Wraithlight

Caspian Rook

I don't run.

Every instinct in me screams to, but running tells whoever's in that car exactly what they want to know that I saw them, that I understood, that I'm scared enough to bolt. So I walk faster instead, cutting left at the corner instead of straight toward my street, doubling back the way you do when you're trying to lose someone without looking like you're trying.

The engine noise fades behind me. I don't check if the car followed. I don't trust myself to look normal doing it.

I end up at the bus stop three streets over, chest tight, telling myself I'll wait here until my heart stops trying to climb out of my throat.

Caspian's already there.

"You didn't listen," he says, not even turning his head.

"Listen to what?"

"I told you not to stop anywhere." He's leaning against the sign the same way he was outside the library, like standing still is a skill he's mastered better than anyone else at Ashcombe. "You stopped. Black car, right?"

My stomach drops. "How do you know that?"

"Because I've been watching for it since Tuesday." Now he looks at me, and there's nothing careless in his face, none of the reputation the school hands him like a costume. "Same car followed me home twice this week. Different route, same car."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"Would you have believed me three days ago?" He has a point, and he knows it. "You needed to see it yourself first."

"That's not your call to make."

"No," he agrees. "It's not. But here we are."

I sit down on the bus stop bench because my legs decide that's happening whether I agree to it or not. Caspian doesn't sit. He stays standing, eyes scanning the street in both directions like he's done this enough times that it's muscle memory now.

"Who is it?" I ask. "The car. Who's in it?"

"I don't know. Never got close enough to see, and I'm not stupid enough to try." He finally sits, keeping distance between us on the bench, like he's aware of exactly how this looks and doesn't care. "What I know is somebody's tracking anyone connected to Odalys. And as of three days ago, that includes you."

"I wasn't connected to her. I said four words to that girl in three years."

"Doesn't matter what you were before Tuesday." His voice drops lower. "Matters what you are now. You've got the drive. You listened to it. That makes you a problem for whoever she was building that case against."

"How do you know so much about this?" I ask again, because he still hasn't actually answered it. "You said you know her better than people think. What does that mean?"

He's quiet for a second too long.

"It means I've been trying to figure out what happened to her since before prom night," he says finally. "It means I knew she was working on something. I just didn't know how far it went until she disappeared."

"You knew and you didn't tell anyone?"

"Tell who?" His jaw tightens. "The same teachers who look the other way for exactly the kind of people she was investigating? The same cops who called it a runaway case on day two, before they even finished searching the school?"

I don't have an answer for that, because he's not wrong, and both of us know it.

"So what do we do?" I ask.

"We don't do anything yet." He stands, scanning the street again, restless in a way that makes me nervous just watching him. "You go home. Act normal. Don't tell anyone what's on that drive, not your aunt, not anyone."

"You don't get to tell me what to do with it."

"I'm not telling you what to do with it." He finally looks at me straight on, and something in his expression shifts less guarded, just for a second. "I'm telling you what happens if you're careless with it. Odalys wasn't careless, and look where she ended up."

The words land harder than he probably meant them to. I feel my throat go tight.

"You think she's dead."

"I think—" He stops himself, jaw working like he's deciding how much truth I can handle this early. "I think whoever's in that car isn't following you for fun. And I think you should be a lot more scared than you're acting right now."

"I am scared."

"You don't look it."

"I'm good at hiding it. Three years of practice."

That almost gets a real reaction out of him the ghost of something close to a smile, gone as fast as it shows up.

"Listen to me," he says, voice dropping even lower, like he's suddenly aware of how open we are out here, two kids on a bench with nowhere to hide if that car comes back around. "Odalys wasn't the only person building a case like this. She wasn't even the first."

"What are you talking about?"

He glances down the street one more time before he answers, like he's making sure it's still empty, like the words themselves are dangerous enough that saying them out loud changes something.

"I'm talking about the fact that you're not the only person they're going to come for," he says. "You're just the next one they know about."