Emily talked the entire walk to lunch, but Susan barely heard half of it. Every step felt heavy, like she was forcing her body to act alive while her mind dragged behind. She kept replaying the morning in her head — waking up to the underwear on her bedroom floor, the memory of how she left the house pretending nothing was wrong, pretending she was whole.
She didn't feel whole.
She felt cracked… and something was crawling through the cracks.
They reached the cafeteria and sat across from each other, trays between them. Emily unwrapped her sandwich with her usual dramatic sigh — a familiar sound that normally would have made Susan smile.
Today it echoed like static.
"I asked Mr. Dexter for his social media," Emily started casually, taking a bite. "Guess what he said?"
Susan's muscles stiffened. "What did he say?"
"He told me he has none. No Instagram, no Facebook, no LinkedIn, no anything. And when I asked why, he just smiled and said: 'Social media reveals too much personal information. You can't be discreet with it.'"
Emily laughed like she had caught him being weird, but nobody else laughed. Her voice became background noise as the sentence stuck to Susan's brain.
You can't be discreet with it.
He hadn't said it jokingly. He had meant it.
Emily kept eating, unaware of how pale Susan had gone. Then, out of nowhere, Emily lowered her voice, eyes shifting around like she knew she shouldn't say what she was about to say.
"I was searching online yesterday."
The words made Susan's stomach tighten.
"On crime forums," Emily continued. "There were murder cases in neighboring towns. First one about two years ago. The most recent was three months ago. Eight victims total."
Susan put down her fork. Not because she wanted to — because her hand suddenly couldn't hold it.
Emily leaned closer, whispering faster now, excitement and fear mixing in her voice.
"Police think it's a serial killer. All the victims were women. And whoever did it… he did the same thing every single time. Like a signature. Like he wanted people to know it was him."
Susan's chest felt tight.
"What… what pattern are you talking about?" she whispered.
Emily swallowed. "Detectives think the suspect snapped the victims' hands — both of them — and then suffocated them with a plastic bag."
The words felt like ice pressed against Susan's skin. Her mind tried to reject them — serial killing, broken hands, plastic bag, eight victims — but the images forced themselves in anyway.
Emily kept talking, voice trembling.
"You know how he always acts weird? Doesn't talk much? Never shows interest in anyone? It's creepy. I seriously think Dexter might be the guy."
"No." Susan cut her off instantly, louder than she meant to. "He's distant, yes. But he's not… that. He has never acted like— like a pervert. Never even— never crossed a line."
"But that's the problem," Emily pressed. "It's too clean. Too perfect. No interest, no mistakes, no slip-ups? Serial killers don't look like monsters. They look like good men."
Fear and loyalty clashed between their eyes — one begging her to run, the other begging her to believe.
Emily pulled away with a frustrated exhale. "Fine. Let's ask Aria. She seems to know him."
A chill ran through Susan's chest. She didn't want to ask Aria — she didn't want more answers that hurt — but curiosity was a disease, and she was too deep to stop now.
They left their trays half-finished and walked across the cafeteria.
Aria sat alone, her posture elegant and bored, spinning a spoon between her fingers like she was entertaining herself with the world's stupidity.
Susan and Emily sat opposite her.
Aria didn't look up — she never did anything unnecessarily. She waited.
Emily spoke first. "Hey… we wanted to ask you something. What's your relationship with Mr. Dexter?"
The spoon slipped from Aria's hand and hit her plate with a metallic clang.
Her jaw tightened — a muscle jumping just once — then she slowly raised her eyes to Emily. Cold. Precise.
"And why," Aria asked softly, "do you want to know that?"
"I just—" Emily tried to laugh, "I just wanted to know more about him."
For a second, there was silence.
Then Aria laughed.
Not a giggle. Not a playful laugh. A sharp, unhinged, echoing laugh that made heads turn. Tears formed at the edges of her eyes as she laughed harder and harder, like Emily had just asked the funniest question on Earth.
But nothing about it was actually funny.
When Aria finally calmed down, she wiped her tears with the back of her hand and stared at them with a smile too bright, too sharp.
"I didn't know there were this many stupid bitches in the world."
Emily went silent. Susan's heart pounded so violently she could feel it in her throat.
Aria stood, exhaled slowly, like she was trying to erase her own outburst, then said — in a calm, strangely gentle voice:
"He's a good person."
A pause.
"I think."
Then she leaned down, so close her breath touched Susan's ear.
"Do what your heart tells you to do."
She walked away without looking back.
"What the hell was that?" Emily snapped, her voice shaking with anger and embarrassment.
But Susan didn't answer.
Because the entire cafeteria suddenly sounded too loud — trays clattering, shoes squeaking, kids joking — but underneath it she could only hear her heartbeat punching inside her skull.
Do what your heart tells you to do.
Her throat tightened. Her body trembled in a way she hoped nobody noticed.
The bell rang. The moment shattered.
—
Across campus, far from the cafeteria noise, Dexter walked across the school parking lot. The sun reflected off his car's windshield, washing his expression in white light — but even without seeing his eyes, something about him looked wrong.
He didn't walk like a teacher leaving for lunch.
He walked like a man heading toward a purpose.
He opened the door, sat in the driver's seat, and something glinted beneath the passenger seat.
He leaned forward and pulled out an earring.
Silver. Dangling. Feminine. Expensive.
A single piece — no pair.
He held it in his palm, running his thumb slowly across its surface the way others might touch a memory they didn't want to let go of. A precious object. A secret.
His expression didn't soften — it sharpened.
Something fierce, private, and dangerously pleased spread across his face.
He slipped the earring into his pocket as gently as someone tucking away treasure.
Then he turned the engine.
The tires screeched as he left the school — too fast. Too eager.
Like he wasn't going to lunch.
Like he was going to someone.
Or something.