I know. She told me.” A breathy pause. “She also said last time you went to see her, you seemed troubled. She suspects you’re in touch with Professor Devereux. You don’t know me, and you might not want to listen to a word I have to say, but I won’t forgive myself if I don’t warn you against him. He’s really bad news.” I let out a stream of air to slow my heart rate down. “Sorry, I don’t understand. Why do you feel I need to be warned against him?” “Because he’s dangerous, Ivy. I… we had a thing last semester.” There’s a crackle on the line, but her voice is clear again almost immediately. “He seemed harmless at first.” Her voice lowers. “Everything was really great, but then he turned into a jealous, controlling jerk.” “And why do I need to know this?” I scratch my brow, damp with sweat. “I’m warning you before he gets under your skin. He can be really charming. He can make you feel like you’re the only girl, you know, in the world.” “I’m not dating Professor Devereux.” Though I’m not even sure whether that’s the truth. “I’m sure you heard the… the rape story.” I nod but don’t say anything. My heart squeezes. “It wasn’t.” She takes a deep breath. “It wasn’t rape.

Oliver Banes was my on-again, off-again boyfriend. We broke up briefly, and that’s when…” Her voice drifts off. “Anyway, when I broke things off with Judson, Oliver and I got back together. I loved him. Judson was a mistake.” Her voice is thicker now. Is she crying? “One night Judson let himself into my room. He found me and Oliver in bed together. He went off the rails, accused Oliver of raping me. Two days later, Oliver was dead. I know Judson did it. I said as much to the district attorney.” “How do you know for sure he did it?” “His jealousy got the best of him. He refused to let me go.” I drop my head onto my knees. It feels as though it’s full of heavy rocks. The air I breathe seems to be getting thicker. “I—I’m sorry.” I have no idea what I’m apologizing for. My head is a mess. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine. I just called to tell you to be careful. He’s incredibly dangerous and possessive. He said he owns me… and tried talking me into moving away with him.” “He’s in prison. He can’t hurt anyone.” He can’t hurt me. “Don’t let the prison walls fool you.” She breathes out. “He has money and connections, and he’s persistent. I doubt anything will keep him from getting whatever he wants. That’s why I had to go far away from Oaklow. After his arrest, I thought it was over, but I never felt safe. He wrote me almost every day. And I felt like I was being watched.” My blood freezes as I think of the letters, the package on my doorstep, the cell phone he’s been using to contact me. Someone must be working for him. I shut my eyes, forcing myself to banish Judson’s face from my mind. Somehow he has invaded every part of my

life. “Thanks for the warning, Jennifer.” I pause. “But I don’t need it.” “I don’t know if you’re really in touch with him, Ivy, but if you are, you really should break it off. He’s a ticking time bomb. You don’t want to become his next obsession.” “Where are you now, Jennifer?” I ask, ignoring her warning. “I’d rather not say. Goodbye, Ivy. Please be careful. If you want to get a clearer picture of how dangerous an obsessed man can be, read the book Amour Toxique.” “Amour what?” I rub my forearms. When I was thirteen, my mother tried to force me into French lessons, insisting that one day when my modeling career took me to Paris, I’d thank her. She hired a private tutor, but after three lessons, he threw in the towel, saying in his thick French accent, “Mrs. Hollifield, I’m sorry, but your daughter has no passion for the French language.” In my mind’s eye I can clearly picture him making a steeple of his fingers, his eyes flickering with disappointment as though I had personally let him down. “No passion, no French.” “Amour Toxique by Adrien Moreau. It’s a popular French novel I once read. I’m sure you’ll be able to find an English version somewhere.” As we say goodbye, I scribble the name of the book on an old napkin.

AS SOON AS Jennifer hangs up, I text Judson, demanding the truth. I want to know if he’s really as innocent as he claims. I’m so torn between believing him and believing Jennifer. Deep down I know who I should believe, but still

I resist. I switch off my phone, because I don’t even know if I’m ready to hear the truth yet. I start my day with a hot shower and a glass of milk, and go to lectures. At two, I head to town for an interview at Millie’s Book Corner. I have some money saved up, but I don’t want to use it all on day-to-day living. I have to think of the future. The interview is a bright spot in my day. Millie likes me so much, she gives me a part-time bookseller job on the spot. I agree to work on Wednesday and Friday afternoons, and all day on Saturdays. During the holidays, I’ll be able to work full-time. My good mood collapses when I return to my dorm and find three large boxes addressed to me. My stomach lurches as I haul them inside. I take a deep breath and open the first one. I shake my head as I pull out belongings from home. Books, photos of me with my mother inside our house in Boston, photos of me and Dad, snapshots of my life. There are pieces of clothing, too, and a few other bits and pieces that are special to me, items that link me to my childhood, to my home. There’s a single note underneath them all. Here are some of your things. I’m putting the rest in storage. I’m disowning you, Ivy. As of this moment, I no longer have a daughter. Have a nice life. Lenora I call my mother’s phone, but the number has been disconnected.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A s soon as Chelsea walks through the door, I jump on her, wanting to talk about my problems—the ones involving my mother. After my long day, I’m desperately in need of a friend. But Chelsea’s face is flushed with rage. She has problems of her own—the usual, I suspect. “Hey, are you okay?” I ask. She throws her handbag onto her bed, followed by herself. “No. Neil is such an idiot. He doesn’t see what’s in front of him. You know, I thought things would change after I took him back.” Disappointed that I won’t be getting the attention I need, I nevertheless slump onto the couch and listen to my friend’s despair. Maybe afterward we can talk about me. She tells me Neil started crying again after sex last night, that he proposed to her again, and she rejected him yet again. “He’s such a fool.” Chelsea laughs bitterly. “He thinks getting engaged will diminish all this guilt. It’s the closest thing to being married, he says. I don’t believe that for a

moment. Unless we get married—which I’m so not ready for—he’ll always feel guilty about sleeping with me. And I won’t get engaged or married before I’m ready.” “Slow down, Chelsea. Take a breath.” I go to her bed and place a comforting hand on her shoulder. She covers her face with both her hands and takes several deep breaths. When she removes her hands, there are tears in her eyes. All I can do is be there for her, wait while she sorts things out for herself and makes a decision she’s happy with, no matter how long it takes for her to get to the place she wants to be. For the next hour, I let her cry on my shoulder until she feels lighter. Then she wipes her eyes and blows her nose. She digs inside her bag for her phone, and disappears with it inside the bathroom. I know she’s talking to Neil, because I can hear her side of an argument through the thin walls. She walks out ten minutes later with red, puffy eyes. She’s seriously hurting. I don’t have the heart to trouble her with my own problems right now. Chelsea kisses me on the cheek and grabs her bag again before storming out of the room. For dinner, I eat my takeout Chinese noodles and chicken alone. Then I finally switch on my phone. There are six messages from Judson, all saying the same thing: Where the hell are you? We need to talk. He sounds desperate and worried at once. I don’t respond, but I leave the phone on as I get ready for bed. The moment my head hits the pillow, the phone rings. It’s him. “Who told you I’m guilty?” His voice is quivering with fury. “News websites.” I grip the phone tightly. I don’t know

what he will do if I tell him about Jennifer. I won’t throw her under the bus for being kind enough to warn me. “Why are you reading up on me? I don’t like it.” My own rage rises to the surface. “Judson, in case you’re not aware, everyone is talking about you, about what happened. I hear about you whether I want to or not.” “So you think I did it, do you? You believe what everyone is saying? I thought you didn’t listen to what people say.” “I don’t know what to believe anymore. You never exactly told me you didn’t do it. You only said ‘the jury will decide.’ Tell me the truth, Judson. Tell me what I should believe. It’s a simple question. Did you kill Oliver Banes or not?” “I am innocent. Is that what you want to hear? Does my answer satisfy you?” I don’t respond. I’m so conflicted. Even though everyone is entitled to their own opinion, I have to admit that the only person who really knows the truth about what happened is Oliver Banes. Judson’s fingerprints were found at the crime scene—a lecture hall—but so were many other people’s. “I didn’t do it, Ivy. But most people don’t believe me. I can only hope the jury does.” His voice is gentler now, sad. “Do you believe me?” “For now.” What I want to say is I don’t know. I still feel as confused as I did before he called. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I sigh. “It means that right this minute, I believe what you’re saying. But in the next couple of days, I don’t know. I might read or hear something and change my mind.” “Fair enough. Just don’t turn your back on me. It’s

dark in this place, and the only thing keeping me sane is knowing someone cares—that you care.” Tears fill my eyes as I glance at the boxes my mother sent. “I’m sorry. I have to go to bed. Let’s talk another time.” “Are you okay?” Concern taints his voice. “You sound sad. What’s going on? Is it because of me?” “No.” Not just you. He continues pressing me to tell him what’s wrong. So I do. He listens to me talk tearfully about my mother without interrupting. “Baby, I’m so sorry,” he says when I’m done. “Listen, I’m here. I swear to you I’m innocent. One day I’ll get out of this place, and we’ll be together for real. You don’t need your mother. I’ll take care of you. Do you hear me? Do you need money? I can arrange for some to be wired to you.” Jennifer’s words return to me. Don’t let the prison walls fool you. As much as his concern touches me, I shake my head vigorously. Money would give him too much power over me. “No, no. I have enough to live on. Thanks for caring.” “I always will. Now, don’t ever doubt my innocence, you hear? I love you.” “I’ll try.” Instead of going back to bed, I turn on my laptop and purchase an electronic copy of Toxic Love, the English version of Amour Toxique. It’s a short book that completely draws me in from the first word. The main character is Delmar Petit, the son of an alcoholic prostitute in Paris, who grew up without a father. The only constant in his poverty-stricken life was his mother’s mental and physical abuse. At thirteen, his mother tried to poison him, but failed. That night he ran

away. The streets of Paris became his new home, and there, at fifteen, he met Chantal, a stunning dancer. It was love at first sight for both of them, but after a whirlwind romance, his love overtook hers. When she withdrew from him, his love turned fatal. He refused to live even a second without her. He warned her that if she tried to leave, he’d send her to the grave. She eventually managed to escape him, and fell in love with someone else. On her wedding day, Delmar showed up and stabbed her to death in front of all the guests. Two days after his arrest, he hanged himself. By the time I finish the book, my eyes are blurry with tears and exhaustion from staring at the screen for hours. It’s three in the morning, but my aching chest will never let me sleep. Jennifer had meant for the book to put me off Judson. But the story is pure fiction. Delmar and Chantal aren’t real, I tell myself. With every ounce of me, I decide to believe what Judson has told me. Instead of fear, the feeling that spreads through my heart as I climb under my sheets and wrap my arms around my body is the hot desire to get to know Judson better, to peel back his layers and see beneath them. As my eyes grow heavy, I finally manage to wipe Amour Toxique from my mind and fall asleep, replaying everything Judson said to me over the phone, listening to the concern in his voice, his need to step in and be my knight in shining armor. I didn’t tell him I loved him back, but I think I do.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Wednesday after Thanksgiving break, I visit Judson again. He looks even more tired this time, and less self-assured, but still drop-dead gorgeous. I want to ask whether his lawyer is making progress in the search for evidence, but he avoids talking about the trial. “Let’s talk about you… us.” He moves the phone to his other ear and smiles. His teeth are so white and straight. “You know we barely see each other. This time is too precious to waste.” “Don’t you get tired of hearing about me?” “Never. You’re refreshing. Besides, I don’t know everything about you yet. All I know is that you decided to pursue a university education, that your mother was against it, and that it caused a rift between the two of you. Tell me why you quit modeling in the first place.” “I never liked it,” I say. “I grew up being dragged from one pageant show to the next. I died a little inside every time I had to smile in front of the camera.” “Funny, it never showed.” His eyes are lenses, photographing every inch of my face. “You made some gorgeous photos.”

“You’d be amazed at the things pictures can hide.” I run a finger along the phone receiver. “So why didn’t you stop earlier if you were unhappy?” “My mother wouldn’t have it. She had invested too much… So had I. And I didn’t know how to do anything other than modeling. I believed her when she warned me I’d be throwing my life away if I quit.” “Until you reached the breaking point?” “When my father died from cancer, I promised him I’d quit modeling. He made me swear to get out from under my mother’s control and live my own dreams. He saw how unhappy I was.” I shrug. “I guess I wanted to keep the promise I made to him.” Judson tips his head to the side. “I’m glad you did. Your decision brought you to me.” He places the palm of his hand on the glass, and I instinctively do the same from my side. I wish our palms could touch for real. Does his skin feel the same as in my dreams? “Fate brought us here. I hope it also keeps us together.” I drop my hand to my lap. “You never said much about yourself in the letters. I’m curious to know more about you.” From the corner of my eye, I see the bushyeyed inmate on Judson’s right side say goodbye to his visitor with a kiss on the glass, and rise from his chair. We’ve been talking for much longer than he has, and I wonder why the guard on duty is not making an attempt to cut our conversation short. “Do we still have time?” Judson looks over at the bored-looking guard in the far corner of the room. “You don’t have to worry about that.” He returns his attention to me. “I’ll tell you about myself in a few words. I was raised by a single mother until the age of six, when she married Louis Devereux, a Frenchman. He adopted me. End of story.” “You’re a very private person.” My smile wavers. “Tell

me, was your mother at least a better parent than mine is?” “She was a piece of shit.” My eyebrows draw together. “How so?” “Let’s just say that some women are never meant to be mothers—women like yours and mine. Mine hated me from the day I was born.” He rubs his nose with a knuckle. “Is she still alive?” “No idea. We haven’t talked in over fifteen years.” “I’m so sorry.” The fact that we both have crappy mothers only brings us closer. I feel I understand Judson a little better. I don’t know yet whether the claims of his jealousy and clinginess in relationships are accurate, but if they are, I have a feeling his childhood is to blame. But as much as I understand him, the knowledge does make me shiver. What if I decide I want to break things off? Can he handle yet another rejection? “I try not to dwell on the past. I’ll tell you more about myself when I leave this place.” He leans forward. “When are you coming to see me again?” “I don’t know yet. I’m a bit behind with schoolwork and final exams are coming up.” I don’t tell him that I partly blame him for my lack of focus. He runs a hand through his hair. “Promise me one thing.” “What’s that?” “No matter what, don’t give up on us. I want this to be real. I want us to be real.” Instead of promising him something I might not be able to keep, I simply blow him a kiss and stand. “I should get back. I’m starting work in an hour.” “You didn’t make me a promise.” A sudden storm swirls in his eyes, and the harshness of his tone make

me uneasy. “Don’t fight your feelings, Ivy.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I t’s hard to pedal when the rain seems to hold a grudge against me. My new sandals are soaked and slippery beneath my feet. Rainwater is dripping into my eyes, blurring my vision. My jeans and cream blouse cling to my skin, wet and heavy on my body. I love rain, and if I weren’t so exhausted after working the whole Saturday at the bookstore, I would have slowed down to enjoy the sleek look it gives the shop windows and other smooth surfaces. I would have welcomed the tap dance of raindrops on my shoulders and head as I bike through town. But not today. Fortunately, I don’t have to worry about dinner. I already shared a large plate of baked salmon and potatoes with a colleague at the Deepwater Grill a few blocks from the bookstore. As soon as I get home, I’ll jump into a hot shower and then climb into bed to read Judson’s two-day-old letter before drifting off to sleep. A rainwater river runs down my spine, bringing on a shiver. I pedal faster, blinking water out of my eyes. The thought of wrapping myself in Judson’s words fills me with a warmth that radiates from

within. Since my previous visit to him, and feeling awkward at our departure, he wrote me twice; he apologized for being a jerk at times before going on to ask how I’m dealing with my mother’s departure from my life. The fact that he cares about what’s going on in my life blinds me from the other worries and doubts I have concerning him. He ends each letter now with an “I love you.” After some hesitation, I’ve started to do the same. My emotions for him refuse to be silenced. Not thinking about him is an impossible daily task, while thinking about him is both intoxicating and excruciating. We might never have a future together. I sigh as I slow down in front of Dunkin Hall. I hop off the bike and stumble, head ducked, through the glossy metal gates, my bike at my side. The raindrops have softened to a drizzle, but the sky is still a blanket of dark clouds. As soon as my bike is safely parked in the bike shed, the sky opens up again and rain gushes out. As I hurry down the path to the staircase leading to my dorm room, a classic black umbrella appears above my head. The person holding it, smelling of soap and aftershave, puts an arm around my shoulders, drawing me closer until we are both covered by the umbrella. “Milton? What are you doing out in the rain?” For a second, I consider moving away, out of his reach, but that would be throwing his kindness back into his face. “I saw you on your bike earlier and decided to come and help. You must be nuts riding it in this weather.” “That’s nice of you. Thanks.” I blink the remaining water from my eyes. “But you know I’ve pretty much arrived at my destination, right?” I no longer feel uncomfortable around Milton. Lately he has been behaving himself, the perfect gentleman. It

could be an act, but I prefer this Milton to the in-your-face one. He accepted my offer of friendship, but followed it up by saying he’ll be waiting in case I change my mind. I didn’t tell him that he’ll have a lot of waiting to do. “True, but you are completely soaked. We wouldn’t want you catching a cold.” “I don’t catch colds easily. But it’s still kind of you. Thanks.” When we reach the stairs to my dorm, I step away from him and back into the rain. It was a small gesture, but it did warm my heart. “Sure. No problem.” He shifts from one foot to the other, as though waiting for me to say something else. When I don’t, he nods. “See you around?” “Yeah.” I give him a small wave and climb up the steps. Seconds later, I step out of the elevator and walk down the corridor, dripping water onto the floor. I enter the room to find Chelsea standing by her bed, arms folded, cheeks tinted with color. “Hi. What’s up?” I drop my bag and sweep my wet hair from my face. “Did something happen with Neil?” “Neil and I are fine for a change.” She gestures at my wet clothes. “Get changed. We need to talk.” “What about?” I don’t wait for an answer as I head to the bathroom. Five minutes later, my body is warm inside my soft bathrobe and the towel around my head. I sit on the couch and gaze at Chelsea. “So, what’s wrong?” “You know what’s wrong.” She hands me a cup of mint tea, then goes to her bed and removes something from under the pillow—a stack of letters tied with a white ribbon. She tosses them next to me on the couch. “That there is the problem.” She folds her arms again and glares at me. “What were you thinking?” A sudden chill hits my core, and I know the color has drained from my face because my cheeks are suddenly

icy. My first internal reaction is dread, but it’s soon swallowed by anger. “You went through my things?” “You’ve been so busy lately. I wanted to help you with cleaning up. I thought I’d wash your sheets for you, and that’s when I found those—under the mattress. At first I thought they were Jennifer’s letters.” She places a finger on her lips. “I wondered why you would still have them. Then I opened one.” Instead of responding, I clench my jaw. I’m simmering with anger that prevents me from speaking. It’s not really Chelsea I’m furious with. I’m angrier at myself for being careless, allowing myself to get caught. I’d kept the letters under my mattress to make it easier for me to reach them at night. As Chelsea reprimands me like a mother talking to a child, some of my anger melts to tears. “He’s saying he loves you? That’s a shocker. How long has this been going on? What were you thinking, contacting him in the first place?” She sinks onto the couch and puts her hands between her knees. “You do know you’re playing a dangerous game, right? And he’s so much older.” “Age doesn’t matter to me.” I blink away tears. “I really don’t want to talk about it, Chelsea.” I fold my arms across my chest. “It’s my business.” “That’s too bad. I can’t just sweep this under the rug now, can I? What kind of friend would I be if I let you walk into the arms of a murderer without saying anything?” I gather up the letters and hold them so tight, blood seeps from my knuckles. “It started a while ago. I like him.” “You know how dangerous he is. You know he could be in prison for many years. What will you do then? Wait for him to get out?” She pauses. “I mean, what kind of

relationship do you think you can have with a murderer?” “Everyone thinks he’s guilty. What if he’s innocent? What if he really didn’t kill Oliver Banes?” “Oh my God!” Chelsea slaps her forehead. “Is that what he told you, that he’s innocent? Of course he did.” I don’t say anything. I suddenly feel stupid. “The guy killed someone. He could hurt you.” She yanks her hair from its ponytail and her shiny curls tumble to her shoulders. She tosses the hair scrunchie onto the bed. “Ivy, you can’t believe a word he says. You have to cut things off with him right away.” She lowers her voice. “You didn’t—did you? Please tell me you didn’t visit him.” “I didn’t.” The lie comes easily. No use in complicating the situation more than necessary. “Why didn’t you say anything… to me?” “Because I didn’t want you to react the way you’re reacting right now. I haven’t told anyone. Please keep it to yourself.” “I will if you promise to stop contacting him.” Chelsea stands up and goes to her bed. She picks up a photography magazine and pretends to start reading it. But her anger still vibrates in the air. I rub my eyes and stare at her. I’m mad that she went through my things, but ultimately I know she cares. And that means a lot. She’s the closest thing I have to family right now. I stand and approach her bed. When I sit on the edge and take her hand, she drops the magazine. “Look, I’m sorry for not telling you, okay? I just… I didn’t want to be judged.” “I wish you’d told me. I know we haven’t known each other for that long, but you’ve become one of my closest friends. I thought you felt the same about me.”

“I do. But this is something I wanted to keep to myself for a while longer, to see where it leads.” “You wanted to wait to see if he would be found innocent?” I don’t respond. “I don’t want to hurt you, Ivy, but as your friend, I have to be honest with you. From what I hear, the chances of him being released are pretty much nil.” Her fingers tighten around my hand. “You’re flirting with danger. You have to get out before you’re in too deep.” I’m already in too deep. I love him. I nod, giving her a sad smile. Then I squeeze her hand and get to my feet. I pick up the magazine and hand it back to her. “Thanks for the tea. I’m going to shower.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

M y teeth sink into my lip as I rip open the envelope with trembling hands. The sound of paper tearing is barely audible over the murmur of voices, the buzz of a coffee grinder, and the ding of a cash register. Judson’s sixth letter to me in two weeks arrived yesterday, but I didn’t have the guts to open it. I carried it around campus all day today, and finally to my afternoon shift at Millie’s. I came close to opening it last night, but chickened out at the last second. I haven’t written him since my argument with Chelsea a week and a half ago. As much as I want to ignore the warnings from Paulette, Jennifer, and Chelsea, a small voice at the back of my mind won’t give me peace. It nags me nonstop until I’m sick to my stomach. I even threw up last night, nauseous from all the thoughts running circles inside my head. With final exams around the corner, the last thing I need is more stress. After so much conflict and heartache, the rational part of my mind has finally forced me to see sense. There’s too much evidence online and via word of mouth to indicate that Judson murdered Oliver. And I cannot be in

touch with a murderer, no matter how charming he is. I used to look forward to Judson’s letters. I loved how much they turned me on, and the emotions they awakened inside of me have not disappeared. My heart is still desperate to explore what we started, but his letters have become increasingly demanding, and it’s shaken me. The cushion moves out of place as I shift in my chair at the Snowflake Bakery, where I sometimes have a coffee during my lunch break. After a few deep breaths I finally pull the neatly folded letter out of its envelope. The bakery is known for its delicious pastries, and they recently added wonderful homemade bread sandwiches to their menu. My ham and pepperoni sandwich is long gone, and my second cup of coffee has gone cold. Ten minutes until I have to return to work. I can’t walk out of this place without reading the letter. I inhale the coffee- and cinnamon-scented air, and smooth the paper out on the table. As I start to read, nothing distracts me—not the child crying at a nearby table, a metal spoon falling to the wooden floor, or the whirr of the frothing machine. My sole focus is on the page, and the large words scrawled across it. Stop ignoring me. It’s really starting to piss me off. Judson I jerk back in my chair as though slapped across the cheek. They’re only words, but the thick anger tucked into the spaces between the letters is palpable. My hand moves to my throat as I struggle to pull air into my lungs. The air is too thick. With hands shaking in big tremors, I push the letter back into the envelope, not bothering to fold it. I shove my chair back and stand. I’ve already paid for my meal, so I walk out into the fresh air, gulping in mouthful after

mouthful as my head spins. Once I’m able to breathe normally again, I cross the street and head back to work. For the first time, the fresh, crisp smell of new books, and the open and excited faces of readers looking to embark on a new adventure don’t give me that warm and fuzzy feeling. I almost trip in my leather sandals as I hurry up the stairs toward Millie’s office. I find her in the crafts and hobbies aisle, tugging a hardback off the shelf and handing it to a tall, skinny woman in a patterned wrap dress and flip-flops. I wait impatiently next to one of the red couches placed strategically throughout the store. For a moment Millie glances at me with a questioning expression, but then returns her attention to the customer, who’s now flipping the glossy book over to read the back copy. Millie Schroeder is a svelte woman in her fifties, of Austrian origin. She always wears dark pantsuits, and walks with incredible grace. She once revealed to me that she was a ballerina well into her teens. To my relief, the customer looks up at Millie with a smile. They exchange a few more words, before Millie nods and they part. Next, Millie heads in my direction as the customer descends the steps, perhaps to pay for the book. “My goodness, Ivy.” Millie’s silken voice and the scent of Chanel No. 5 reach me before she does. “Are you all right? You look rather pale.” Her powder-blue eyes narrow with concern. She places a hand on my arm and gives me a slight nudge. “Let’s go to the office. You can tell me all about it.” A barely audible laugh escapes my lips. I shake my head. “No, no, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I just wanted to let you know that I’m not feeling too well. I have a bad migraine. Do you mind if I end my shift

now? I can make up for it next week.” Millie glances at her silver wristwatch and nods her head, her sharp black bob sweeping her high cheekbones. “That won’t be a problem at all. Go home and get some rest.” “Thanks, Millie.” I sigh with relief. Guilt nudges me gently, but I ignore it. I didn’t lie to her—not really. Though I’m not actually tormented by physical pain, the emotional chaos racking my brain will make it hard to focus on work. “Sure. See you next Friday.”

I PAUSE OUTSIDE THE BOOKSTORE, the sunshine beating down on my head, neck, and shoulders. I take a few deep breaths and stroll down the street. The heaviness of Judson’s note weighs down my leather tote bag. I know what I should do. Instead of ignoring him, I should write him one last letter to make a clean break, to sever whatever twisted bond we have formed, and move on with my life. But as terrified as I am of a future with him, I’m terrified of one without him, too. What is it that ties me so tightly to him? Why can’t I walk away? We haven’t even kissed, touched, or made love. And yet I feel as though we have. A blast of sea air manages to cut through the few shops, sweeping my hair clear off one shoulder. The wind is comforting and refreshing, invisible fingers that caress me when I’m down. My bike is parked at the corner of Sage and Ridge streets. I hope onto it, but instead of taking my normal route that would get me to the dorms in less than twenty minutes, I take the long one, cycling furiously past Jolene’s Diner, Faith Chapel, the Oaklow Homeless Shelter, and endless rows of

cottages. Half an hour later, I reach the dorms. The fresh air hasn’t helped. My nerves are more frazzled than ever. I hop off my bike and walk it toward the gate. A royal blue Mercedes is parked to one side, and a stocky man with dark glasses and slicked-back hair is leaning against it, smoking a cigarette. Of course, behind the dark glasses, he could have been staring at anything. But my instincts tell me I’m the focus of his attention. I look away and enter the gates. The hairs at the back of my neck bristle with each step. My already overworked heart slams against my chest. I can’t help it: I take a glance back. The man tosses his cigarette to the ground and crushes it with the toe of his shoe. His eyes stay fixed in my direction. He folds his arms across his chest. What the hell does he want? There’s no one else on this path. It has to be me he’s interested in. My knees are almost jelly as I force myself forward. Don’t be a fool, Ivy. You’re not the center of the world. Maybe he’s waiting for someone. Assuring myself doesn’t stop me from feeling creeped out. I hold my breath as I leave my bike in the shed, and approach the steps leading up to the dorm. At the top of the steps, I turn to look again. He’s no longer at his car, but has stepped inside the gates and is standing next to the pond, talking on his phone, as much with his hands as with his voice. He looks as though he’s having an argument. All the while his eyes stay on me. Shit. A sickening thought arrests me, and I find myself stumbling through the door of my room, my heart inside my throat. What if the man is working for Judson? What if Judson is having me watched? But that’s ridiculous. Why

would he do that? And yet the thought refuses to let go of me all the way down the corridor to my room. I burst into the room and lock the door behind me. Leaning my back against it, I shut my eyes. My right hand rests on my chest as I try to calm my breathing. Feeling somewhat settled, I call out for Chelsea, in case she’s in the bathroom. No answer; only her vanilla and rose perfume lingers in the air. I hurry to my computer and go online. The news sites reveal nothing new about Judson. He’s still behind bars. But does that mean anything? He managed to send me gifts from behind bars. He managed to get hold of a cell phone behind bars. He wanted to send me money. What else is he able to do? I slump onto the couch and let out a breath. Stop it. He’s not stalking you. You’re imagining things. Except, Jennifer told me that when she cut off contact with Judson, she no longer felt safe. I wish I had asked for more details. Was she being stalked? Is history repeating itself? I can’t let this go—I need my peace of mind back. Reaching into my bag, I pull out my phone and write Judson a text message. I’m not sure if he still has the cell phone, but it’s worth a try. A letter will take too long to reach him. Waiting even a day is unbearable. I don’t think as I type the words. I write what comes to mind. Quit stalking me. It’s not funny. You’re scaring me. I send the message and wipe the sweat off my phone. I drop it beside me, waiting. The beep comes less than two minutes later. Scaring you was not my intention, my love. I only want you to know there will be consequences if you pull away from me.

My heart drops at the same time as my phone. Oh my God. I rush to the window and yank back the curtain. I can see the gates, but the Mercedes is gone. No mysterious man there. I could have dreamed it. Except Judson has just confirmed that I didn’t.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“Thank God you came to your senses. I was so worried about you. You never know what a man like that is capable of.” Chelsea digs into the popcorn bowl, releasing the smell of butter into the air. I pull my feet up onto Chelsea’s bed and chew my popcorn silently. I haven’t responded to Judson’s threat, and haven’t told Chelsea about it. But in a way I still feel as though I’m being watched from the shadows. “You’re right,” I admit. “I guess I was being a bit stupid.” “Stupid? You were out of your mind.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe you actually contacted a murderer.” “You do know his guilt is yet to be proven, right? He hasn’t even gone to trial.” Why do I still feel the need to defend him? “Well.” Chelsea shrugs and falls back onto her pillows. “It’s only a matter of time. Everyone knows he’s guilty.” My throat is aching, urging me to say something more, but instead, the tips of my fingers flutter at the base of my throat. Each time Chelsea attacks Judson,

she shoves me under an invisible bath of ice water. As much as I know getting involved with Judson was a dangerous mistake, my feelings for him haven’t dissipated. I wonder if they ever will. The thing that troubles me most is how I can feel so strongly for someone who terrifies the hell out of me. Judson raged into my life like a storm that shook me to the core of my being, and without him, I’m not sure I know who I am. It’s been almost a week, and although Judson keeps writing me, making demands, I haven’t seen the strange guy with the Mercedes again. I decide to change the subject. “So, how are things with you and Neil?” “Couldn’t be better. And by that, I mean this.” Chelsea pulls her hand from under the pillow and wriggles her fingers between us. I gasp at the glint that catches my eye. “No.” I grab her hand and bring it closer to my face. It’s a classic ring in white gold, set with a single round diamond that winks at me. “Tell me this is a promise ring and nothing else.” Chelsea grins from ear to ear, eyes glinting like the diamond on her finger. “It’s exactly what you think it is.” “I can’t believe it. When did this happen? And when did you change your mind about getting married? I thought you said you’re not ready.” Chelsea pulls her hand away from mine and digs into the popcorn again. “Last night. I’ve had a lot of time to think. Turns out I do want to spend the rest of my life with Neil.” She studies her ring for a moment. “Getting engaged now doesn’t mean we have to get married immediately. We’ll be one of those couples who are engaged for a couple of years. We’re waiting until after graduation. But he’s coming home with me for Christmas.” She lets out a contented sigh. “The

engagement certainly solved the sex guilt issue.” “No more guilt on his end?” Chelsea shrugs. “Last night, after I said yes, he fucked me like a porn star on crack. I could barely walk this morning. And no tears after.” We both burst out laughing. “You’re crazy. But that’s what I love about you.” I pull her into a hug. Congratulations. I’m so happy for you.” I clear my throat. “You really are going to marry him, Chelsea?” Chelsea nods and sighs. “I know I bitch about him a lot. That won’t stop.” She stares into space as though looking at something invisible to me. “This might sound corny, but he’s the only guy I want. I swear, I’ll never find anyone as good in bed as Neil.” Laughter bubbles from my chest in waves. “Chelsea, you’re not only with him because of the sex, are you?” “Me?” She places a hand on her chest, feigning shock. “What kind of girl do you think I am? Of course not. I love him. Seriously, I do. The sex is the cherry on top. And it is important in a relationship.” She makes a face. “But then again, you wouldn’t know that, since you still haven’t tasted the forbidden fruit.” A moment of quiet passes between us as I think of the erotic dreams I’ve had about Judson. A jolt of excitement trails down my spine, followed by an ache. Those dreams, each one of them, always left me feeling as though the sex was real, that he really was inside me. Each time they left me feeling less of a virgin. But I can’t tell Chelsea about that. I draw in a breath and avert my gaze, staring out the window. The branches of distant trees sway back and forth in the wind. They seem to be mocking me. “Yeah, go ahead and rub it in.”

“I’m sorry. I only think you’re wasting your time, waiting for Mr. Perfect. Sometimes Mr. Perfect is right around the corner. You need to put in the leg work. You could even have found him by now, if you actually put aside some time for having fun. All you do is work and study.” I twist a lock of hair around my forefinger. “I guess you’re right.” What I don’t tell her is that the only things that keep me going are work or my studies. And when I’m not working or studying, I sleep, because that’s the only way I can still my thoughts about Judson. Though that doesn’t always work. Often I still meet him in my dreams, where I find myself making love to him over and over again. “I know what would be good for you. Do something crazy and unpredictable. Seriously, go out and have a one-night stand or something.” I reach for a DVD—Secrets and Lace, a thriller—and pop the case open. “I’m not that kind of girl.” “How would you know you won’t like it unless you give it a try?” I drop the DVD case back on the bed but hold on to the disc. “Chelsea, if I ever decide to have sex with someone, it has to be someone who means something to me. Come on—it would be my first time.” “What if that guy doesn’t come along till you’re eighty?” “You’re impossible.” I pull my legs underneath me on the bed and gaze at her seriously. “So, what do you suggest I do?” “I think you should find someone you think is hot and have fun. For the first time in your life, live in the moment, not in the future. There are so many guys on campus who follow you like lovesick puppies. Surely you must

find one of them attractive.” Chelsea places a finger on her chin. Her eyes light up. “How about that Milton?” She shakes her head. “Yeah, yeah, I’m not a huge fan of his, but that’s mostly because I think he only wants to get you into bed. If that’s what you’re looking for in the first place, then I don’t see the big deal. He isn’t bad-looking.” I slap Chelsea on the arm. “You’re totally unbelievable.” “Yep, unbelievably serious. Fine, if not Milton, then someone else. You walk around looking so sad all the time. A distraction is exactly what you need.” “Let me think about it.” I stand and head for the TV. Chelsea doesn’t bring up the subject of me having sex again for the rest of the evening. We watch two films, stuff ourselves with junk food, and talk about her engagement. Through it all, I do consider what she said. She’s right, in a way. Just because I can’t find love doesn’t mean I can’t have sex and enjoy it. Lying in my bed later, I find myself thinking more about Milton. Maybe I should let the poor guy take me to dinner—then I can decide whether I like him enough to take things further.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Judson’s unopened letters on top of each other I stack and lower them into an empty shoebox. I place the box inside one of my desk drawers. After slamming the drawer shut, I close my eyes. “It’s over, Judson,” I whisper. “I’m not opening your letters ever again.” Chelsea urged me to get rid of them, but I can’t. Not yet. Feeling as though I’m wading through water, I rise from the chair and head for my wardrobe. I smile as my fingers touch the soft fabric of the freshly ironed coral mini dress with the crochet neckline. No jeans and t-shirt tonight. Chelsea and Neil have been engaged for two weeks, and tonight they’re having an engagement party on the beach. Chelsea made me promise I’d wear something sexy, and I agreed. It’s her night, but it’s also my fresh start. Tonight, I’ll leave Judson behind and have some fun. As I stand there with my dress draped over my arm, Chelsea walks out of the bathroom, breathtaking in a sassy, flowing magenta dress with fabric gathered in the back and layered in the front. It shows just a hint of

cleavage. Her teased curly locks rest seductively on her shoulders. And she looks happy, her dark eyes sparkling with joy. She eyes me with suspicion and waves the brush she’s holding in the air. “Please tell me you’re not thinking of wearing something else. That dress is perfect for you. Or are you thinking of not coming?” “No.” I laugh. “I wouldn’t think of crossing you tonight. And nothing will keep me from celebrating my lovely friend’s special day.” Chelsea closes the distance between us and folds me into a hug. “I want you to come out for you. You’ve been holed up in this place, and on campus, for far too long.” She pulls back, but her hands remain on my shoulders. “You deserve to have a little fun for a change.” “I fully agree.” Chelsea inspects her makeup while I get dressed. I go for my usual natural look, wearing no makeup but a bit of nude lip gloss. There is one change from my usual look, though. Tonight, instead of in a ponytail or braid, I give my long hair permission to tumble down my back. Once we’re both ready, we pick up our purses and hook arms. “Let’s go paint the beach red,” Chelsea says as she locks the door behind us. I wrinkle my nose. “I never liked that expression. It sounds as if we’re going to spill blood.” “You might.” Chelsea grins. “Given how many hearts you’ll break tonight.” “If you say so.” Ten minutes later, we sink our feet into the soft, cool sand. As the waves break on the shore, some of the weight slides off my shoulders. In the soft night, I promise myself that I’ll make more time to come to the

beach. We’re still arm in arm as we make our way toward the bonfire set up in front of the Misty Beach Club, a place many of the university students hang out on weekends. Tonight it’s reserved for Chelsea and Neil’s party. Romantic music is already spilling out into the night. My stomach rumbles at the aroma of steaks, hotdogs, and hamburgers on the grill. Cheers, laughter, and congratulations reach us before we get there. As we come closer, Neil pushes his way through their bikini-clad friends and comes over to meet us. To meet Chelsea, actually. He’s tall, with an athletic body and sandy blond hair. He doesn’t look like a guy who sometimes cries after sex—or used to. “My gorgeous fiancée.” Neil scoops Chelsea up into his arms and lifts her off the ground. As everyone claps, Chelsea throws her head back and laughs out loud, teeth glinting in the night. She really does love him. It’s easy to see they’re meant for each other. I have no doubt they will make it to the altar after graduation. After a long kiss, Neil finally puts her down. Taking her hand, they head over to the long, white table covered with food, champagne, and flowers. The party was supposed to be a surprise for Chelsea from Neil, but Chelsea found an invitation card in Neil’s pocket that let the cat out of the bag. Still, it didn’t take away from the joy she clearly feels tonight. She smiles brightly as people hug them, wishing them well. And then her eyes rest on the two layered, white cake in the center of the table, surrounded by white roses I bought this morning. I catch a tear glinting on her cheek. All eyes are on Neil and Chelsea, but someone is watching me as well. I turn to my right to find Milton smiling at me, his teeth illuminated by the moon and

firelight. His eyes are fixed on my face. He, too, looks different, wearing a crisp, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and black jeans. His hair is shorter and neater as well. The punk guy is nowhere to be seen. For the first time, I find myself thinking he really is handsome. An unexpected glow flows through me at the open delight in his eyes when he sees me. I smile back and pick up a glass of champagne from a tray that passes by in the hands of a server. I make my way through the guests, greeting them as I go. A lot of the guys are watching me, but I focus on Milton. It’s clear he’s made an effort. “Wow.” He breathes out and takes a swig of his cider. “You look amazing. I can’t take my eyes off you.” “You’re making me blush.” As my face heats up, I avert my gaze for a moment, looking out at sea. He kisses me on the cheek. “I’m just telling the truth. No girl here is as beautiful as you.” “You better not say that any louder.” I grin. Since the night he met me with the umbrella, I’ve shared a few coffees with Milton in the university snack bar. I still haven’t agreed to dinner with him, but I’ve also stopped brushing him aside as though he’s a nuisance. I’ve come to appreciate his company; he’s actually a really funny guy. I keep thinking if he didn’t keep hinting at wanting more, we could be really good friends. But once or twice, I’ve also found myself wondering how he might be in bed. Milton drains his glass and places it on the edge of the drinks table. He reaches out a hand to me. “Can I interest you in a short walk before dinner is served, Ms. Hollifield?” I gaze at Chelsea and Neil. A woman is handing them each a glass of champagne. “Looks like they’re getting started with the toasts,” I

say. “Let’s wait until they’re over, then I’ll happily join you.” Not long after the toasts, people are dancing happily on the beach, while other sit at tables, eating grilled meat, fresh bread, and salad. Some of the guests who are old enough to drink are already swaying from too much champagne. Having forgotten about the walk with Milton, I grab a paper plate and fill it with sausages and potato salad, then break away from the crowd. A safe distance from the rabble, I sink onto the soft ground and place my plate on my knees. I eat as I watch the waves rolling onto the beach and then retreating. With my eyes closed, I inhale the fresh, salty air. I long for a swim. Squeals, laughter, and shouts land on my ears, so I turn to look back at the group. Many of the guests have abandoned their food, and are now peeling off their clothes, running into the sea. Chelsea and Neil are among them. From a distance, Chelsea’s gold bikini sparkles in the night. I have a bikini under my clothes as well, but it’s hard to imagine joining in. I don’t know how it happens, but a few minutes later, I find myself among the swimmers, allowing the waves to swallow me, spitting salt water from my mouth, pushing my wet hair from my face. The water is gloriously warm and yet refreshing; welcoming and invigorating. I laugh as I dive under the waves, taking deep breaths upon resurfacing. Flipping onto my back, I watch the stars glinting in the night sky. I feel alive and free. I wish the feeling could last. I know it won’t. After a long swim that leaves my arms aching, I, along with many others, emerge from the ocean, dripping wet, sand clinging to the soles of my feet, salt drying on my skin. We head back to the party, feeling ravenous again. I realize I’ve forgotten to bring my towel. As I wring the

water from my hair, someone hands me one. I look up into Milton’s eyes, take in his soft smile. His gray eyes are deep and dark, and his own damp hair is clinging to his forehead and scalp. With clothes on he normally looks a little too skinny for my liking, but without a shirt, he’s surprisingly well built—broad shoulders and chest, well-defined arms. Rivulets of water trail down his six pack. I want to look away, but find I can’t. Maybe I really do need some action. For a moment, my heart turns over. Does this mean I’m actually attracted to him? Blushing, I finally look away and glance at the black towel. “Thanks.” I take it and dry myself off, trying not to focus on the masculine cologne clinging to the fabric. I hand it back to him. “You’re welcome.” He winks. “Now how about that walk?” I pull my dress on over my wet bikini. “Sounds good.” “Perfect.” He tosses the towel to the ground, and we walk side by side along the edge of the water. We don’t get far before he starts talking about going on a date. “You really don’t give up, do you?” My lips twitch in a smile. He must really like me to be this persistent. Surely, if all he wants is sex, he can easily get it anywhere. I know for a fact there are several girls on campus who’d love to get him into bed. “Not when it comes to you.” He places a hand on my arm and brings me to a stop, then moves closer and places the other on my waist. I don’t move away. “Come on, Ivy. One date. I promise you won’t regret it.” “If I say yes, will you tell me where it is you intend on taking me?” I take a step back and his hands drop to his sides again. “Allow me to surprise you.” He pauses and drops his voice. “Actually, how about I cook you dinner?”

“At the dorms?” “Nope. I have a friend who owns a restaurant. I’ll ask to use his kitchen. Only the best for you.” “You can cook?” “I happen to be the son of a well-known chef in Serendipity, Wisconsin. Everything I know I learned from him.” His voice is sexy and smooth as it glides over the sound of the crashing waves. “Okay.” I raise my hands in surrender. “You win, Milton. But only one date. And you better be a good cook.” “Are you serious?” His mouth drops open. “You’ll go out on a date with me?” “Yeah.” I gaze out at sea. “If it will stop you from bugging me.” Before I can stop him, he plants a kiss on my lips, then punches the air in triumph. “Jackpot!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

midnight, and I’m flat on my back, Judson’s weight I t’s pinning me into the wet sand. The length of his body covers me. I feel safe and protected, but at the same time, I can’t breathe. As I gasp for air, his strong hands grip my legs, push them apart. His palms are calloused and rough against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. I want to scream and moan at the same time. But only a croak comes out, and it’s soon washed away by the sounds of the waves. “Don’t try to resist,” he whispers into my ear. “Resistance only brings pain. Open up, baby, let me in.” Before I can answer, a massive wave crashes onto the beach, warm saltwater washing over us. He’s thrown off momentarily, stopping for a few heartbeats to catch his breath and push my wet hair from my face. He gazes into my eyes. His eyes are wet, I can’t tell whether from tears or sea water. “I love you.” My knees turn to liquid when his mouth descends on me. He thrusts his tongue into my mouth, and I’m unable to stop from wrapping my own tongue around his. That only spurs him on as he hungrily crushes my lips, devouring me.

Unstoppable currents of desire shoot through me. I’m hot, too hot. Moments ago he was too forceful, his body too heavy. Now I want him close again. I want him closer than close. I want him to crush me, to break me. I want him inside of me. I wrap my arms around him so my hands push him down onto me, kneading his strong back muscles. “You want this, don’t you, Ivy?” His breath is hot on my earlobe. “You want me to fuck you deep and hard.” I don’t respond in words. I move my hands to his hard butt and squeeze tight while pushing my pelvis upward. He uses his teeth to remove my string bikini top from my breasts and sucks my taut nipples so hard I flinch. But I love the pain and pleasure he brings me. I’m swallowed by throes of passion when he removes my bikini bottoms. The only thing I feel is his thick, hard cock forcing me open and driving into me without waiting for me to adjust. With each thrust, he drives me deeper into the beach. The sand gives way to my weight. He presses his lips to my ear and roars with the waves. In response, I pant and sigh, and scream into the night. My muscles clench and unclench around his cock, gripping and releasing him. Our hips meet and then part, and our breaths merge as he finally moves his mouth to mine. We nibble on each other’s lips. We don’t stop as the waves wash over our hot bodies. We’re so connected, so in tune, that the water and sand cannot stop us from taking what we crave, from reaching for that peak of pleasure, waiting for it to build inside us until we are powerless to stop it. It rises, growing stronger, overpowering our senses, blinding us. Then, with the next wave, we crash. I wake up drenched in sweat. I can still taste his kiss on my lips, hear his breathing in my ear, feel him moving

inside me. Except, like every time, he’s not really here. I’m alone in the room, and it’s still dark outside. I don’t look to see what time it is, just lie on my back, gazing up at the dark ceiling. How will I ever be rid of him when he sneaks into my dreams like a thief and takes me unawares? He has completely possessed my mind and body. During the night, he enters my dreams uninvited; during the day, he invades my thoughts. It’s been three weeks since I got a new letter from him. I want to feel relieved, but instead I’m afraid. I can’t banish the fear that everything is coming full circle. That he is now doing to me what he did to Jennifer. What if my silence has driven him back into the hole of darkness and depression? What if he has finally done what he initially planned to do? What if he has committed suicide, only now it’s because of me? The pounding fear in my veins pushes me out of bed and takes me to the drawer in which I keep his unopened letters. It’s actually way after midnight, and Chelsea is at Neil’s, leaving me to read them undisturbed. I’m sitting on the floor, surrounded by them all. My stomach tightens with a strong sense of déjà vu as I open one. The first three letters I read are soaked with pleading and begging and threats. He goes from telling me he loves me, that he can’t live without me, to warning me that if I don’t write back I’ll regret it. Then back to loving me again. He tells me how much he misses me, how he wants a second chance to make things better. When I read the most recent one, which I had tucked into the stack without opening, my blood runs cold. The wait is over, my love. In a few more days we’ll be together. I’ll contact you soon. I’ll never let you go. J.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

three p.m. and my feet are planted firmly on the I t’s ground, my toes digging into the sand, but I’m floating. Since Chelsea’s engagement party, I’ve been coming to the beach often in search of peace. Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn’t. Today, three days before the end of term, my stomach is a bundle of nerves. The wind grabs my hair, wraps it around my neck, and glues it to my glossed lips. My heart is racing. No amount of deep breathing or positive self-talk is helping at all. I step over a neglected red flip-flop and force myself to focus on the sounds of the waves, desperately needing them to drown out the voices inside my head. They only get louder. Seagulls cry from somewhere in the distance, the squawking sounds breaking through my thoughts. I follow the sound with my gaze, but I do not see them. Raking a hand through my hair, I sink to the ground and wrap my arms around my knees. I rock back and forth, dreading my date with Milton this evening. When I agreed to go on a date with him, I was so sure

I could handle it, that I’d be able to leave Judson behind and focus on someone else for a couple of hours. Now I feel like an animal about to be taken to slaughter. I’m so not ready. I don’t see a future, near or far, with Milton. I don’t see the evening going beyond a kiss, if that. When he kissed me last time, I felt nothing. I don’t expect that to change just because he’s cooked me a meal in a romantic setting. I’m leading him on by promising him something I cannot deliver. There’s no way I’ll be able to give him my full attention when I’m thinking about Judson, wondering every second whether he’s okay, if he’s killed himself. I haven’t read anything in the news concerning his death, but I have a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. I spend thirty minutes on the beach, inhaling suntan lotion and brine, but I don’t come any closer to feeling better. The knot in my stomach refuses to unravel. I won’t cancel the date with Milton, but as soon as I see him, I’ll be honest: I’ll tell him once and for all that I don’t see us becoming more than friends. After that, he can decide whether he wants to continue with the evening he’s planned, or call it off. It would be cruel to let him put so much effort into an evening that’s going to hell. When I finally stand, the sky has clouded over and it’s drizzling softly. The few people who were on the beach when I arrived have disappeared, leaving me alone with nature. With eyes closed, I turn my face up to the sky, allowing the fine drops of rain to mist my face for a few minutes. Then I turn around and head back to the dorms. In my room, I glance at my phone screen. A missed call from Milton. I don’t call back, but glance at the time. Quarter to four. Plenty of time to get ready. I had initially planned on wearing a sexy black dress with a lace trim, but now, as I open my wardrobe, my

hands move past the dress and wrap around an ivory lace crop top. After a long, hot shower, I don the top with skinny jeans and camel wedges. No makeup, no jewelry. My phone beeps and I pick it up off the couch. A text message from Milton. A car will be waiting for you at the gate. The back of my hand swipes at the sweat beading on my brow. Crap. He is really trying to impress me. I can’t let him spend money hiring a car. Taking a deep breath, I write back. I don’t need a car. Send me the address and I’ll be there. He writes back instantly. No, you deserve the best. See you soon. My fingers are tight around my phone as I draw in deep breaths. There’s no way he’ll take my rejection well. I’m still holding the phone when it rings. This time Chelsea is on the other end, sounding breathless. “It’s almost time, isn’t it? Are you excited?” Over the past few days, Chelsea has been more excited about my date than I could ever hope to be. She even went as far as discussing birth control with me, and how it will feel to have sex for the first time. I’m already on the pill, but only because it eases my killer menstrual cramps. I have no intention whatsoever of sleeping with Milton tonight. Or ever. The phone is glued to my ear as I step into the bathroom and reach for my boar bristle brush. “I don’t know, Chelsea. I think I’m making a mistake.” “You have to relax. The guy isn’t going to propose. Go ahead and let your hair down for a change.” “I’ll try.” I put Chelsea on speaker so I can use both hands. I run the brush through my hair and let it tumble

down my back. Instead of leaving it that way, I pull it into a ponytail. “Anyway, I’ll call later to find out how it went.” Chelsea drops the phone before I can tell her that Milton has rented a car to pick me up. It’s probably for the best she doesn’t know; her excitement would be too much to handle. Fifteen minutes before my date, I should have already gone downstairs, but instead I switch on my computer to check my email. Nothing important, just messages from some classmates, arranging to meet up for drinks before the holidays. Since letting go of Judson, I’ve made a few more friendly connections with some students in my year. They finally treat me like one of them instead of a runaway model. At five on the dot, I pick up my purse and walk out the door. As I walk down the path, I glance in the direction of the beach. The sun has sunk lower in the sky. Soon it will be nothing but a glow on the horizon. I long to go back down to the water, but there is no way out of this date. I glanced down at the edge of the path, admiring the daisies that frame it. Someone’s folded navy cap is trapped in the bushes behind the flowers. I look up when I hear the distant sound of a car. My throat dries up the closer I come to the gate. My legs want to stop walking, but I don’t let them. Milton has gone to too much trouble for me to leave him hanging at the last second. I finally step out of the gate. I exit it completely before I see the car, parked almost a block away. I come to a screeching halt on the sidewalk as I stare open-mouthed at the black limousine. “How the hell…” I swallow hard, my throat parched.

How in the world can Milton afford to hire a limousine? No way. There has to be a mistake. This can’t be the car he sent for me. I pull my gaze from it and study the street, in search of another, much cheaper hired car, maybe a taxi. Not many other cars are parked here, and they all look unoccupied. A woman in a sarong, holding on to a dog’s leash, stares at the limousine. A little girl of about two years points at it before the man holding her hand picks her up and places her in a stroller. As I stand there, still waiting for what I believe to be the right car and digging in my bag for my phone, a smooth honk comes from the limousine. My head snaps up. The driver’s door opens, but instead of the driver stepping out, a hand stretches out, beckoning for me to approach the vehicle. My knees weaken as I walk toward the limousine. Well, if Milton can afford to pay for a car like this, maybe he has some hidden fortune no one knows about. He said his father was a well-known chef. I hold my breath as I walk closer. I look around but the few people who had been on the street are gone. The driver’s door opens wider, and a man with a full black-and-gold chauffeur uniform, complete with a black cap and dark sunglasses, steps out. “This way, Ms. Hollifield.” He walks around to the sidewalk and ushers me to the passenger door. “I…” I stare at the car as he opens the door. “There has to be a mistake. Are you sure Milton sent this for me?” “No mistake.” The man shakes his head gently. He gives off a feeling of familiarity, but I can’t see enough of him to decide whether I’ve met him before. “He’s waiting inside.”

I hesitate, then climb inside the cream leather interior. The door closes behind me. I inhale sharply, the smell of leather and expensive cologne filling my nostrils. I twist my upper body toward Milton. “Hey, you didn’t…” But the eyes that stare back at me are not Milton’s. My heart jumps to my throat, blocking a cry of surprise. I feel dizzy as the man beside me removes the cap he’s wearing. “Wha—Judson?” He looks distinguished in a dark gray suit; he’s clean-shaven and his hair is teased back from his forehead with gel. His scent intoxicates me. “It’s me, baby. I promised we’d be together soon, didn’t I?” “I… I don’t understand…” He places a finger under my chin, raising it. “You don’t need to. I’m here, and you’re here. That’s all that matters.” He gives the tinted glass partition in front of us a soft knock, and the car starts moving. He presses another button and a dark, sleek screen rolls up over both our windows, making it impossible to see out. “Finally, we’re alone.” His face splits into a grin.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

to open the door, even though the car is I attempt moving. It’s locked. I have no idea where the switch to open it is even located. But why flee? Isn’t this what I wanted all along? Isn’t this the man I’ve been dreaming about for the longest time? In spite of my inhibitions, the knot inside the pit of my stomach has loosened. How is it possible to feel so scared and so free at the same time? “Where are you taking me? You’re supposed to be behind bars.” Even though my feelings for Judson have been so intense, and still are, in the real world we’re strangers. The only contact we’ve had with one other has been through letters, texts, and conversations separated by a sheet of glass. The blood pounding in my skull is making me lightheaded. I grip the edge of the seat. “Except I’m not. I’m here with you.” He rubs the bridge of his nose and glances back at me. Underneath his pulled-together, handsome exterior, he looks tired. “They’ve finally done the right thing. There will be no trial. My case has been thrown out due to lack of evidence against me. There’s no longer a reason for them to keep me. I told you I’m innocent.”

“You’re serious?” “Would I be here if I weren’t serious? I thought you wanted to be together.” He shifts across the leather seat toward me. “It is what you want, isn’t it? You said so in your letters.” Every nerve in my body crackles at the caress of his voice. “I didn’t—I don’t know what I want, Judson. I didn’t expect this.” I wring my hands in my lap. “I didn’t think—” “Stop talking and listen to me.” This time he holds my chin firmly with his right hand. I want to pull away, but I don’t have much space to move. My back is already pressed against the locked door. “Don’t be scared. This is our chance to get to know each other properly. This is what we both wanted.” His hand drops from my chin and he shoves it through his hair. “As soon as they let me go, you were the first person I wanted to see… to spend my first night of freedom with. Tonight, I want to give you everything I couldn’t give you while I was locked up.” In spite of the endless questions and confusion muddling my mind, desire flares inside my chest. I want to reply, but I don’t know what to say. My tongue is glued to the top of my mouth. Before I know what’s happening, he reaches out and curls his hand around the nape of my neck, drawing me closer. I want to move away, to respond to the alarm bells ringing inside my head, but I have no strength left in my body to do more than blink. My mind and body have both deserted me. Under his touch, I’m melting, becoming molten lava. I want to tell him I have plans with Milton, to tell him that I don’t believe he’s real. He has to be a dream. He cannot be out of prison. But then his lips are on mine. They’re as velvety as I imagined them. He forces my mouth open

with his tongue, and I don’t stop him. With his lips almost touching mine, he whispers, “You are so beautiful. I couldn’t wait to do this.” His voice rumbles inside his throat. “You taste as good as I thought you would.” His tongue circles mine, awakening every nerve ending. Then my tongue joins the dance. He has done something to me, drugged me with something to make me do what he wants. As the kiss deepens, all the feelings I’ve felt for him since the first time I read Jennifer’s letters come crashing into me like the waves on the beach. He finally pulls away, leaving me to catch my breath. He cups my head with both hands and gazes into my eyes. “This is real, Ivy. I’m here, and I love you. Tell me you still want me. You can’t deny the connection we have. You can’t run from it.” I lick my lips, tasting him, and close my eyes. The fog inside my head is clearing, bringing me back to reality. Sudden guilt hits my gut. I can’t stand Milton up without an explanation. It’s weird that he hasn’t called to ask what’s taking me so long. “Judson, before you showed up, I had plans.” I reach into my bag for my phone. “Cancel them.” His voice is edged with steel, but immediately softens. “Baby, we’re more important than any plans you might have. We’ve been waiting for this for weeks.” “I have to let the person know. I can’t just…” I scroll through my contacts for Milton’s number. “Send a text,” Judson orders. “It’s quicker than a call, and the other person doesn’t get a chance to try and change your mind.” I stare at Judson for a moment and then give a low nod. My fingers fly over the keypad as I type a quick message to Milton, feeling like the worst person in the

world. I don’t even know what explanation to give. I can’t possibly tell him who I stood him up for. Even if Judson is now a free man, there will still be plenty of people who think he’s guilty, who will be furious about his release. I’ll have to work out an excuse to give Milton later, after Judson drops me back at the dorms. Milton, something came up. Let’s meet up another time. I’m so sorry. As soon as the message is sent, Judson takes the phone from my hands and switches it off. Before I can do or say anything, his window slides open. He tosses it out. My mouth falls open. “Why did you do that?” “Don’t worry.” He kisses me on the side of the neck as his window closes again. “I’ll buy you a new one in the morning.” “Judson.” I shake my head. “You’re acting as if this is normal. It’s not. We need to talk.” He pulls back. A shadow crosses his features, but it’s so quick I might have imagined it. “What’s there to talk about?” “You. I can’t believe you’re here. They let you go just like that?” “It’s not just like that.” His jaw tightens. “My lawyer has been working to prove my innocence for months. When I sent you my last letter, telling you we’d be together soon, I’d just received a call from him, telling me he’d stumbled on evidence that would prove my innocence. He was right. Now I’m here, ready to live my life with you.” He sighs. “I know I was an idiot on several occasions. I was so terrified of losing you. You understand that, don’t you?” “Like you were scared of losing Jennifer?” I cross my arms. Now that we’re talking, some of the shock is wearing off.

“This is different. Like I told you before, I thought Jennifer was the one. I was wrong. I’ve never felt like this before… not for any woman.” He lifts my hand and rests it on his thigh. The heat of his body soothes me. “Don’t you understand that fate brought us together? Think about it: What are the chances of a pipe bursting and flooding your dorm room? If that hadn’t happened, we wouldn’t be together now. Everything happens for a reason. Don’t you believe that?” “I do.” My fingers involuntarily wrap around his hand. “I do.” “Now stop questioning things and enjoy what we have… what we can finally have.” His smile ignites a flame inside me. I manage a small smile in return, but say nothing. “Ivy.” His thumb traces shapes on my wrist. “I’ve been dreaming of this moment for a long time. To tell you the truth, I never really thought I’d get to be in the same room with you… to touch you. I need to touch you, Ivy, to feel you. I need my dreams to become reality.” The moment the last word leaves his lips, the car comes to a halt, but the partition between the chauffeur and the back-seat remains closed. “Where are we?” I want to look out the window, but remember I won’t be able to see a thing through the darkened glass. Inside the limousine, it feels as though we’re cut off from the rest of the world. Milton and our canceled date are a distant memory. “You’ll find that out soon. All that matters now is you and me.” His tongue rolls across his bottom lip. “Ivy, I can’t wait any longer. I want you now. Please let me have you now or I’ll go crazy.” In spite of myself, in spite of the shock and weirdness of it all, my body reacts to his words. A slight dampness

gathers between my legs as I think of all the erotic dreams I’ve had about us. How will he feel in real life? I cannot speak as he moves his fingers from my arms to my wrists, and then back up my arms to my breasts. His fingertips trace circles where my nipples rest. I feel his touch through my top and thin bra. He moves a single finger down the center of my breast until he reaches my stomach, where he rests a flat hand on my belly for a moment, then moves it lower. I gasp when he pushes a finger into the waistband of my jeans. I don’t move; I’m completely paralyzed as he buries his entire hand in my pants while breathing heavily against my neck. He uses both hands to unbutton my jeans and slide them from my body. My hips arch to help him along. After tonight I’ll no longer be a virgin. I don’t want anything to come between us now. I’m hypnotized by this man. Once my jeans, top, and sandals are off, and my skin feels more naked than it has ever felt before, he watches me for a long time. His gaze moves from my crotch, down my legs, to my feet. “You’re simply breathtaking.” “Thanks.” I bite my bottom lip, feeling suddenly shy. He’s the first man to see me naked. “I’ll make you so happy.” He lays a palm on my skin again. It travels from my knee, up my thigh, and rests on my crotch. Before I can think of what will happen next, he pushes my lacy panties aside and uses two fingers to open me. Electricity zaps through my body. A deep gasp parts my lips as he suddenly dips a finger into me. “Oh, my God. Oh…” I throw my head back. My eyes close involuntarily. My back arches, my hips gyrate. I thought my first time would be awkward, that I wouldn’t

know what to do. I had no idea my body would know all the right movements. I don’t care that we’re inside a car, that I’m still struggling to understand the situation. The only thing that matters are his hands on my body, his fingers inside me. I want more than he’s giving me right now. He seems to know my needs well, as though it’s his life’s purpose to meet them. Is this how people feel when they enter into a one-night stand—this electricity, this hunger? He moves his lips closer to my ear. “You are so tight and wet. I knew you’d feel good, but not like this.” His finger exits me, leaving me empty. My eyes fly open in time to see him unzip his pants and pull out his cock, which is even bigger than it was in my dreams. My whole body tenses. Pressure builds up inside of me. I want to reach for him, to pull him into me, but at the same time I’m afraid he might not fit. “Tell me you want me, Ivy, as much as I want you. Tell me you want me to fill you up, to fuck you.” “Yes, yes.” I lick my lip. If all we have is this night, it will all be worth it. It will be the best one-night stand ever. “Say the words, baby. I want to hear you say you want me to fuck you.” He inserts a finger into me again, moving it in and out and then around in circular motions, until I forget how to breathe. “Yes, Judson. I want you, I want you now. I want you to fuck me.” “The pleasure is all mine.” In what feels like a few seconds, his hands are on my thighs and I’m on my back. The seat shifts back until it lies flat, allowing me to rest comfortably. Oh, my God. This is it. Judson produces a small red packet. He opens it, his eyes not leaving mine. I don’t stop him.

I watch with a dry mouth as he sheaths his thick shaft. It looks endless. Then his hands are resting on both sides of me, his dick hovering above my stomach. I wonder whether I should tell him I’m a virgin. But I don’t want to spoil the moment. I want him to be himself, not to worry about hurting me. “Ready?” He moistens his lips. I blink. He takes that as a yes and shifts a little lower. He eases himself into me, inch by inch by inch. Then, unable to control himself, he plunges deep. I scream out and buckle beneath him, burying my face into his shoulder. It hurts, but I’m ready. I want all of him. Every last piece of him. I call out his name. I start to cry, first because of the pain, but then because I feel so good, better than I’ve ever felt in my life. He thrusts and thrusts, only slowing down to devour my lips. His hands hold my butt cheeks firmly, and his teeth gently bite my bottom lip as he groans from deep within his throat. An orgasm unfurls deep inside my belly, and I grip his strong arms and shoulders, digging my short fingernails into his skin, pulling him closer. I arch my back, screaming his name louder, not caring who hears. Then he stops and gazes deep into my eyes. “Is it as good as you imagined?” “Yes—don’t stop, please don’t stop, Judson. Fuck me.” “Don’t worry. This was a taste.” He shifts and reaches for something underneath the seat. “We’ll have a lot of time to fuck. Once I get you to our home, where you belong.” My body freezes. “What… What are you talking about?” “We’ll be together forever, my love. We’ll leave this

godforsaken place behind and start a new life. You and me, far away. I’ll give you the life of your dreams. You won’t miss anything you leave behind, trust me.” I struggle to slide out from underneath him, but his body still presses hard against mine. He’s still buried deep within me. Panic sweeps through my brain. Stupid, stupid, stupid, Ivy. Judson is a stranger, and you let him in. “Judson, let me go.” Fear washes over me in endless waves. Judson was arrested for murder. They told me he was dangerous. And I was too much of a fool to listen. “Don’t hurt me.” Tears fill my eyes. “Please let me go.” He kisses a corner of my lips. “I’m doing this for us. Don’t fight fate.” Before I can say anything more, he places a hand over my mouth and nose. Between my mouth and his hand is a cloth. He’s strong, and I can’t move my head. I can’t breathe. As my pleading eyes watch him, his features blur. The smile on his face stretches and fades. A door opens and he turns to talk to someone. His voice sounds like it’s underwater. “Get the jet ready. I’ll bring her up in a moment. Move it.” My eyes drift shut with Judson Devereux still buried deep inside me. End Of Book One Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed reading this book please consider writing a review, and recommend it to friends and family. Midnight Storm (Amour Toxique Book 2) is available for purchase HERE.

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