Chapter 12: Pressure

It happened on a Thursday between third and fourth period.

Derek had stopped at his locker two hallways over and Zoey was moving through the crowded main corridor alone, which she did sometimes now without the anxiety that had made every unaccompanied minute feel dangerous. The collar was visible. Most of Jefferson had figured out by now what it meant and who it pointed to. The hallways had been safer since she’d started wearing it — not because the building had changed but because the signal had.

Most people read the signal correctly.

Dirk Benson was not most people.

He stepped into her path near the water fountains, casual about it, like he’d just happened to end up there. He was big the way football players were big — built for contact, accustomed to taking up space and having people move around him rather than the reverse. He had the particular confidence of a boy who’d been told he was something special often enough to believe it completely.

“Zoey Daniels,” he said. Like her name was something he was trying on.

She stopped. “Dirk.”

“Haven’t really talked to you.” He smiled the smile he probably practiced. “You doing okay? After everything?”

She recognized the architecture of it immediately — the false concern as a door opener, the friendly tone as cover for what was actually being assessed. She’d seen it before. She knew what came next.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Excuse me.”

She moved to step around him. He shifted his weight, not dramatically, just enough to redirect her path without making it look deliberate.

“No rush,” he said. “I just figured, you know — you’ve been through a lot. Sometimes it helps to talk to someone. Get your mind off things.” The smile again. “I’m a pretty good listener.”