Nia stared at him. You walked into me. Jake smiled. Sounded aggressive. Naomi touched her sister's elbow.
Keep moving. They did. That afternoon, a volunteer schedule disappeared from a bulletin board 20 minutes after Naomi had signed her name beside a Friday night shift at the Riverton donor reception. The next morning, the replacement sheet showed the same time slot. Her name was gone.
Nia stood in front of the board with both hands on her hips. That's three things in two days. Naomi studied the paper. Four. What's four?
She pointed toward the lobby. Jake was sitting on a bench with his phone aimed loosely in their direction. Nia followed her gaze, her face tightened. He's filming us again. I know.
You want to keep pretending this is random? No. That answer stopped her. Naomi took out her phone and photographed the schedule. Then she photographed the date posted above it. Nia watched.
What are you doing, remembering? There was something in Naomi's voice. Nia recognized immediately. Not fear, preparation. Their father used to say that panic belonged to people who waited too long to pay attention.
So Naomi started paying attention to everything. Dates, times, names, who was standing nearby, which doors had cameras above them, who smiled when Ryan spoke, and who looked away. By Thursday, Ryan adjusted his method. He stopped touching them when no one was watching. Instead, he waited for witnesses.
Near the cafeteria entrance. He blocked Nia's path while Jake stood 10 feet away. Still mad about the lounge, Nia tried to go around him. Ryan moved with her. "Move!"
Jake lifted the phone. Ryan smiled. "There it is." Naomi saw the trap from across the hall. "Nia."
Her sister closed her eyes for one second, then stepped back. Ryan laughed. You two practice that? Naomi reached them. No, we practice leaving people alone when they asked.
Jake's camera shifted toward her. Ryan's expression brightened. Say that again. Naomi looked at the phone, then at Ryan. No. She took Nia's arm and they walked away.
By lunchtime, a 14-second video had already begun circulating through a campus group chat. It showed only Nia saying, "Move." Then Naomi saying, "We practice leaving people alone when they ask." Ryan's earlier blocking was missing. So was his laughter.
So was the moment Nia tried to walk away. The caption read, "Carter twins threatened student outside cafeteria." Nia stared at the screen. This is insane. Naomi felt something cold settle behind her ribs.
Not because the video was convincing, because it did not need to be. It only needed to be useful to the right person. Professor Ellen Brooks found Naomi after class. At 46, Ellen taught introductory anatomy and had a habit of carrying too many books at once. Today, she carried none.
Naomi. Naomi stopped. Yes, Professor Brooks. Can we talk? They stepped into the empty lecture hall.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Ellen closed the door but did not sit. I saw the video. Naomi's face gave nothing away. There's more before that.