1. Nyssa

1

NYSSA

GHOST IN THE MACHINE - SZA FEATURING PHOEBE brIDGERS

TWENTY YEARS LATER…

If there's one lesson I've learned in my brief twenty-two years on this earth, it's that nothing tastes sweeter than revenge. Some feel an eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind. Others believe the best revenge is moving on and living well.

I'm not one of those people.

Moving on is not an option until I've evened the score.

For Mom. For myself. In the interest of karmic justice.

Only then will I live well.

It's the promise I've made to myself. It's why I'm doing what I'm doing…

"Does this dress make you want to fuck me?" Heather Driscoll asks, interrupting my thoughts. Her long golden hair sways with every subtle move of hers as she models in front of the floor length mirror in my bedroom. She strikes a pose, hand on her hip in the short little Saint Laurent number she's wearing. "You know, if you were a guy. Would you want to fuck me?"

I quirk a brow from where I stand by the easel propped up next to the window. "Is that the dress for the funeral?"

"It's all black, isn't it?"

"Your dad's funeral…" I add.

Heather rakes fingers through her golden strands, pausing to think. "I'll wear tights. Black ones. And this—isn't it so chic? Fits my aesthetic perfectly."

She's popped on a tiny fastener hat complete with beaded lace dramatically covering the left side of her face.

I take one look at her pursing her lips in the mirror, admiring her various angles, and I remember how I've never wished for Heather Driscoll's downfall more.

And I've known her almost her entire life.

Even if she hasn't known me…

"You don't belong here. Your daddy's dead and your mommy's broke," the younger Heather sneered, her hair golden in the sunlight. "Go away, loser! Nobody wants you around."

The group of kids hovering behind her laughed.

They laughed while I blinked to tears in my eyes…

I blink again and the past fades out for the present.

Heather hasn't noticed I've half tuned out of the conversation. She's still admiring herself in the mirror.

"Your aesthetic," I repeat slowly, swallowing down cruel nostalgia. I go back to playing pretend. "Which would be what? Funeralcore? You might start a trend on TikTok."

She laughs airily. "I just might, Nyssie. Everything I do, everyone else does. Especially Katie."

"She's your best friend. She looks up to you."

"Please," she scoffs. "More like she thinks kissing my ass keeps her safe. I know how many noses she's had. Now she's addicted to filler. You wouldn't understand. You're still new to town."

I understand better than you realize…

I pretend I'm refocusing my attention on the sketch I'm working on. It's in the beginning stages, a couple quickly drawn outlines of songbirds and blooming flowers.

"Katie's not like the rest of us. She's not very cute. Can you believe how much weight she's gained? No wonder she's so desperate. Anyway, you'll help me with the eulogy, won't you?"

"I barely knew Mr. Driscoll, Heather."

"But you're good at these kinds of things. You've written speeches before. Everyone loved that valedictorian speech."

"I don't think it would be a good idea."

"I hated him," she blurts out. Her bird-like features sharpen and her voice fills with raw contempt. Gone is the dreamy tone she's known for. "I still hate him. But I'll love him a lot more buried in the ground. Sooo much more with his money deposited in my bank account."

"According to the police, he was murdered."

She sniffs. "What does that have to do with what I said?"

"Don't you want to find out who did it?" I ask. "There's a rumor the murderer could be the Valentine Killer. The card that was left at the scene resembles the ones left all those years ago?—"

"I couldn't care less," she says. "It doesn't matter to me if some Valentine guy took him out or if his heart did. He's gone. Which means so is his control over everything. If only the person could come back and finish off my hag of a stepmother. "

While Heather's shrill voice fills with glee, I shake my head to myself.

It figures Heather would be more concerned with the potential inheritance she'll receive in the wake of her oil tycoon father's death. He was found poisoned in his office barely two weeks ago, slumped over his desk with the heart-shaped card.

Speculation had broken out in the media and throughout our wealthy enclave known as Castlebury that the murder was eerily similar to the Valentine Killer, some serial killer from two decades ago.

But none of that matters to Heather Driscoll. She loathed her father and sees the funeral as a celebration of his murder.

"Okay, this is it," she says. "This is the look. What do you think, Nyssie? Isn't it per—AHHH!"

Her scream comes seemingly out of nowhere, her arms flailing in the air as she almost tips over.

It's not until I catch sight of orange fur whizzing by that I realize what's scared her.

Peaches scurries across my room at blurring speed, slowing down only once she's at my feet. I smile and crouch low to scoop her up in my arms.

"It's just Peaches," I say, scratching the cat under her chin. "She's harmless."

Heather sniffles. "We have different definitions of harmless, Nyssie. She came out of nowhere. No wonder I don't do pets."

"They don't seem fond of you either."

"Probably because I'd Cruella De Vil them," she says with a laugh. "Only kidding! I know you love your little orange fur ball. Anyway, I should get going. I'm meeting up with someone special. "

"And who would that be?"

"Some secrets aren't meant for repeating, Nyssie. Not even to you. So is that a yes on the eulogy?"

Peaches settles into the crook of my arm as I stroke her spine. "I'll proofread what you come up with. That's all."

"I knew I could count on you. You're the best. Way better than Katie. See you tomorrow for orientation?"

Heather Driscoll hardly waits for my answer as she promptly collects her purse and the shopping bags she's brought with her to my apartment and then shows herself out. As she strides through the door, I catch snippets of the phone call she's making, likely to the special someone she mentioned.

Already moving on from her impromptu visit to my apartment.

It's a relief more than anything.

I prefer a warning when I'm going to have to deal with her.

And most people in Castlebury.

I'm not even a fan of the idea that I'll be attending Kane Driscoll's funeral. The wealthy oil tycoon had reeked of cigars and had a penchant for pinching the asses of his female staff; he'd been sued for sexual harassment too many times to count.

But the rest of the Driscoll family's hardly better. The rest of the community in Castlebury isn't winning any Good Samaritan awards anytime soon either.

Mom hates that I've chosen to return to her alma mater.

I transferred my junior year at Roseburg so I could go to Castlebury University and finish my undergrad in Art History. She was even more upset when she learned I'd stay at Castlebury U for law school.

I went through with it anyway .

Where better to excel academically than at the same university that had destroyed my family's life two decades before?

"Don't worry, Peaches," I whisper to the ginger cat. "You won't have to deal with Driscoll much longer. We'll get the last laugh."

She purrs softly as if understanding what I've said. I set her loose to answer my iPhone. Without glancing at the screen, I'm aware of who it is.

"You can still change your mind," Mom says as her version of hello. "Say the word, Nys, and I'll be there to pick you up."

I give a laugh as if she's told a joke. "How many times do I have to tell you? I'll be fine."

"Baby girl, you don't know these people. You don't know what you're dealing with. I do ."

"I can handle them. I've been doing it for two years."

Mom blows out a frustrated breath. "The longer you're there, the easier it'll be for them to realize who you are."

"You're kidding, right? These people are so self-obsessed, they wouldn't notice Jack the Ripper in front of their faces."

"Promise me you'll be careful."

After assuaging Mom's fears for the fiftieth time since summer began, we hang up. I pocket my phone and almost return to my sketch of songbirds and blooming flowers.

Instead, I step to the huge window next to the easel and peer out at the well-to-do town of Castlebury. Though my apartment's one of the farther ones from campus, I can still spot the historic Ivy League college from my bedroom window.

Its skyscraping clock tower rises high among the surrounding buildings and tree line. The hands on the clock tick away, counting down the minutes until my first day as a law student at Castlebury U.

Mom was worried for good reason. Twenty years ago, her life was destroyed on that same campus. Families like the Driscolls, Fairchilds, Rothenbergs, and Wickers were responsible.

But though Mom might think it's too risky, I'm willing to walk the same halls. I'm willing to do what I need to in order to ensure the right people are held accountable. At last, we'll have our revenge.

Revenge that will taste so sweet, it'll all be worth it…

I'm late. Extremely late. So late, I'm tripping down the hallway of my apartment, shrugging on a cardigan blouse. I make it to the door while fastening the last button.

The alarm on my phone failed me again. You'd think I'd learn by now to have a backup in the event the clock app on my phone's hell bent on sabotaging me; you'd think I'd learn to wake up extra early the morning of my first day at law school.

I just had to stay up late working on my sculpture for the art festival.

I throw a quick glance at the antique gold-framed mirror hanging on the wall that I bought for five bucks at a thrift store and then rush out the door.

The university's a twenty minute walk on a morning where slow strolls through town can be afforded.

On a morning where I'm already running ten minutes late, a rideshare is my best option .

Five minutes later, I'm leaping from the backseat of the Honda Civic that picked me up.

Castlebury University spreads out before me, so massive it's almost its own town altogether.

Younger than Harvard but older than Princeton, the esteemed university is one of the country's biggest Ivy League juggernauts. Known for its top tier academics and impressive alumni, the university shows off its Gothic collegiate architecture at every turn.

Limestone buildings cover the campus, a dense pine forest serving as the backdrop.

I sprint past these buildings on my way to orientation, crunching over the golden foliage September has brought with it.

I finally make it to Harper Hall, named after the university's founder. Dashing up the stack of stone steps, I'm panting by the time I'm reaching for the brass door handles.

The entrance hall splinters off into three separate narrower halls, three separate parts of the building. I skip past the sign posted at the front that lists the locations of the different orientations being hosted in this building.

There's no time when I already know.

I've memorized every detail outlined in the welcome email we were sent.

I turn right down the hall, rounding a corner without slowing down.

Someone else happens to be coming the opposite way around the same corner. Our bodies collide straight on, knocking what little wind I have left out of me. The books I'm carrying slip out of my arms, tumbling to the ground, and the coffee the man's clutching flips out of his grasp.

It crashes to the floor, but not before splashing all over the front of his tweed blazer.

Horror cinches my insides, making me choke out a gasp.

For a beat afterward, the two of us stand still and gape at the mess in silence. My jaw's dropped open while his has clamped shut tight, like he's holding in his outrage.

It's not until the shock washes away that I reach for my bookbag, fumble for a moist towelette, and begin dabbing at him.

It's not until I've stepped so close I can pick up his woodsy, spiced scent that I realize what I'm doing.

And who I've run into.

The Professor Theron Adler.

I freeze, blinking dumbly up at him, the towelette in my hand still pressing into the tweed fabric of his blazer.

Professor Theron Adler is known for his strict and uncompromising standards. He's one of the professors in the law school—on the entire campus—most students dread. Considered a subject matter expert on criminal law, he was once a practicing defense attorney who won numerous high profile cases.

Somehow, he's even more intimidating in person.

More attractive.

He's tall, with the natural build of a runner. Thin but toned in all the right places, his shoulders wide but his waist trim. The tweed blazer fits him to a T, clearly professionally tailored that way. The once white button-up shirt he's wearing underneath—now stained with coffee—has developed a sheer quality to its fabric.

See-through enough that I can tell he's sporting some seriously drool worthy abs.

I blink several times, forcing my gaze back up to his face, only for mine to warm. He's scowling at me, the square black frames of his eyeglasses knocked slightly askew. But they could never block the dark mystery that is his eyes.

Darker than my own. A mahogany brown that's almost obsidian. That holds a permanent shine in them and mirrors my mortified reflection back at me.

The rest of his face is like a composite of all the features women tend to like—a strong jaw that's hardly disguised by fast-growing stubble and an aquiline nose that complements his wide cheekbones.

His hair's floppy and slightly unruly, straight but with subtle silver hairs threaded through the naturally dark strands.

He's so handsome, it almost makes up for his brutal personality.

As if sensing my thoughts, he clears his throat and raises both of his thick brows.

The hoarse sound zaps me out of my trance-like state. I drop my hand from dabbing coffee off him.

"I… I'm so… sorry," I stammer out lamely.

His jaw clenches tighter. "What's your name?"

"Oliver. Nyssa Oliver. I'm… I was… the year one law orientation…"

Oh god. Nys, could you sound like a bigger dumbass?! UGH!

I can't tell what he's thinking except to conclude it can't be anything good. A flicker of something—distaste, dislike, general judgment—passes in his dark gaze as he spends a couple seconds surveying me. He takes a step back and gestures to the mess on the floor.

My books scattered everywhere and the puddle of coffee.

"Clean this right now," he snaps. "Then hurry up to the orientation. You're late. "

Before I can even utter the word yes , Professor Adler's walking around me, brushing past to continue on his way.

I sigh and kneel to pick up my things. Dread pits in my stomach. I've not only made the worst first impression imaginable; I've just put a huge target on my back.

And made my crim law professor hate me.