Chapter 8
The next morning, Hillary didn't go to the office.
She sat in the library, staring at the phone on her desk. She dialed a number.
"Blackwood Investigations," a voice answered.
"This is Hillary Mitchell," she said. "I need a full background check. Deep dive. Sealed records. Everything."
"Name?"
"Christopher Haney. And... Brielle Harris. Find out what their connection is."
She hung up.
Christopher left the house at 7:00 AM. He had to walk two miles to the gate to meet a generic Uber he had paid for with his dwindling cash reserves. Hillary hadn't reinstated the driver.
He arrived at campus tired. His back hurt from the cot.
Brielle found him at the library. She was buzzing with energy.
"Tonight," she said. "Alpha Sigma Phi. Frat party."
Christopher groaned. "Brielle, no. I'm too old for frat parties."
"You're twenty-five. Stop acting like a grandpa. Preston is going to be there. I need my shield."
"I'm not on the list."
"You're my Plus One. Be there at nine."
She walked away before he could argue.
Christopher checked his watch. The curfew at the Mitchell estate was strict, but Hillary was currently ignoring him. He decided to risk it. He would stay for an hour, make sure Brielle was safe, and catch the last train back.
At 9:00 PM, Christopher stood in the basement of the frat house. The floor was sticky with beer. The bass from the speakers thumped against his chest, syncing with his heartbeat.
He was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt. He leaned against the wall, scanning the room.
Brielle was on the dance floor, holding a red solo cup. She was dancing with her friends, looking radiant and untouchable.
Preston was watching her from the bar. He looked drunk.
Christopher moved slightly, positioning himself between Preston and the dance floor.
Three guys in backward baseball caps approached Christopher. They were big. Linebackers.
"Hey," one of them said. "You're the simp, right? The coffee boy?"
Christopher sighed. "I'm just here for the music."
"We don't like townies," the guy said. He shoved Christopher's shoulder.
Christopher stumbled back. He let himself stumble. He could have broken the guy's wrist in two moves. But he just held up his hands.
"I don't want trouble," Christopher said.
"Too bad," the guy sneered. He raised a fist.
Suddenly, the music cut out.
The silence was jarring.
"Hey!" A female voice screeched over the microphone.
Everyone looked at the DJ booth.
Brielle was standing there. She had yanked the aux cord out.
"Leave him alone!" She shouted.
The frat boy lowered his fist. "Brielle, he's a loser."
"He's my loser!" Brielle yelled. "And if you touch him, I'm calling my dad and this house gets condemned for health code violations by morning. Try me."
The room was dead silent.
The frat boy backed off. "Chill, Brielle. Just a joke."
Brielle hopped down from the stage. She walked through the crowd, parting the sea of students. She grabbed Christopher's hand.
"Let's go," she said. "This party sucks anyway."
She dragged him out of the basement.
Christopher looked at her back. Her hand was warm.
For the first time, he didn't feel like a shield. He felt... seen.
Across the street, in a parked sedan, a man with a long-lens camera snapped a photo.
Click.
He sent it to Hillary Mitchell.
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