He’s by the main gate, leaning against a black car, wearing a suit that costs more than a semester of tuition. Marco. He smiles when he sees me coming and the smile is the worst part, warm and easy, like we’re old friends catching up and not like he just texted me four times from outside my school.
My legs keep moving. I don’t know how.
“There she is,” he says. “My favourite debtor.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Checking in.” He pushes off the car. “Making sure you haven’t forgotten our arrangement.”
“It’s been a week—”
“Exactly.” He steps closer. “One week down. Three to go.”
“You said I had a month—”
“I did.” His hand shoots out and closes around my arm, hard, fingers digging in above the bruise he left last time, and I bite down on the sound that wants to come out. “But I wanted
