Chapter Three

Anya Sanchez

A week passed since the weird interaction with Mr. Miller. He didn't give me the time of day in class or otherwise. What an asshole. I didn't know what I did, outside of trying to apologize for my mistake, for him to act so cold to me. Fine, I wasn't trying to be friends with him. He was my teacher. But he was more than that, wasn't he? He put my father in prison for life, and he still had no idea who I was. I would never tell him. At least I didn't think I would.

But I wanted to get close to him. I didn't know why. Maybe because, in some way, he saved my mother and me from living in fear of my father's enemies. Life had gotten better the last eight years since my father was incarcerated—my mother and I were free. And there I was, taking my last credits to graduate with a degree in investigative journalism. My life would be mine.

I sat there in class and watched Mr. Miller tear apart a classmate on state court system procedures. He was a perfectionist, no joke.

"What is one way an innocent person can be held accountable for a crime he or she didn't commit?" Mr. Miller fired off the question and pushed up his sleeves again, thick, tan forearms exposed.

Jesus. He was so good-looking. And a jerk. Why did those two always go hand in hand? Ugh, I needed to just focus on passing the class. I had no bandwidth to think about men, especially not an off-limits man like my teacher.

I raised my hand, sparks of electricity firing through me. No one else joined me, but Mr. Miller's eyes scanned right over me, and he didn't call on me.

"Come on, there has to be someone here who read the assignment." Mr. Miller's jaw clenched. "This is an accelerated class, so every single one of your hands should be up."

I raised my hand higher, muscle tendons pulling in my shoulder and bicep. He had to have seen me.

"No one?" Mr. Miller crossed his arms, frowning.

"Uh, Mr. Miller," Reggie said, glancing between me and the podium where Mr. Miller stood. "Anya has her hand up."

Mr. Miller turned his gaze to me, and I thought if a stare could murder, I'd be a bloody mess right where I sat. But what the hell? I dropped my hand. My first instinct was to run because I wasn't the confrontational type.

"No, it's not." Mr. Miller turned his icy stare back to Reggie. "I don't see it up. Do you?"

Reggie's eyes moved to me again, confusion filling his face and a little bit of betrayal. God, I should not have dropped my hand. I mouthed the word "sorry" to Reggie, but he just frowned and turned his eyes back to Mr. Miller, who clearly was determined to get an answer out of Reggie.

"It was," Reggie said, his gaze dropping to his notebook.

"Well, maybe you can answer then since you're so concerned about Anya." Mr. Miller walked over to the projector screen and tapped on the black text.

Reggie tried his best to answer but didn't quite satisfy Mr. Miller.

"The investigation of a crime must be conducted according to the proper procedures. Otherwise, innocent people could be held accountable for crimes they didn't commit, and guilty parties could walk free because the evidence was obtained in improper ways that are inadmissible in court." The memorized answer came out of me. I'd read the answer online just before class started.

The silence in the room amplified. No one said a word, not even a rustle, a shift in the seat. Mr. Miller slid his glittering eyes to me, glowering.

"If you wanted to answer, you should have raised your hand and waited to be called on."

"I did." My voice was small, and I was acutely aware my head was on the chopping block, and the class was the audience waiting for the slaughter.

"Well, if that were true, I'd have called on you, don't you think?" Mr. Miller walked back up to the podium.

"I don't think that, sir." My gaze moved up, glancing to Reggie, who had a what the fuck look on his face.

But just as the famous saying goes, I was saved by the bell, as the end-of-class bell sounded through the auditorium. Everyone stood, scampering up the steps to exit, not spending a moment longer than needed. But as I stood with my backpack, shaking like jelly, nerves firing off inside for my audacity, Mr. Miller called my name.

I gasped, my heart lunging in my throat, and looked up to see him standing at the podium still, angry and imposing. With some force inside, I moved toward the front of the auditorium, catching sympathetic gazes from my classmates as I walked in the opposite direction of everyone else. And when I was finally in front of the podium, I had to make a decision. Mr. Miller was being very unfair and cruel. Just like my father always was. I would not cower as I always had with him. Mr. Miller was not my father.

"What?" I said, though less angry than I imagined I would say it. I wasn't good at being angry.

He smirked. Ugh. The asshole. And he rested his bare forearms on the podium, now empty.

"We need to speak privately." He didn't waver. Not his body. Not his eyes. Not his breathing. He was steady. "I have office hours right now."

A ripple of energy moved through me from head to toe. The thought of being alone with Mr. Miller both exhilarated and terrified me. I didn't know what I would say if no one was around to keep me in check. Because another thing I wasn't good at was lying. And if he knew who my father was, would he kick me out of his class? Oh, God. I needed to graduate because I had a job offer at a prime investigative magazine in August. I had no time for another semester.

"Fine."