Karyn took the bus.
She would have walked through fire before accepting a ride from David's little reclamation project, so she stood at the corner in the cold and waited, her backpack cutting into her shoulders, watching the Ford sedan reverse out of the driveway with Jadyn in the passenger seat looking like he'd already won something.
Crestview Prep swallowed her thirty minutes later. The main hallway was already at a standstill.
She knew before she even reached the administrative office. The way the crowd had stopped moving. The way the whispers traveled like sparks.
The heavy glass door swung open and Jadyn walked out.
He'd done something to the uniform—loosened the tie, left the top button undone, made it look effortless in a way that took actual effort. Three girls walking past him collided with each other. One dropped her textbook. He crouched, picked it up, handed it back with a smile so warm it was practically a medical event.
Karyn watched from the shadow of the stairwell, arms crossed, jaw tight.
He knew she was there. She could tell by the slight, deliberate way he waited one extra beat before looking up—the way a chess player waits for their opponent to commit before moving.
When he finally found her in the crowd, he raised his printed schedule and gave it a slow, mocking wave.
She turned and walked up the stairs.
By lunch, Korey had found him.
Karyn spotted her brother from across the quad, practically levitating with excitement, waving his thin arm at Jadyn in the center of a circle of expensive sneakers and casual cruelty. The rich kids were laughing at something Jadyn had said, and then Korey called out and the laughter stopped and the looks began—that cold, microscopic inspection that children of money gave to things they considered beneath notice.
Jadyn didn't hesitate. He pushed through the crowd and threw an arm around Korey's shoulders.
"This is my little brother," he announced. Like it was already decided. Like Korey already belonged to him.
The crowd melted. Girls cooed. Korey's face lit up like sunrise.
Something cracked open in Karyn's chest—not warmth. Something closer to rage dressed up as grief.
She crossed the quad in thirty seconds and grabbed Korey's wrist.
"Medication," she said flatly, not looking at Jadyn.
Jadyn looked down at Korey with enormous, manufactured concern. "Take care of yourself, buddy."
In the empty science corridor, Karyn turned Korey around. "Stay away from him."
"You're just mean!" Korey yanked his wrist back, his voice cracking. "He actually likes me. You're jealous."
He ran. His sneakers squeaked against the linoleum and the sound of it—small, retreating, trusting all the wrong things—burned the back of Karyn's throat.
"Having trouble keeping your family in line?"
The voice came from the chemistry lab doorway. Jadyn was leaning against the lockers at the end of the hall, hands in his pockets, watching her with the quiet, amused satisfaction of a man who has just confirmed a theory.
He'd followed them. He'd stood there and watched her brother reject her and called it entertainment.
Karyn looked at him for one long, steady moment. Then she turned and walked away.
She didn't let herself run. But it was close.
