I spend the evening pacing my room, unable to concentrate on homework or anything else. The image of Ezra won't leave me—his calculated smile, his enigmatic words, and especially that fraction of a second when I glimpsed what lay behind his mask.
That absolute coldness. That absence of humanity.
At ten o'clock, I abandon all hope of sleep and go downstairs to the kitchen to make myself a herbal tea. The house is plunged in silence, disturbed only by the hum of the refrigerator and the regular tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the hallway.
I'm pouring the hot water when my phone buzzes. Message from Zoe.
"Were you asleep? I've heard some weird stuff about the new boy. Ezra. Call me."
My blood runs cold. Weird stuff how? I immediately dial her number.
"Hi," she answers on the first ring. "You weren't sleeping, then."
"No. What have you heard?"
"My cousin Jenny goes to Riverside Prep, you know, the private school an hour from here? She was visiting tonight and we were talking. When I mentioned we had a new boy, a certain Ezra Blackwood, she made a strange face."
I wait for her to continue, heart pounding.
"Apparently, he was enrolled at Riverside last year. But he left in the middle of the second term, without explanation. And Jenny says that just before he left, a girl from his year disappeared."
"Disappeared?"
"Vanessa Chen—no relation to you, different surname. Brilliant student, stable family, no particular problems. One day she was there, the next day she'd vanished. Her parents called the police, but she was eighteen, so technically she had the right to leave if she wanted."
I feel my hands trembling slightly.
"And Ezra?"
"That's what's strange. Jenny says he was obsessed with Vanessa. He followed her, left her notes, constantly tried to talk to her. She'd even reported him to the administration for harassment. And then, a few days after she disappeared, Ezra vanished too."
Silence stretches between us. I feel horror creeping up my spine.
"Livia? Are you still there?"
"Yes. Has... has Vanessa been found?"
"No. Never. As if she'd ceased to exist."
I close my eyes, trying to digest this information. Ezra Blackwood isn't just strange or unsettling. He's potentially dangerous.
"We need to warn someone," I say.
"Warn who? And tell them what? That the new student makes us uncomfortable because a girl disappeared from his old school? These are just coincidences, Liv."
But my gift tells me they're not coincidences. All my informal training in behavioral analysis, all the cases I've heard Dad discuss on the phone, all the true crime stories I've read out of morbid curiosity—everything points to the same profile.
Predator. Sociopath. Potentially murderer.
"Zoe, he spoke to me today. After school."
"What did he say?"
I can't explain the real substance of our conversation without revealing my secret. But I can share the essentials.
"He knew too much about me. About my family. And there was something in the way he spoke... as if he'd known me for a long time."
"You think he's chosen you? As his new... obsession?"
The word resonates in my head with terrifying clarity. Obsession. That's exactly what I felt in his gazes, in his way of pronouncing my name.
"Perhaps. I don't know."
"Livia, you need to talk to your father."
"He's away. And anyway..." I stop. How do I explain that Dad and I have had a complicated relationship since Mum left? That he overprotects me to the point of confining me sometimes, but he's never there when I really need him?
"You can't stay alone tonight. Come and sleep at mine."
The offer is tempting, but something holds me back.
"No, I'll be fine. I've got the alarm system, and anyway, I doubt Ezra knows where I live."
Even as I say these words, I realize they ring false. If he knows this much about me, he probably has my address.
"Promise me you'll call if anything strange happens."
"I promise, Zozo."
We hang up, but I feel even more anxious than before. I lock all the doors, check the alarm system twice, and go back up to my room with my tea and a kitchen knife I've taken from a drawer.
Dad would be horrified to know his seventeen-year-old daughter is sleeping with an improvised weapon under her pillow. But Dad has never met Ezra Blackwood.
The next morning, I wake exhausted after a night of sleep hacked by nightmares. In my dreams, Ezra was chasing me through the empty corridors of Blackwood Academy, and when he caught me, his face transformed into that of a creature without eyes, without empathy, without soul.
I drag myself through the shower, hoping the hot water will chase away my anxieties. But when I arrive at school, the first thing I see is a crowd near the main entrance.
Students and teachers are gathered in small groups, talking in low voices with that morbid excitement characteristic of moments of crisis. My stomach contracts instinctively.
I spot Zoe near the lockers and head toward her.
"What's happening?"
Her face is livid.
"Emma Rodriguez has disappeared."
The world stops around me.
"What?"
"Her mother rang the school this morning. Emma didn't come home last night. Her car was found in the shopping centre car park, but no trace of her."
Emma. The girl I saw arguing with her violent boyfriend yesterday morning. The girl whose fear I saw in her eyes. The girl I should have done something for.
"And Jake? Her boyfriend?"
"He says they argued after school and she left angry. He thought she just needed some air."
Of course he says that. Domestic abusers always have a plausible explanation.
But an even more terrifying thought crosses my mind. Emma isn't just any girl from school. She's a popular, respected student with a strong personality. The kind of girl who attracts attention. The kind of girl who might fascinate a predator seeking new challenges.
The kind of girl who might interest Ezra Blackwood.
"Where's Ezra?" I say abruptly.
Zoe looks at me in surprise.
"I don't know. Why?"
"We need to find him."
"Livia, you don't actually think that..."
"I don't know what I think. But we need to locate him."
We search the corridors, looking for Ezra's familiar silhouette. Classroom after classroom, but no sign of him. He's not in maths, not in English, not in science.
"Maybe he just didn't come in today," Zoe suggests.
But my instinct tells me otherwise. My gift, this ability that's always seemed more curse than blessing, is screaming at me that something's wrong.
At lunchtime, the atmosphere in the canteen is heavy with worry and speculation. Everywhere, I catch fragments of conversations:
"...her mother says she would never have run away..."
"...Jake looks really shaken, did you see?"
"...the police are going to question all her friends..."
"...I heard they found blood in her car..."
This last rumor chills my blood. Blood? If it's true, then we're no longer talking about a runaway or even an ordinary kidnapping.
We're potentially talking about murder.
I sit mechanically at our usual table, but I can't swallow a bite. My friends discuss the disappearance with that mixture of fear and excitement that tragedies generate in teenagers, but their voices seem to come from very far away.
All I can think is that I should have acted. Yesterday morning, when I saw Emma arguing with Jake, when I read the fear in her eyes, I should have intervened. Or at least warned someone.
My gift is useless if I only use it to passively observe tragedies unfold.
"Livia?"
Rachel Morrison's voice brings me back to the present. She's looking at me with concern.
"Are you all right? You haven't said a word since we sat down."
"I... I just can't believe Emma's disappeared."
"We're all in shock," Derek says. "But you barely knew her, right?"
He's right. I didn't really know Emma Rodriguez. We'd never had real conversations, never shared classes together. To her, I was probably just "the profiler's weird daughter."
But my gift had allowed me to see her distress. And I'd done nothing.
"Excuse me," I say, standing abruptly. "I need to... I need some air."
I leave the canteen and head for the courtyard, looking for a quiet place to think. That's where, sitting on an isolated bench near the sports field, I see him.
Ezra Blackwood.
He's walking calmly along the fence that separates the school from the adjacent forest, hands in pockets, looking relaxed. As if nothing had happened. As if a student from his new school hadn't mysteriously disappeared.
I stand up and walk toward him, heart pounding.
"Ezra!"
He turns, and when he sees me, that troubling smile appears on his lips.
"Livia. What a coincidence."
"Where were you this morning? You weren't in any classes."
"I had things to sort out. Personal business." He moves closer, and I have to fight the urge to step back. "Why do you ask? Were you worried about me?"
"Emma Rodriguez has disappeared."
I say it bluntly, hoping to surprise a revealing reaction. But Ezra simply tilts his head, feigning surprise.
"Emma Rodriguez? The student council president?"
"You know her?"
"By sight only. Pretty girl. A bit... predictable for my taste."
The way he says "predictable" makes me shiver. As if he were evaluating the quality of a product.
"Her disappearance doesn't move you?"
Ezra looks at me intently, and I have the impression he's gauging my reaction as much as I'm gauging his.
"Of course it does. It's tragic when a young life is... interrupted."
The choice of the word "interrupted" rather than "lost" or "wasted" doesn't go unnoticed.
"You think she's dead?"
"I don't think anything at all. I didn't know her well enough to have an opinion on what might have happened to her." He pauses, fixing me with his grey eyes. "But you have a theory, don't you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Come on, Livia. With your... particular gift... you must have noticed things about Emma that others missed. Warning signs. Clues about her psychological state."
How can he still know? How can he be so precise about my abilities when even my closest friends are unaware of them?
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Really?" He moves closer still, and this time I actually step back. "Yesterday morning, for example, when you saw Emma arguing with her boyfriend near the lockers. You noticed something, didn't you?"
My blood runs cold. He was watching me. He was already surveilling me yesterday morning.
"Were you spying on me?"
"I was observing. There's a difference." His smile widens. "And I was very impressed by your powers of observation. The way you analyzed their body language, detected her fear, identified the signs of domestic violence... Remarkable for someone your age."
It's too much. He knows too much, he's too precise, too confident.
"Who are you really?"
"I told you. Ezra Blackwood."
"Blackwood like the school?"
"My great-grandfather was the founder, yes. This institution is part of our family legacy." He gestures expansively at the buildings. "My ancestors educated generations of students within these walls."
"And what brings you here now? After years away?"
"I had things to finish. Debts to settle." His eyes fix on me with disturbing intensity. "And I'd heard about a particularly... interesting student."
The implicit threat in his words makes me step back further.
"I have to go."
"Of course. But Livia?" He reaches out as if to touch me, but stops just before. "Take care of yourself. In this kind of situation, people who see too clearly can become... vulnerable."
I run to the main building, heart pounding so hard I think it will explode. Behind me, I hear Ezra's laughter carried on the wind, deep and threatening like the rumble of an approaching storm.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a fog of anxiety. In biology, we study predators and their hunting methods. The teacher explains how certain predators choose their prey, track them patiently, learn their habits before striking.
Everything he says seems to resonate with my situation.
In history, we discuss the manipulation techniques used by charismatic leaders to seduce their followers. The alternation between charm and threat. The way to make the victim believe she's special, chosen.
Every word seems to describe my encounter with Ezra.
At four o'clock, when the final bell rings, I'm the first out. I want to get home, lock myself in, think about what I'm going to say to Dad when he returns tomorrow.
But when I reach my car, I find something that chills my blood.
A red rose, placed on my windscreen. No thorns, no message. Just this perfect rose, of a red so deep it seems almost black.
I look around. The car park is emptying quickly, students eager to get home. No one seems to be paying attention to me. But somewhere, I know Ezra is watching.
I take the rose carefully, as if it might explode in my hands. It's fresh, recently cut. And when I bring it to my nose by reflex, the scent surprises me.
It's not the usual sweet perfume of roses. It's something heavier, more intoxicating. Almost metallic.
The smell of blood.
I drop the rose which falls onto the tarmac, and I run to my car. My hands are trembling so much I struggle to get the key in the lock. Once inside, doors locked, I start up and leave the car park as fast as the speed limit allows.
In my rearview mirror, I see the abandoned rose on the asphalt, its red petals standing out like drops of blood on the dull grey of the car park.
And standing near the school entrance, motionless as a statue, Ezra Blackwood watches me leave.
At home, I double-lock myself in and activate all the security systems. Dad had discreet cameras installed around the property after the case that cost one of his colleagues their life three years ago. I check the surveillance screens in his office, but everything seems normal.
Empty garden. Quiet street. No unknown cars parked nearby.
But the rose continues to haunt my thoughts.
How did Ezra know which was my car? How did he reach it without being seen? And above all, what did this macabre gift mean?
I try to call Dad, but I get his voicemail. Normal, he's probably in a meeting or an interrogation. I leave him a message asking him to call me back as soon as possible, without mentioning Ezra. Some things can't be said in a voicemail.
I try to concentrate on my homework, but the mathematical equations blur before my eyes. Instead, I see images of Emma Rodriguez—her smile in the corridors, her enthusiastic speeches at assemblies, the fear in her eyes yesterday morning when Jake gripped her wrist too tightly.
At eight o'clock, unable to bear it any longer, I call Zoe.
"He left a rose on my car," I say without preamble.
"Who? Ezra?"
"Yes. A red rose. That smelled... that smelled of blood."
Silence stretches at the other end of the line.
"Livia, are you sure you're not dramatizing a bit? A rose, maybe it's just... romantic? Weird, but romantic?"
"No. You don't understand. It wasn't romantic. It was... possessive. Threatening. As if he were marking his territory."
"Have you told the police?"
The question makes me think. What could I tell them? That a student gave me a rose and it worries me? That he makes me uncomfortable because a girl from his old school disappeared? Even with my surname, even with Dad's reputation, it wouldn't be enough to trigger an investigation.
"No. Not yet."
"You need to sleep at ours tonight. Mum will agree."
The idea is tempting, but something holds me back. A stubborn part of me refuses to flee. If Ezra thinks he can frighten me, he's wrong. I grew up in the shadow of the worst crimes humanity can commit. I'm not going to let myself be intimidated by a sociopathic teenager, even a potentially dangerous one.
"No, I'll be all right. But stay on the line with me. While I make dinner and calm down a bit."
We chat about inconsequential things—weekend homework, the next English test, rumors about who's dating whom. Normal concerns of normal sixth-formers. It helps me regain some semblance of balance.
It's around nine o'clock, as I'm telling Zoe my theory about why Mr Patterson hates our maths class, that I hear it.
A noise outside. Light, almost imperceptible. As if someone were walking in the dead leaves of our garden.
"Zoe," I say in a low voice, "I have to go."
"Why?"
"I think there's someone outside."
"Call the police. Now."
"First, I'm going to check the cameras."
I go down to Dad's office and turn on the surveillance screens. Images from the front, rear, side cameras. Everything seems normal. Empty garden under the automatic floodlights.
But just as I'm about to go back up, reassured, I see something that freezes me in place.
On the rear camera screen, a shadow moves near the fence. Not a tree shadow moved by the wind. A human silhouette, tall and slim, moving with calculated grace.
My blood runs cold when the silhouette stops and lifts its head toward the camera. Even at this distance, even in the half-light, I recognize the smile.
Ezra Blackwood.
He raises a hand in a small mocking salute, exactly as he'd done in the canteen. Then he brings a finger to his lips in a gesture that means "shh," and disappears into the darkness.
This time, I call the police.
"Emergency services, how can I help you?"
"There's someone in my garden. An intruder."
"Your address?"
I give it, along with my name. When the operator hears "Chen," her tone changes immediately.
"Are you related to Dr. Marcus Chen?"
"He's my father."
"A patrol will be at yours in five minutes. Stay inside, doors locked. Don't hang up."
Five minutes that seem like hours. I stay in Dad's office, eyes riveted on the surveillance screens, but Ezra doesn't reappear. When I finally hear the sirens approaching, I rush to the front door.
Two uniformed officers, an older man with grey hair and a younger woman with piercing eyes.
"Miss Chen? Officer Morrison and Officer Davis. Where did you see the intruder?"
I take them to the office and show them the rear camera.
"There, near the fence. About ten minutes ago."
They examine the screen, then exchange a glance.
"We'll inspect the perimeter," Officer Morrison says. "Stay inside until we return."
They go out with their torches, and I watch them on the screens methodically search the garden. They examine the fence, look for footprints, inspect the bushes where Ezra might have hidden.
Twenty minutes later, they come back.
"No sign of intrusion," Officer Davis announces. "No tracks, no abandoned objects. Are you certain you saw someone?"
The implicit question hurts. They think I hallucinated. Or that I'm a hysterical teenager overreacting to harmless shadows.
"I'm certain. It was a student from my school. Ezra Blackwood."
Officer Morrison raises his eyebrows.
"You know him?"
"Not really. He's just arrived at school. But he... he worries me."
"In what way?"
How do I explain without seeming paranoid? How do I describe the visceral instinct that's screaming at me that Ezra is dangerous?
"He's too interested in me. He knows too much about my family. And there was a disappearance at his old school."
The two officers exchange another glance.
"Miss Chen," Officer Davis says in a patient tone, "we understand you're worried, especially with Emma Rodriguez's disappearance. But we can't harass a student based on your... suspicions."
"What if he's dangerous?"
"Has he done anything illegal? Has he explicitly threatened you? Has he touched you without your consent?"
The answer is no, and they know it.
"We'll mention your concern in our report," Officer Morrison says. "And we'll do more frequent patrols in your neighborhood. But for now, there's nothing more we can do."
They give me their card and leave, leaving me alone with my fears and my certainties.
That night, I don't sleep. I stay sitting in the armchair in my room, curtains drawn, lights on, phone in hand. At every noise—house creaking, wind in the trees, stray cat in the street—my heart races.
But Ezra doesn't come back. Not that night.
He doesn't need to. He's already accomplished his objective.
He's made me understand that he can reach me when he wants, where he wants. That neither cameras, nor alarms, nor police can protect me.
And somewhere in the darkness, Emma Rodriguez waits to be found.
If she's still alive.