The moment I stepped out of the car, I knew this would be a mistake.

  The air outside was cold and moist, seeping into my bones and chilling me from the inside. My sneakers rasped against the asphalt of the school parking lot, the sound echoing far louder than it should have, each step amplifying the unease coiling in my stomach.

  Like everything else in this town, at first glance, Cold Creek High looked painfully ordinary.

  It was a simple four-story brick building, its facade weathered by decades of harsh winters, the mortar crumbling in strips like bark peeling from a tree. A faded banner stretched above the door, proclaiming Home of the Timberwolves, the letters peeling and sun-bleached. It was torn at the corner, the loose fabric swaying in the wind. It looked as if someone had strung it up ages ago and forgotten it existed.

  Students clustered near the entrance and across the courtyard, backpacks slung over their shoulders, laughter drifting through the cold morning air. A basketball bounced loudly against the concrete.

  It looked normal. But I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

  A moment later, I realized what it was.

  It was the way these kids moved. Their motions were too fluid and too controlled. Someone shouted and multiple heads turned with unsettling synchronicity. Conversations dipped and rose again, never breaking completely, never sounding quite natural.

  Then the wind shifted, lifting my jacket and messing up my hair. I was in the middle of cursing myself for wearing it down instead of tying it back when, almost in unison, dozens of heads turned toward me.

  They looked straight through me, not with curiosity but with sharp, undivided focus.

  The basketball bounced once more, the sound like a tolling bell, then rolled to a stop.

  The weight of the stares pressed against my skin, prickling along my arms and the back of my neck. I felt exposed, as if I had stepped into the wrong room at the wrong time and interrupted a secret conversation.

  Faces shifted. Nostrils flared. Smiles thinned. The girl nearest to me, a redhead leaning against the steps, tilted her head slightly, her gaze narrowing with an intensity that made my stomach twist. A boy near the door sniffed the air, his brow furrowing faintly before he caught himself and glanced away.

  My stomach clenched. Everything inside me screamed at me to move, to do something, but my feet stayed rooted to the asphalt. The silence stretched tight and thin.

  The car door slammed shut behind me. The sound cracked through the courtyard, sharp and final.

  As one, the attention shifted from me to something behind me. I turned.

  Dad stood beside the car, posture rigid, eyes sweeping the courtyard with controlled precision. He did not speak. He did not gesture. He simply stood there, unmoving and solid as if he were rooted to the ground.

  Whatever was in his expression worked.

  The tension eased, not disappearing entirely but receding, reminding me of a wildlife documentary where one animal backs up just far enough to avoid confrontation. Students looked away. Backpacks were adjusted. Someone laughed, the sound slicing the cold air. The basketball was retrieved and the game resumed with exaggerated casualness.

  Everything returned to what it had been.

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  I was still shaking.

  "Don't stare," Dad murmured, his voice low as he stepped closer. "It's just a small town. They're not used to new faces."

  I swallowed hard and let out a humorless laugh. "For a moment there I swear they looked like they were deciding whether to eat me."

  Dad didn't respond immediately. His eyes stayed fixed on the courtyard.

  "You're exaggerating." He said it gently, but his gaze did not shift. "This is a small, isolated town. You're a novelty to them. It will fade. Don't be nervous."

  "Funny," I muttered. "I wasn't nervous until they all stopped breathing at once."

  He shot me a look, then sighed. "You'll be fine."

  I didn't believe him.

  That was when I noticed her.

  She stood near the entrance, leaning against the brick wall with practiced ease. She was taller than most of the girls around her, her dark hair pulled into a low ponytail, her posture relaxed in a way that felt too deliberate for someone her age. She wasn't staring openly, but I could feel her attention on us.

  She raised two fingers and whistled sharply. The sound was not loud but it was effective.

  A few students glanced her way and subtly shifted position, clearing a path toward the door. Her gaze flicked to my father, then back to me.

  She lowered her chin in a quick, sharp nod.

  Dad exhaled slowly.

  "That's Nell," he said. "Jason's daughter."

  I turned to him, narrowing my voice. "Jason? The town's boss sheriff mayor guy? You talked to him about me?"

  His jaw tightened by the smallest degree.

  I scoffed. "Unbelievable."

  "Kelsey..."

  "Why is she staring at me?"

  "She's not." He hesitated. "She's... making sure you get inside."

  I let out a short laugh. "I don't need an escort."

  "She's a sophomore," he added quickly, as if that made it less bizarre. "She knows the school."

  That made it worse.

  "So you hired me a babysitter?" Heat flared in my chest, sharp and immediate. "I'm seventeen, Dad. Not five."

  "That's not what this is," he said, too fast. "Don't make it something it's not."

  I glanced back at Nell.

  She still hadn't moved. Her attention still hadn't wavered. Something about that settled heavily in my gut.

  "I don't need someone watching me," I snapped. "Especially not someone younger than me. And especially not without my consent."

  His gaze softened, guilt flashing across his face. "I'm just trying to keep you safe."

  "From what?" I demanded.

  He didn't answer.

  The bell rang, a harsh electronic screech that made several students flinch at the same time. Nell pushed off the wall and began walking toward me with slow, steady confidence.

  "See you after school," Dad said quietly. "Text me if you need anything."

  "Sure I will," I said sharply, and turned away before he could respond.

  As naturally as breathing, Nell fell into step beside me.

  "So, you're Kelsey," she said matter of factly.

  She already knew my name. Damn Dad.

  "And you're Nell," I replied in the same flat tone. That earned me a sharp head to toe glance.

  She walked close enough to be present, far enough not to touch. Students parted around us as we passed, their gazes sliding away at the last possible moment.

  "So," I said finally, my voice tight, "are you going to tell me why everyone's acting like I walked into the ballroom wearing a jumpsuit?"

  A corner of her mouth twitched. "Cold Creek's not great with change."

  "I noticed."

  She looked at me, quick and assessing. "You'll get used to it."

  I snorted. "I don't plan to."

  Her expression didn't change.

  Somehow that bothered me more than if it had.

  As we approached the door, the prickling awareness returned, the sense of being watched from every angle. Teachers stood just inside the entrance, their eyes lingering on us a moment too long. One frowned slightly, his gaze flicking from me to Nell and back as if confirming something I couldn't see.

  I stepped through the door anyway.

  Whatever game they were playing in this town, I refused to start by backing down.

  But as I entered the classroom, I couldn't shake the feeling that everyone inside was taking my measure.

  For what, I didn't know. But I had a hunch Nell's job was making sure I never found out.