The Graves I Made

*Vrrr*

Don't look at it.

*Vrrr*

Ignore the phone.

*Vrrr*

I slammed my hand down on my desk with a loud smack. Students across the library stopped what they were doing to shush me and I glared at them. I knew I was being a bitch, but the asshole sending me messages was driving me crazy.

I pulled the device out of my bag, and what do you know? There were four new messages, all of them from Cody.

Take a hint, buddy!

I turned my phone off, since silencing it didn't seem to be working, and returned to my laptop so I could work on my book, hoping it'd distract me. I'd been researching, brainstorming, and developing a plot for the past few months. I thought I had the perfect opening scene. Then I read it, reread it, and reread it again, and realized I needed to start over. It just wasn't compelling enough to keep my attention. And I was the one writing it!

I tried not to beat myself up about it, but that seemed to be my best trait. This was the next novel in my crime thriller series. I wasn't expecting my first one to be a hit, but it became an international bestseller within the first month it was published. I'd been featured in countless interviews, invited to several book signings, and had a BookTok fandom. There was even talk of a Netflix Series adaptation, which I was really excited about. But my agent said the deal would only happen if I wrote another book to see how it'd be received by my readers. If it did well, then they'd green-light the production, since it'd prove to be a profitable investment for multiple seasons.

I stared hard at my screen like I could will the words to appear. Developing an opening that'd hook the reader wasn't easy. I didn't leave the last one on a cliffhanger, so beginning this one was a little tricky. Like, where did I start? Did I just jump right in with a gruesome murder, or should I tease the reader a little bit? Maybe initiate a love interest since feedback from my readers said they'd like to see my protagonist involved in a romance.

I sighed. I wrote about death, disturbing psychological triggers, and other dark topics, not romance. I didn't have a single romantic bone in my body.

My thoughts returned to Cody and our fight. Dammit. I didn't want to think about him. Screw him.

I rolled my jaw as I continued to stare at the screen. My laptop chimed, and I looked at the top corner where a notification just popped up.

SHIT!

I slammed my laptop shut, earning me more shushes from my peers, and quickly shoved everything into my bookbag before sprinting out of the library. I'd been so absorbed in my thoughts that I'd lost track of time.

I rushed across the Princeton quad, passing the lush green lawns bustling with students. My criminology class was being held in one of the lecture halls on the other side of campus, so I needed to run if I wanted to get there in time.

Dammit. This was the start of a new semester. First impressions set a tone. I didn't want to look like a slacker on my first day, especially when the professor teaching the class was the one who oversaw the criminology department.

It wasn't easy getting accepted into the program since it seemed there was a recent surge of criminology majors. Add that to the fact I was a transfer student who'd taken a year off. I'd somehow gotten extremely lucky, and I didn't want to appear unappreciative by being late on my first day. I could see it in his reference letters now; Wrenly Murphy, excellent profiler, awful time management.

I cringed at how horribly accurate that sounded as I threw open the building door and darted inside. It was a goddamn miracle that my class was held on the first floor because there was no way I'd be able to make it up the stairs right now.

I rounded a corner, stupidly not slowing my pace, and ended up colliding with someone face-first. My nose connected with their sternum, and the sudden pain brought tears to my eyes.

That was what I got for rushing.

"Oh, shit!" I heard him yell, and papers went flying everywhere. I yelped as I teetered backward and he quickly reached out to grab my arms, stabilizing me. I could only imagine how we looked as we stood there. Him holding in me place, paper raining down on us, and I was panting hard.

"Are you okay?" he asked, and the concern in his tone made me look up at him.

Blue eyes, tall, warm skin, light brown tousled hair-

Ugh! Stop staring, or he's going to think I'm in love with him.

I blinked, but that was all I was able to do. At least until I finished mesmerizing the rest of his facial features. My dumb brain was hardwired to document every detail when I looked at somebody. I always had to start with their eyes, then go from there. I could remember the outfit I saw them in. Any identifying tattoos, freckles, scars. Heck, I could even remember how many times they blinked. I hated that my brain dysfunctioned this way. I'd seen a handful of doctors and psychologists, and they'd all diagnosed it as some kind of OCD, except I didn't feel obsessive. I wanted it to stop. But it was something I couldn't turn off. It started when I was a kid and I've suffered from it ever since.

"Yeah," I breathed and stepped back to take in the rest of him, committing everything to memory without effort. I tried not to, but I couldn't help it.

I was a freak and I knew it.

I placed my hand on my chest to steady my heart, which was bolting like an olympian sprinter, then lowered to help him collect his things off the ground.

Well, now I was certainly late for class.

"Thanks," he drawled. "But you don't have to..." His words trailed off as he gestured around at the mess.

"No, I should. This was my fault."

He snorted. "You sure? Because the force with which you slammed into me was pretty rough. Only people who're late or trying to get away from a murderer run that fast."

Funny.

I waved him off and glanced down at a paper in my hand, realizing it was a syllabus for the class I was late to. My gaze snapped to his. "Professor Logan Atcher?"

He looked at me like I was crazy. "Huh? Oh, no I'm his T.A. Troy Donovan." He held out his hand for me to shake, and I awkwardly shifted the papers in my grip so I could take it.

I paused for a second, debating whether to give him my name, but I didn't want to come across as stuck-up. Besides, I owed him that much after plowing into him. "Wren," I said and let loose strands of espresso hair curtain my face while holding the papers out for him. "Here."

He smiled and took them. "I take it you're in this class?" He held up the syllabus for emphasis, and I nodded, feeling relieved that he didn't recognize me. Maybe he didn't read? "Well, it's your lucky day, he's running a bit late. But we better hurry if we want to beat him.”

Oh, thank heavens. I shot to my feet. "Where's the classroom?"

"This way." He stood and walked me in the opposite direction I'd been heading. I rolled my eyes at myself. Leave it to me to screw up that badly.

He held the door open for me as we got to the room and I mumbled out thanks before heading inside. I looked up, getting a view of the back of people's heads, and as I did, my stomach sank. It was amphitheater-styled, with a slight curve that focused on the front of the room. Every seat was completely full, save for one in the front left corner by the Professor's desk, but it had a sash on the backrest that read: "reserved".

"That's mine," Troy said to me as we descended the stairs, and went over to the seat to remove the sash. "You can take it."

I arched a brow. "Won't you need it?"

"Nah, he's not going into a full lecture today. Just the syllabus so it'll be short. Plus there's nothing for me to work on just yet."

"Oh. Okay, thanks."

I took the seat as he began passing out the syllabus and glanced around without meeting any eyes, wondering if those attending this class were going to still be here by the end of the semester. In the year Professor Atcher had been teaching as the head of Princeton's new criminology department, he'd already developed a notorious reputation. Everyone in his program warned those trying to get in that he was tough on his students and never accepted half-assed work. But students still flocked to apply. I mean who wouldn't? After finishing his master's degree, he became the world's best criminal profiler since the legendary John Douglas, and now that he was teaching, everyone wanted to apprentice under him. That was if they could tolerate his severe teaching methods. I recall hearing that last semester a grad student who pulled weeks of all-nighters to get her research done failed his class because he thought it was sloppy and didn't meet his standards. He was a jerk, yet no one called him out on it because, well, he was also a genius.

The door in the front of the classroom swung open, grabbing my attention, and I jerked my head in its direction before I could stop myself.

Umber eyes. Tall. Sharp features. Scruff. Dark wavy hair. Olive skin... Handsome. I instantly identified him as the professor. I'd seen photos of him online, but they didn't do him any justice. I knew he was young. He was only thirty-one, yet for some reason, I was expecting wrinkles, or gray to pepper his raven hair.

"Good afternoon class, sorry I'm late," he said offhandedly as he strolled to his desk. He was carrying a navy coffee container in one hand and his cell phone in the other. His brown leather bookbag was strapped across his white button-down, going left to right.

Dammit, Wren. Stop!

I forced myself to look down at my hands, but I itched to finish my perusal of him. He was so close I could smell the clean soapy scent of his shampoo.

After setting himself up behind his desk, I caught his dark eyes lifting to survey the classroom. "Ah, thank you, Mr. Donovan, for issuing the syllabus. While we're waiting for everyone to get theirs I'll take roll." He glanced back down at his computer. Dark lashes covered my view of his eyes.

Resist, Wren.

"Nicole Adams?"

"Here."

"Ben Anderson?"

"Here"

My foot bounced restlessly as I forced myself to avoid looking at him while he went down his list. I decided to try and distract myself from the compelling urge by thinking of how I was going to start my book. I had a solid layout of what I wanted in each chapter, but I just needed to get past this first hurdle. Studies showed that a reader found a story more engaging when their curiosity was piqued, so maybe I should-

The door to the classroom opened again. Thankfully, it was the door behind me.

“Sorry I’m late-“ the student started, but the professor cut him off. “Name?”

“Er, Peter Daniels.”

“Mr. Daniels, what time was class scheduled to start?”

There was a short pause, and I was tempted to look over my shoulder at the kid.

“1:15, sir.”

“Right. It’s now 1:23. You’re almost ten minutes late. I tolerate tardiness as much as I tolerate eating in class, texting, or talking over others. If you don’t have the decency to respect my time or rules then you’re not welcome in my classroom. Be on time Wednesday or don’t come back at all.”

My eyes widened as my breathing completely stopped, and so did my fidgety foot. Oh my god. He wasn’t just tough. He was brutal!

I peeked over at Troy from where I could see him on the other side of the classroom. He gave me a wink before crossing his arms and leaning against the wall.

A soft sound of a click told me the kid, Peter left the room, and once again I had to resist the urge to look around.

“Where was I?” The professor muttered to himself. “Oh, Penelope Johnson?”

“Here!”

“Michael Masters?”

“Here.”

“Wre…”

I stiffened in my seat. Was that my name he was about to say? It was, wasn’t it? Why’d he stop?

A low chuckle emanated from him. The sound was rich and deep. “Looks like we have a celebrity among us.”

I closed my eyes and felt a flush creep up my neck. Fuck.

A quiet yet clamorous murmuring erupted throughout the lecture hall as students began talking to each other, wondering who it could be.

“We have our very own best-selling author in attendance. Can anyone take a wild guess as to what the genre of their book might be?”

Not a single hand went up.

“No one? I’ll give you a hint. You’re majoring in it.”

Please stop.

“Criminology?” A girl asked.

The professor snapped his fingers. “Bingo. A criminal thriller to be exact. How incredible is that? You all have the privilege of learning beside a prodigy. What an honor it is for all of us to have you gracing us with your presence. Wrenly Murphy.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Troy’s head snap in my direction.

I pinched my lips together as my blood boiled. Why was he doing this? Why was he singling me out? Was he offended that an amateur writer and a student who had no experience in the field made such a huge success? He did realize it was fiction, right? I mean, I did my research. I didn’t just pull things out of my ass.

“Now, now, Wrenly don’t be shy. Let us know you’re here,” the professor taunted, and I almost leveled him with my dirtiest look. Almost. I held back that urge because I didn’t want to have his condescending expression ingrained into my memory for the rest of my life.

“Here,” I bit out and sensed every eye in the room turn to look at me. But it was the Professor's gaze that burned the hottest. I wanted to sink under my desk and stay there.

“Wasn’t that seat reserved?” I heard someone ask.

“Does she think she’s better than all of us?”

“Why is she here if she thinks she knows so much?”

I bit down on my tongue as the whispers continued. He didn't even stop them. In fact, his lack of interference felt like approval, like he was encouraging them to ridicule me. Why? What did he have against me?

As if my thoughts had summoned the Devil, he walked around his desk, over to where I sat, and stopped just in front of me. “Well, isn't this a pleasant surprise?”

I ignored him and just stared at his shoes. Shiny black shoes that paired well with his fitted black slacks. Ugh. Come on, brain! Give me a break.

“You're just going to pretend I don't exist? That's fine. I'll give you the same treatment. And trust me when I say I could make you disappear easily and without a trace."

Air cemented in my lungs. That was one of my famous lines from the murderer in my book. Was he a fan? Or a hater? Well, given the way he just outed me to the class, and the fact he used that line, my money was on the latter.

I released a breath and lifted my chin. Our eyes met, and I felt my brain do its thing, starting where it left off, and I didn't bother to fight it. High cheekbones, a strong jaw, a slim nose that people get facial reconstruction to have, thick brows, and thin lips. My eyes traveled down, over his Adam's apple, the vein pulsing in his throat, the gray tie knotted around his neck. Then his shirt. It was well-pressed, clean, and neatly tucked into his slacks.

"Go ahead, have your fill," he said sarcastically, and shoved his hands into his front pockets as he waited. Bursts of laughter filled the classroom, and a wave of shame washed over me, turning my body into ice.

My mother told me that I should let my teachers know about my... disorder so things like this didn't happen. But I didn't want them to know. I didn't want to be the weird kid! It was hard enough having this defect. Why would I hand out ammo to be used against me by announcing my greatest insecurity? I lived through that my whole childhood and those teachers always treated me as if I were broken, or made a spectacle of me. Sadly, this humiliation was preferable to that.

Unfortunately, my inspection wasn't over, so I continued to look at him, even though it was making me sick. He wore a matte-black Armani watch with a navy face and a black leather band. His belt was standard black, but I could tell it was also designer. The snickering returned, and the back of my throat burned like acid was clinging to it, but I couldn't stop. I lingered on a crescent-shaped scar right above his wrist. It was small yet puckered and raised, and a shade darker than the rest of his skin. Was he trying to hide it by wearing a watch?

Now that my brain had taken in all the minute details of his appearance, I held his stare with a look of pure icy disdain.

He tilted his head slightly to the side and narrowed his eyes at me suspiciously. I tried to give nothing away and kept my expression blank.

"Care to share what that was, Ms. Murphy?" he asked in a punishing tone, and I inhaled a sharp breath.

"No."

His eyebrow twitched in surprise, like he couldn't believe I'd defiantly denied him an answer. "Really? You have nothing to say?" My stomach tightened uncomfortably at the dark warning in his voice. He was quiet as he stood over me, waiting for my answer. I knew it was an intimidation tactic, and boy did I feel intimidated. I was on the verge of confessing, but couldn't bring myself to do it. He could make me disappear from his class if he wanted. So long as my dysfunction remained a secret.

"Very well," he said with a sigh. "If you don't want to answer why you just scanned me over like I was some sort of suspect in your mental line-up, then I'm going to keep you in my sights as well. From now on, this is your permanent seat. You can stay there until you graduate."

My eyes rounded in horror. What the actual fuck? "You can't do that," I blurted, then instantly regretted it.

He smiled at me. The sight was so diabolical I nearly ran out of the classroom screaming. "Oh, yes I can. It's my class, and if you want your degree so your little books can have some credibility, then you'll have no choice but to do what I tell you."

I ground my teeth and glared at him. I was so angry I could have spat. "That's an abuse of authority, sir."

His eyes flashed dangerously, and my heart started pounding erratically in my chest. I was pushing him and I knew it. He took a step toward me, and I had to physically stop myself from shrinking into my seat. "Let me be clear about something, Ms. Murphy. Sociopaths aren't fictional characters, and you're not the heroine. This is real life, and it seems you need a stern wake-up call since you have a bit of a problem distinguishing the two. So let's get this straight, shall we? You know nothing about murder or the inner workings of the criminal mind and I do. If you want to be taken seriously as a professional criminal profiler, then you need to get your head out of the clouds before you embarrass yourself with another sham novel."

I wanted to cry. I thought I knew what intense hatred felt like, but it was nothing compared to how much I hated Professor Atcher at this moment. No. I couldn't compare those evils. Guess that meant I just unlocked a new level of hatred then.

He swiped my syllabus from my desk and began to read through it. But I didn't hear a word he said. My pulse hammered in my ears loudly as I seethed with bitter resentment.

Whatever time it took for him to read through it flew by, and before I knew it he dropped the syllabus back on my desk with a smirk and dismissed the class. I grabbed it and bolted out of my seat, getting shouldered by almost every other student as I made my way up the stairs.

I barely made it through the door when someone grabbed hold of my bookbag strap and yanked it. I was thrown against the wall with so much force that a sharp pain traveled up my elbow as I collided with it. I cradled it against my chest as a guy cornered me. "So you think you know how people's minds work?" He laughed. "Then tell me, what am I thinking right now?"

My eyes snapped to his, intentionally. I wanted to remember the asshole who thought he could harass me. Gray eyes, blonde hair, a crooked nose, fair complexion, square jaw, shit-eating grin. He paired a sleeveless shirt with basketball shorts and had a lot of muscle, making me think he was probably some air-headed jock. I snorted derisively. "Well, this is awkward, because your one brain cell tells me you've never had a thought."

A series of "ooohs" resounded, conveying that other students in the hallway had overheard my burn. He sneered at me, but before he could form a comeback he was aggressively torn away. "Back off!" Troy snapped and shoved him hard.

"What's going on!?" Professor Atcher suddenly appeared in the doorway, taking in the scene. His eyes lingered on where I held my injured arm.

Great! Time to go before things get worse. I quickly turned for the exit, only to stop short as a student in a black hoodie stood directly in my path. I moved to rush past him, and as I did his head turned to follow me. Creep.

Adrenaline was pumping through me as I pushed through the doors, but once a blast of hot air hit me, I felt the tension in my muscles gradually relax. I was only a few steps away from the building when I heard my name.

"Wren!"

My gut told me to run, but I fought those instincts and turned to see Troy bounding toward me.

"Hey. This is the second time I've asked today, but are you okay?"

"Peachy," I replied crisply.

"I can't believe you're the Wrenly who wrote Morbid Obsession," he said, and ran a hand over his face as he tried to contain his excitement. "I'm a huge fan. Your interesting take on a murderer's thoughts inspired me to major in criminology."

"Seems you're the only fan I have here then," I muttered bitterly. "Let's just hope that I'm not thrown against any more walls or break my arm before I can finish my next book."

His jaw clenched. "Fuck that guy. He's just jealous because you got Professor Atcher's attention."

A humorless laugh escaped me. "Attention? Is that what you call it? Well, I don't want his attention. I don't want anyone's attention. I just want to be left alone."

I picked up my pace, leaving him behind. I knew it was rude, but I couldn't bring myself to care. I was on the verge of tears and the last thing I wanted was to talk about my stupid book that started this mess in the first place.

It felt like I was doing the walk of shame as I made my way to my dorm building. I arrived without any more issues and found the hallway empty, which was a huge relief because I couldn't hold back my angry tears any longer. The first one broke free and rolled down my cheek. I swatted it away aggressively.

I approached my door and twisted the handle, giving it a violent shove before slamming it closed behind me. I knew I should really lock my door, but I didn't see a point. Princeton was a safe school, and besides, what would they steal? My sheets? I had nothing of value, and all my book money went to my tuition, charities, or my other expenses. Whoever came into my room looking to rob me would be extremely disappointed.

Now that I was in the safety of my room, I could finally give in to the onslaught of pent-up emotions clawing me up inside. I crumpled onto my bed as a wrenching sob tore through me. I didn't cry often. Crying never did me any favors. But the number of awful things that happened to me today- from my ending things with Cody this morning, to being brutally criticized by Professor Atcher- had left me feeling shattered and defeated.

I didn't know how long I cried before I finally drifted off to sleep, but a sudden shrill scream startled me awake. I blinked dazedly as I tried to discern if it was a nightmare or if-

"Help! Somebody help!"

I shot up to look out my window where I had a clear view of campus. It was incredibly dark, indicating it was nighttime now, but I could faintly make out a girl clutching her stomach as her piercing screams filled the air.

What the hell?

I went to my door to open it, and when I did I found several other students converging in the hallway. I could see the fear and confusion on their faces as they tried to figure out what was going on.

I turned to the student closest to me. "Call 911." I didn't wait around to see if she'd listen. I took off toward the girl screaming hysterically as she was my priority. She could be hurt.

I was halfway to her when others started to trickle onto campus, coming from all directions. Hopefully, at least one was a faculty member.

I got to the girl first and reached out to softly touch her to let her know I was there, but she wouldn't look at me. She just kept screaming. The bloodcurdling, ear-shattering sound was enough to make the hair on my body stand in alarm. Something was seriously wrong.

"Please talk to me," I begged her, and her eyes suddenly snapped to mine as she seemed to finally realize I was there. Hazel. Trauma. Tears. There was so much fear in her expression, and a lump settled in my throat as I stared at her. I didn't want to remember this. I didn't want to remember how her shoulders trembled as she struggled to breathe. Or be forever haunted by her pale face, and the sound of her shredded voice. But I held her gaze anyway, letting her know that I meant no harm and was there to help her.

"He's... he's..."

"What?" I gently urged her as people cautiously began to surround us.

Tears streamed down her face as another sob wracked through her. She then pointed at something behind me, and I felt my insides jolt like an icy zap of electricity had just struck me.

I slowly turned, not sure what I'd find behind me, but then my gaze fell to the ground beyond some bushes, and I saw it. No. Not it. Him.

Move. My brain commanded, but my body didn't want to listen.

The people around me finally saw the gruesome scene for themselves, and they began to scream their own horror. It felt like the entire school was in an uproar, and yet I just stood there, frozen in place. But not for the reasons one might think.

It wasn't until someone shook me that I finally snapped back to my senses. I blinked and looked up to find a familiar face.

Umber eyes. Pupils blown. Expression set in an angry scowl.

Professor Atcher watched me intently, as if he were searching for something, then slightly recoiled as if he didn't like whatever he saw in my eyes. "Wrenly, can you hear me?"

I nodded, and his shoulders sagged in relief. "You recognize him."

It wasn't a question, but again, I nodded.

He stared at me for a long moment. "Do you need someone to walk you to your room?"

I shook my head, then looked at the body again. Lifeless gray eyes stared back at me. There was so much blood. His throat was slit, both his arms were broken, and I noticed that he was still wearing the sleeveless shirt and basketball shorts from earlier. What monster could have done this?

"You shouldn't be looking at this," Professor Atcher said, yet he made no move to stop me. "Are you sure you don't need someone to walk you to your room?"

"I'll be fine," I answered monotonously and began to turn when his hand shot out to grab me.

My gaze snapped to his again, and I saw something dark flicker in his eyes that pinned me in place. "It's different experiencing death in real life than in a book, wouldn't you agree?"

I flinched as his words struck me. He was using this as a lesson? That was sick. How'd he expect me to react to that? No? Yes? I'd seen a dead body before? Which answer would satisfy him? No, better yet, which answer would destroy him?

Before I could form a response, he let go of me and began barking orders at students to return to their rooms and stop contaminating the crime scene. It was then I realized he was a heartless bastard.

"Wren."

At the sound of my name, I turned to see Troy. He was a fair distance away, yet he didn't make any move to approach me. He just stood there. "Are you okay?" This time, when he asked, it didn't seem like he had any genuine concern for my wellbeing. His tone was cold, hollow, and it felt like he was only asking to call attention to my earlier ungratefulness for the sake of emphasizing a point.

I didn't answer him. I turned hastily to head back to my dormitory and almost crashed into someone. I was so surprised at how close they were that I let out a small yelp. A dark hoodie covered his face, preventing me from identifying him, and a strange nagging sense of déjà vu washed over me.

What the hell was happening?

I stepped around him and took off. Once I reached my dorm, I closed the door with shaky fingers and locked the deadbolt. Everything about tonight's events was disturbing and, frankly, alarming. Images of my dead bully flashed through my mind, and I swallowed back bile as I tried to deny the uncanny feeling that whoever murdered him did it to send me a message. It was just too much of a coincidence.

Spine-chilling terror ripped through me. I had a sudden creeping suspicion to search my room. I looked in the closet, under the bed, inside the vent. I even looked outside the window (for once I hated that I was on the first floor). I searched everywhere in my room for a place someone could be hiding but found nothing.

I let out a heavy sigh as I sunk into the chair at my desk. A parcel wrapped in brown paper stole my attention. When did that get there? It was so neatly wrapped that I had to wonder where it came from. Unfortunately, there was no return address.

I gingerly peeled the thick wrapping to reveal a well-preserved copy of a manuscript. The first chapter, at least. It wasn't that unusual, people sent me their work all the time asking if I could proofread it for them.

"The Graves I Made," I read the title aloud. Huh. It had a nice ring to it. I glanced down at the author's name and was caught off guard by what it said. Your Biggest Supporter. Okay?... Maybe they were too shy to give their real name?

I shook off the oddity and flipped it to the second page, then paused. How odd. Why would they attach a dedication page when sending me this? The answer was revealed as I read it, and my blood ran cold as dread sank its icy claws into my stomach.

For sweet innocent Wren. You'll really enjoy this thriller, as it's based on your reality... and you're the main character.