4. Frankie

The tower is locatedat the edge of the island, overlooking a cliff where waves don't just crash against the rocks, they assault them, gradually eroding the surface. The relentless pounding creates a symphony of nature's fury that echoes around me. Standing at the base of the tower, I hear the fierce waves crashing and the seagulls squawking at the fish and other gulls. Hell, I can taste the salt in the air. Connecticut is vastly different from Arizona in so many ways. These are just a few, not to mention the humidity. Fuck the humidity. I could live without it, its dampness clinging to my skin like a second, unwanted layer.

As I adjust the straps of my threadbare canvas book bag, a sharp jostle from a passerby sends it slipping down my arm, a sudden reminder of this morning's coffee fiasco—thankfully, this collision is less disastrous.

"Whoa," a voice says nearby, tinged with mockery rather than apology. The laughter that follows isn't warm. It's cold and edged with privilege and a sense of belonging that leaves no room for an outsider like me. As I step aside to let a group of barefoot jocks pass, a spark of irritation ignites within me. They don't spare me a glance, but I memorize their faces, each expression of disdain and mockery etched into my memory.

Oh, look, my advisor would be so proud of me for my self-control.

Taking a deep breath of salty air tinged with the faint scent of seaweed, I use my card to enter the tower, my stomach fluttering with nerves. As the light switches from red to green and the door unlocks, I step inside.

The tower is circular. I don't know why I assumed the first floor wouldn't be circular, but it is, and my jaw drops to the floor. Without putting too much thought into it, I step to the side, gazing around me in stunned silence.

Breathtaking.

The tower reveals unexpected secrets. The circular first floor, contrary to any conventional building logic, opens up into a grand common area. The ancient stone walls, interspersed with modern amenities like a large screen television and a crescent-shaped black couch, tell stories of old merged with the new. The kitchen boasts industrial-grade appliances, and vending machines hum softly nearby, filled with snacks and drinks. A small store and a wall of post office boxes add to the collegiate oasis.

I ascend the stairs, and I'm greeted by the architectural boldness of the tower. Two staircases spiral to the second floor, their paths diverging and converging like the plotlines of the tales we'll all tell one day. The openness is breathtaking, a vertical panorama stretching up to a distant ceiling. The wasted space might be impractical, but its effect is undeniably majestic.

Students look down from the railings far above, their laughter echoing down. Some wheel their suitcases in, their gasp of surprise one I feel in my soul.

With my bag and my keys clenched in my hand, I make my way to the nearest stairs and head to the second floor. From here, there are no more stairs, just one long loop to the top, with dorms all along the edge of the tower, the numbers starting at one.

Ever so slowly, I begin to make my way to my room. I don't even know if these are private rooms. I do know that senior rooms are private, and freshmen and sophomores are not.

As I make my way around the first loop, I find the first bathroom and rush inside, clutching my bag to my chest. As soon as I walk in, disappointment floods me. I'm not really sure what I was expecting, but a typical dorm bathroom wasn't it.

I use the bathroom as quickly as I can and head out, noting that the next set starts with ten. There is another bathroom at twenty and then, at thirty, my room.

I face the door, my stomach a bundle of nerves as I reach for the already open room.

Open.

The irritation I felt moments ago with the jocks pales in comparison to the dread that now settles in my stomach. Taking a moment, I steel myself by drawing in a deep breath of salty air, letting it fortify me. I need all the strength I can muster to face what's inside.

With a resigned sigh, I push the door farther open, bracing myself for the confrontation I know is inevitable. The sight that greets me is exactly as I feared, yet I'm determined not to let it show. Tori and her entourage occupy the space that's supposed to be my sanctuary, turning it into a battlefield of wills.

"You can't be serious right now," Tori complains, rising from her bed with an ease that belies the tension in the air. Her voice is sharp, the tone painfully familiar.

"Victoria," I say, drawing out her name like a shield to guard against the pain it invokes. The urge to flee, to demand a different room, is overwhelming but futile—I've tried that route before.

Tori, with her flawless blonde hair and curated beauty, stands as a stark contrast to her mother, Morrow Bay's most respected cop. Her presence fills the room, and not in a good way. When she speaks, her words lack the substance and sincerity her appearance promises.

"Oh my gosh!" The squeal instantly gives me a migraine. I know that voice.

"Amanda." Sitting on the end of Tori's meticulously made-up bed is Amanda, the head cheerleader, student body president, and epitome of preppy sophistication. The soft hum of the air conditioner mingles with the faint scent of vanilla perfume that seems to cling to her like a second skin. She was my roommate last year, and I did not miss her.

She hops up, clapping her hands as she steps in front of me. She's shorter, but not by much. Her eyes are a pale blue, almost icy, like shards of glacier glass under a winter sky, and her short brown hair hangs in perfect waves to her shoulders. Her oval face is flawless, her makeup impeccable, and yet there's just something about her—something too polished, too poised—that has always rubbed me the wrong way.

She's too perfect, too fake. I instantly hated her the first time I saw her, and that emotion hasn't changed.

"Look what the poor dragged in." And there she is, the third in their trio of popularity. She might be the meanest girl of them all. I haven't decided yet.

"Chloe Beckett." I turn to her, sitting in the corner on the floor to the left between the bed and the closet. She doesn't even bother to look up at me, her eyes glued to the glossy pages of the magazine in front of her, the slick paper rustling quietly in her hands.

I once thought we could be friends. We both stand out like sore thumbs around here, except Chloe made sure I knew that we weren't the same and never would be. Tall and littered with freckles, Chloe has a foreign appeal to her, especially with her long red hair that cascades down her back like a fiery waterfall and elven features sharp enough to rival the legends of ancient lore. She is undeniably beautiful, and she knows it, wielding it like a weapon.

"Francesca Vale," she says, again not once looking up at me.

Ignoring the three of them, I turn to my side of the room, which is barren save for the furniture the school provides. There's a single window that sits in the center, dividing the room in two, and the afternoon sun filters through in lazy beams that dance across the cold floor. A small end table squats under it, looking lonely without any personal touches.

Under the twin bed is a set of drawers, and at the end is a desk. There isn't a chair, but it's just as well. My favorite part about Shadow Locke is the closet, which always comes locked. The lock clicks open with a satisfying snick as I use my key card to access my private space. Inside is my uniform, shoes, fresh linens, and towels. All my books are here, neatly arranged and ready to start the semester since I already signed up for my classes at the end of last year when I had to finally pick a major. A safe sits inside, and on this one, I can set the lock.

A small wave of disappointment sweeps through me that the rooms are much the same as the others, although this one is just a bit larger. At least next year, I should get my own room.

"I'm uninviting you to dinner," Tori says, far too close to me. Her voice is like a cold breeze, chilling the already frigid air between us.

I guess it was just far too much to ask her to leave me the hell alone. "I work." I sink to my knees and begin to pull out the few belongings I have. Each item—a few books, some clothes—feels heavier with the burden of isolation.

"Well, I'm just making sure you know."

"I know," I repeat, my focus fixed on the belongings in front of me, hoping my disinterest will be enough to send her away, but Tori being Tori doesn't take the hint.

"Good, because it wouldn't do for you to show up, thinking you're welcome." Her tone is icy, each word delivered with precision aimed to wound. I pause, my hands stilling over a textbook, the sharp edge of her words slicing through my attempt at indifference.

I stand and face her, my patience wearing thin. "Tori, why do you even care? It's not like we're friends." The air between us crackles with an unspoken rivalry, our history and tension mingling into a toxic perfume.

She steps closer, her eyes narrowing. "Because, Frankie, this island isn't big enough for the two of us, and I want to make sure you understand your place in it." Her voice lowers, threading a vein of challenge through the air.

I want to slap the smug smile off her pretty face.

Laughing, I can't help the disbelief that colors my tone. "My place? Tori, we're not in some medieval court. This is college. Grow up." That's something I doubt she will ever do. The laughter doesn't quite mask the sting of her words or the loneliness that tugs at the corners of my heart, a constant companion in the drama that unfolds around me.

Her laugh mirrors mine, but there's nothing warm in it. "Oh, Frankie, you have so much to learn, but don't worry, I'll be here every step of the way to teach you."

Turning away, I hide the frustration brewing inside me. Tori's games are tiresome, but I refuse to let her see how much her words affect me. The cool air brushes against my skin as I feign indifference. "Looking forward to it," I say over my shoulder, the lie as bitter as the truth. Once again, I sink to the floor and pull out my clothing. The coffee-stained shirt goes into the laundry basket. I'll have to do laundry more than others here because I just don't have as much. The mundane task briefly grounds me in the reality of everyday chores, a sharp difference from the social games unfolding around me.

Tori's voice follows me, a shadow I can't shake off. "You know, Frankie, not everyone is meant for Shadow Locke. It's special for the... chosen ones." Her words carry an insinuation, a nudge toward a secret I'm not privy to. She does this every year, and I've spent countless hours wandering these grounds. There is nothing here. It's an old school on an island. Aside from what I told Leo about the caves and tunnels, the secrets that Tori alludes to don't exist.

I stop, my curiosity piqued despite my better judgment. "What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, turning to face her, the weight of her gaze heavy with unspoken knowledge.

She smiles like a cat with a mouse under its paw. "Oh, nothing much. Just that Shadow Locke isn't just any university. It has layers, Frankie. Some seen, some... not so much." She steps closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "And not everyone gets to see beyond the veil. Only those who truly belong."

I look beyond her to Amanda and Chloe, who listen closely. Even Chloe dropped her magazine to tune in.

The implication dangles between us, a veiled assertion that I am an outsider, unknowingly standing on the precipice of a world I can't enter. "And you're saying I don't belong," I state, more of a fact than a question.

Tori's smile widens, as if she's pleased by my understanding. "Oh, I don't say anything. The island does. Shadow Locke has a way of... sorting out its own, and trust me, it knows who belongs and who doesn't." Her eyes glint with a challenge, a dare, to prove her wrong.

"Secrets," Chloe says, her voice low, "always find a way to come to light. Tell me, what secrets are you hiding, Frankie?"

I grind my teeth and refuse to answer.

"You know," Amanda adds, "there's a saying about junior year at Shadow Locke."

"That's right." Tori whips around to smirk at her friend. "A lot of students always drop out during their junior year."

"Because" —Chloe folds up her magazine and leans forward— "students can't handle when their secrets are exposed." She snaps her fingers. "Or when they realize why they don't belong."

"Monsters," Tori whispers, her voice nearly lost in the echo of the room.

"And like I said…" Tori turns back to me. "You don't belong here, Frankie."

They can't know, can they?

I bury my secrets down deep, so deep that no one can ever reach them. No, they are just screwing with me, trying to get me to drop out. Joke's on them—I'm never dropping out.

On a short exhale, I give them a smile that I don't feel. "Secrets are only as strong as the one who wields them," I whisper. I tilt my head to the side, taking in the three of them. "And I'm a strong, stubborn bitch. Can't say the same about you three." As the words leave my lips, a sense of defiant strength builds within me, a fortress against their taunts and insinuations.

I turn back around, trying to return to unpacking despite feeling unsettled. Worst comes to worst, I'll sleep in the hidden cave I found last year. No one ever bothered me there. It was a place of solitude, where the echo of the ocean waves and the cool, damp walls provided a refuge from the world above.

"Whose party are we attending for the eclipse?" Amanda's voice switches to a preppy, light tone, as if they hadn't just ostracized me moments before.

As they chatter about the upcoming eclipse party, I can't help but listen in despite the bitterness it stirs within me. Their casual dismissal of me stings less than it should, overshadowed by a curiosity they unwittingly piqued. "The eclipse isn't just any party, you know," Chloe muses, her voice carrying a weight that grabs my attention. "It's said that Shadow Locke's true nature is most visible under the eclipse's shadow. Ancient, hidden things come to light, or so the legends say."

Their laughter masks the undercurrent of seriousness in her words, but it plants a seed of wonder in me. Is the eclipse merely an excuse for a celebration, or does it have a deeper significance for the university? My thoughts drift to the oddities of Shadow Locke, the whispered secrets, and the sense that I'm on the cusp of something profound, something tied intrinsically to the timing of this celestial event.

"I think we should head to the boathouse," Chloe says, and even from here, I can hear the flip of her magazine.

Amanda sighs. "I hear there are two new players on the rugby team."

My heart does a little pitter-patter. I already met one of them.

"Well, I for one want to go wherever Bishop Mercer is," Tori says, and I damn well know that was a dig at me.

I angrily grab my sheets from the closet after setting the password on the safe and locking all my cash in there. When I turn around, I see all eyes on me.

"Oh, you didn't know?" Tori isn't at all sad about her words.

I grind my teeth. Bishop and I had a fling the summer I got here. That was it. Nothing more. Just two adults getting each other off. What I didn't know was that he was a student and a senior here at the time.

He saw me on campus and never spoke to me again, giving me the cold shoulder.

Fuck Bishop Mercer.

"Yeah," Amanda coos. "He's working toward his master's."

"Shadow Locke?—"

"What?" Tori stands, cutting me off. "Accepts master's students? They do this year. Didn't you get the email?"

"Oh, she didn't," Chloe says. "She doesn't have a phone."

I don't. The only time I check my email is in the library. They all know I don't have a phone or a laptop.

"That means she doesn't know about you and Bishop." Amanda's smile is all teeth. I want to pry them from her mouth with pliers.

My heart hammers in my chest as I look at Tori and her smug face.

She smirks. "We've been dating since June."

"Congratulations." I swallow my pride and grab my wallet. The trusty watch on my wrist says that it's almost three. "Good luck with that. I have to work."

Spinning on a heel, I swallow all of my emotions, all my hurt and pain, especially as Bishop's words, the last ones he ever said to me, kiss my conscience.

Open your eyes, Frankie. You're out of your depth, a nobody trying to play in a league she doesn't even comprehend. You're nothing—weak, ordinary, and utterly forgettable. I can't waste another minute on you.