Our little secret

The Boy Who Should Have Stayed Outside By the time Mara Vale realized the blood on his knuckles wasn’t his own, the lecture hall had already gone silent. Jace Rowan stood beneath the doorway light with rain dripping from his black jacket and a look on his face that suggested he had walked into worse rooms than this one and survived all of them. Twenty years old. That was the number Mara would later remember. Not his careless smile. Not the dark hair falling over his forehead. Not the bruise beginning to colour his cheekbone. Twenty. Old enough to know better. Young enough to make her feel guilty for noticing the way his eyes held hers. She should have looked away first. She didn’t. Neither did he. For a strange moment, the entire lecture hall seemed to disappear. The rows of students, the open notebooks, the rain tapping against the tall windows all of it blurred beneath the weight of that single glance. Then Jace pushed away from the doorway. Sorry I’m late. His voice was lower than she expected. Mara looked at the clock. Twelve minutes. You are. A few students laughed. Jace’s mouth curved. At least we’re starting honestly. Mara should have disliked him immediately. Instead, something dangerously close to amusement moved through her. She buried it. Take a seat, Mr Rowan. He walked toward the back of the room. Not hurriedly. Never hurriedly. There was an effortless confidence in the way he moved, but Mara noticed something beneath it. His left shoulder was stiff. His right hand remained tucked inside his jacket pocket. Every few steps, his jaw tightened as though some invisible pain had reminded him it was still there. He chose the last seat. Of course he did. Mara turned back toward the board. She had spent seven years teaching literature and had learned that people revealed themselves most clearly when they thought nobody was paying attention. Jace Rowan was already telling her far too much. She continued the lecture. The subject was obsession. The literature of dangerous desire. Stories in which love became possession, where people crossed lines because they convinced themselves that wanting something badly enough gave them the right to have it. Mara spoke calmly, moving between the desks as she explained how obsession could disguise itself as devotion. A student near the front raised his hand. She answered. Another challenged her interpretation. She responded. Then a voice came from the back. What if obsession isn’t really about the person? Mara stopped. Jace had his arms folded across his chest. She could barely see his expression from where she stood. What do you mean? He shrugged. Maybe you’re not obsessed with them. Maybe you’re obsessed with who you become when you’re around them. The room became quieter. Mara studied him. And what happens when that version of you disappears? His gaze lifted to hers. Then you start chasing them just to find yourself again. Something about the answer unsettled her. It wasn’t the sort of response she expected from a student whose academic record suggested he couldn’t be bothered to finish half his assignments. That was the problem with first impressions. They were usually incomplete. Mara returned to the board, but the sentence followed her. Chasing someone to find yourself again. She wrote three words beneath the day’s topic. Desire. Control. Consequence. When she turned around, Jace was watching her. Not the board. Her. She felt it before she saw it. Mara had learned, years ago, not to mistake attention for affection. A man could look at you and still be thinking about himself. She knew that better than most. Yet Jace’s stare was different. It wasn’t flattering. It wasn’t openly flirtatious. It was curious. As though he were trying to figure her out. That irritated her. It also stayed with her. The lecture ended twenty minutes later. Students gathered their things, talking loudly as they streamed toward the exit. Jace remained seated. Mara collected her notes. You have a question? He looked at her. Not anymore. He stood. As he passed her, she caught the faint scent of rain and something warm beneath it, perhaps cedar or smoke. Then she noticed the blood again. Mr Rowan. He stopped. She glanced at his hand. Your knuckles. His expression changed for barely a second. Then the careless mask returned. It’s nothing. It doesn’t look like nothing. His eyes held hers. You always this concerned about your students? The question was innocent enough. The way he said it wasn’t. Mara felt warmth climb beneath her collar. She ignored it. I am concerned when one of my students arrives injured. Then I suppose I’ll try to look less injured next time. He walked away. Mara watched him disappear through the doorway. Only after the room emptied did she realize she was still holding the same page of her notes. She hadn’t turned it once. That annoyed her. More than it should have. By five that evening, the university had emptied into the grey quiet that followed a storm. Mara sat in her office, correcting essays beneath the yellow glow of her desk lamp. She had almost forgotten about Jace. Almost. A knock sounded. Come in. Professor Elias Hart stepped inside. At forty-eight, he had the polished confidence of a man who had spent decades learning how to make people trust him. His silvering hair was always neat. His shirts were always immaculate. His voice rarely rose above a measured calm. Mara respected him. Most people did. You had Rowan today. She looked up. Jace? Hart nodded. Interesting student. That’s one word for him. Hart smiled. Be careful with that one. Mara frowned. Why? He’s cleverer than he lets people believe. She waited. Hart’s smile faded. And clever boys with nothing to lose can become dangerous. After he left, Mara stared at the closed door. Something about the conversation bothered her. She couldn’t explain why. Then her computer chimed. A new email had arrived from the department. ACADEMIC SUPERVISION ASSIGNMENTS — CONFIRMED Mara opened it. She scanned the list casually. Then stopped. Her eyes moved back to the same name. Jace Rowan — Primary Supervisor: Dr Mara Vale. She leaned back slowly. No. There had to be a mistake. Her phone vibrated. Unknown number. A message appeared. You should have listened to Professor Hart. Mara’s fingers tightened around the phone. Another message arrived. This one contained a photograph. Jace. Standing outside the university. His knuckles were bloody. But that wasn’t what made Mara’s stomach drop. Someone had taken the photograph from across the street. Someone had been watching him. And beneath the image was one final sentence. Ask him what happened to the girl in Room 314.