YOU SAY YOU HATE ME

The First Clue

Chapter Nine:

Dillon's POV

The locker room was empty when I finally stepped out of the shower.

Steam curled against the ceiling tiles. Somewhere down the hall, a faucet dripped—slow, rhythmic, like a countdown I couldn't escape.

I dressed in silence.

Black jeans. Dark sweater. My hair still damp, dripping onto the collar of my shirt.

The bruise on my ribs was already blooming—purple and yellow, the size of a fist. Lucien's fist. I pressed my fingers against it and winced.

"When she breaks, it's not my fault."

I hadn't broken.

But I'd come close.

I pulled my sweater down and walked out of the locker room before I could think too hard about why my chest ached more than my ribs.

The hallway was empty.

Classes hadn't started yet. Most students were still in the dining hall, shoveling food into their mouths before the first bell.

I should have been hungry.

I wasn't.

Instead, I walked.

Past the gym. Past the library. Past the old courtyard where the Luna used to read to the younger wolves during the summer solstice.

My feet carried me without permission.

Past the east wing.

Past the administrative offices.

Past the door that led to the basement archives.

I stopped.

The archives.

I'd forgotten they existed.

When I was younger, the archives were where the pack kept old records. Birth certificates. Death certificates. Council meeting minutes. Investigation files.

Including, maybe, the investigation into the Luna's death.

My heart kicked against my ribs.

The door was locked.

Of course it was.

But I'd gotten pretty good at locks.

I pulled a bobby pin from my pocket—I'd started carrying them everywhere—and knelt in front of the knob.

Click.

The door swung open.

Darkness greeted me.

Cold air. Dust. The smell of old paper and forgotten secrets.

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

The basement was larger than I remembered.

Rows and rows of shelves stretched into the darkness, packed with boxes and files and scrolls so old the parchment was crumbling at the edges. A single light bulb hung from the ceiling, casting weak yellow light over the nearest aisle.

I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight.

Where would they keep the Luna's file?

I started walking.

Criminal investigations. Alpha family records. Council proceedings.

I scanned the labels as I passed, my flashlight beam bouncing off the boxes.

Pack treaties, 1987-1992.

Birth records, 2005-2010.

Disciplinary actions, 2015-2018.

Council meeting minutes, 2020-2022.

And then—

Luna Blackwell – Death Investigation – CONFIDENTIAL.

My hands started shaking.

I pulled the box off the shelf and carried it to a table in the corner.

The lid was heavy. Dust coated my fingers as I lifted it.

Inside: photos. Witness statements. Autopsy reports. Council notes.

I started reading.

The first photo was the Luna's body.

Lying in the sacred circle, her white dress spread around her like wings, her face peaceful in a way that made my stomach turn.

She looked asleep.

But her lips were blue.

And her hands were curled into fists, like she'd been trying to fight something she couldn't see.

I set the photo aside.

Witness statements next.

Lori's was on top.

"I saw Dillion Everhart near the drinks before the ceremony. She was acting strange. Nervous. Like she knew something bad was going to happen. I didn't think anything of it at the time. But when the Luna collapsed, I knew."

Liar.

I flipped to the next statement.

Hannah Moss. A kitchen servant. She'd been seventeen at the time.

"I saw Dillion near the goblet. She was holding something. A vial, maybe. I didn't get a good look. But she was alone, and she looked guilty."

Hannah Moss.

I didn't recognize the name.

But someone had paid her off. Or threatened her. Or both.

I kept flipping.

Third witness statement.

Marcus Hale.

The name on Theron's list.

"I was standing near the drink table when Dillion Everhart approached. She was holding a small glass bottle. I saw her pour something into the goblet. I didn't say anything because I was scared. I'm sorry."

Marcus Hale.

One of the students who hated me enough to do something about it.

He'd been fifteen at the time.

Fifteen and lying for money.

Or for status.

Or because Lori's mother had promised him something he couldn't refuse.

I set the statements aside and reached for the autopsy report.

The report was detailed.

Time of death: 11:58 PM.

Cause of death: Cardiac arrest induced by an unknown toxin.

No known antidote.

No traces in the goblet after the fact—someone had washed it before the investigators arrived.

Convenient.

I read the report twice.

Three times.

And then I noticed something.

A footnote, small and easy to miss, at the bottom of the last page.

"Note: The Luna's personal effects included a broken necklace, found in the woods approximately 200 yards from the ceremony site. The necklace was not submitted as evidence due to chain of custody issues."

Broken necklace.

The one Lori had "found" near my things.

But according to this report, it was found in the woods.

Far from me.

Far from my room.

Someone had moved it.

Someone had planted it.

I pulled out my phone and took photos of everything. Every page. Every note. Every tiny detail that might matter later.

Then I put the box back on the shelf.

But I didn't leave.

Because something else had caught my eye.

Another box.

Smaller. Newer. Labeled in handwriting I recognized.

Blackwell, Elena – Council Member – Confidential.

My stepmother's file.

I pulled it off the shelf.

The box was lighter than I expected.

Inside: a single folder.

Inside the folder: a single sheet of paper.

It was a letter.

Addressed to the Alpha.

From my stepmother.

"Alpha Blackwell—"

"I am writing to formally request a leave of absence from my council duties, effective immediately. Recent events have taken a toll on my family, and I need time to heal."

"I hope you can understand."

"Respectfully,"

"Elena Everhart"

Dated one week after the Luna's death.

She'd requested leave.

And the Alpha had granted it.

But she hadn't taken leave.

She'd stayed. Manipulated. Covered her tracks.

Why would she write this letter if she never intended to use it?

Unless—

Unless she was preparing for something.

An escape plan.

A way to disappear if things went wrong.

I folded the letter and tucked it into my pocket.

Then I put the box back, turned off my flashlight, and walked toward the door.

The hallway was still empty.

I stepped out of the archives, locked the door behind me, and started walking toward my first class.

My mind was spinning.

Hannah Moss. Marcus Hale. The broken necklace. The autopsy footnote. The letter from my stepmother.

Pieces.

Just pieces.

But they were starting to fit together.

I was so focused on the puzzle that I didn't see him until I crashed into his chest.

Strong hands caught my arms.

Steadying me.

Warm.

Familiar.

I looked up.

Lucien.

His dark eyes searched my face. His jaw was tight. His grip on my arms was too firm, like he was afraid I'd run.

"Where have you been?" he asked.

"None of your business."

"Training ended an hour ago."

"I had things to do."

His eyes dropped to my pocket.

The one with the letter inside.

"What things?"

I pulled my arms free.

"Why do you care?"

He stared at me for a long moment.

Something shifted in his expression. Something I couldn't name.

"I don't," he said finally.

But his voice was wrong.

Too quiet.

Too careful.

Like he was lying.

I stepped around him and kept walking.

"Dillon."

His voice stopped me cold.

I didn't turn around.

"Be careful," he said. "This pack isn't safe for people like you."

People like me.

Accused murderers.

Outcasts.

Girls who dared to come back.

I turned my head just enough to see him over my shoulder.

"I know," I said. "I've always known."

Then I walked away.

And I didn't look back.

But I felt his eyes on me the whole way.