The Tormentors (Prey Series #1)

12. Asher

Brian: I am in the cafeteria. Where are you? Tristan didn't come today. He is still sulking after what happened that night.

Me: Your girl and those lapdogs of hers around?

Brian: She isn't my girl.

Me: Whatever. I've got something more interesting here. I'll join later.

He must be bored alone. But who cares. I slide my phone back into my pocket glancing back at her.

She's stirring, her body shifting into motion. About time. Her gaze falls on the blanket I left. She sits up slowly, her fingers brushing the fabric of the blanket. Her brow furrows, and I can tell she's wondering who could've left it for her. From my hidden spot near the corner of the rooftop, shielded by the shadow of the wall, I have a perfect view of her without being seen.

The faint rustle of wind dances through the rooftop. The distant laughter of students below reminds me of how alive this place always seems, even when I want no part of it. She gets up folding the blanket. I see her scribble something on a piece of paper before placing it with the blanket and slipping away through the door.

Once I'm sure she's gone, I step out of the shadows and cross to the sofa. The air feels colder now. I pick up the piece of paper, reading her scribbled words.

Thank you :)

I chuckle humorlessly. She wouldn't be so thankful if she knew it was me.
My gaze shifts to her sketchpad lying near the railing. Kneeling, I pick it up, flipping it open. A crude, dramatic drawing greets me-her punching Brian, Tristan, and me and sending us out of the world with an exaggerated fist. I smirk, flipping to the next page, where Jenna is sketched with wild, unevenly chopped hair and bugged-out eyes. A low chuckle rumbles in my throat.

She's fiery, defiant. But more than that, she's a mystery-a puzzle the rest of these fools are too blind to even notice. Liessa. That name has no history. I've searched every corner of the school's database, the web, even whispered through a few channels. Nothing.

There should be something in her nickname at least if... it is her nickname at all, because the name she gave in those school documents only carried the info she gave to everyone nothing more or nothing less. Someone's background can't be so plain and blank. I know I can't be wrong, something in her eyes tell me that she has some secret. And I want to know what it is.

That's what makes her stand out. That's why I've been watching her. And I won't stop until I unravel the truth.

I tuck the sketchpad under my arm, my footsteps light as I make my way down. The chill of the evening air greets me as I leave the rooftop and slip into the shadows. She's already rushing down the street, and I follow, blending seamlessly into the quiet corners and alleys.

The world around us is bathed in soft orange hues from the setting sun. The streets are mostly empty save for the occasional passerby.

She doesn't notice me. She wouldn't. I've been following her for days, watching her movements, her habits. Staying in the shadows is second nature to me thanks to my past. Her awareness doesn't stretch far enough to sense the weight of my gaze.

Her walk is purposeful, but there's something restless about it, her shoulders tense.

When she reaches her house, she suddenly stops. I pause too, pressing my back against a wall, peeking just enough to see her. Her body stiffens, and her expression shifts-fear flickers across her face. It's as if she's seen a ghost.

I move forward slightly and see a black car sits parked in front of her house, its polished surface gleaming under the dim streetlights. It's out of place. Her face pales and she stays frozen like prey caught in the predator's sights.