A large diamond-like opening at the surface’s top allows the afternoon sun to illuminate the space. Giant tree trunks, both cut and carved, are scattered all around, two creating a couch-like shape, the others offering simple stump-style seating. In the middle, a hole was dug, a deep cast iron crescent embedded there. It’s lined with large stones, ashes speckled in the center as proof of recent use.

I don’t have to look their way to know they’re watching me, possibly waiting for that moment when my nose will lift high into the air or scrunch in distaste, but that’s not going to happen. I lower myself onto the longest one and kick my feet up on the opposite end.

“I take it you guys hang here often?”

Slowly, they drop onto seats of their own.

“Maybe.” Beretta grins, tearing into an M&M’s packet with his teeth. “Or maybe it’s where we bury bodies.”

“Ah, yes, how could I forget, I became your target.” I speak with playful energy. “How dare I watch you from across the room.”

“More like, ‘she dared to watch us from across the room’.”

I laugh at Beretta’s Shakespearean flair. “How bold.”

“How rare.”

My laughter fades and I look away to simmer the sudden curving of my lips.

“So.” I cross my legs. “Which one of you looked me up on social media?”

With unhurried movements, my gaze skitters across the three.

“What makes you think we did?” Beretta nods.

“I know you did. It’s the exact reason I was threatened with a photo I know doesn’t exist.” I speak with confidence. “No phones came out to play in that glam room, I’m sure of it. You looked me up, found nothing... nothing but a way to get me here, and here we are.”

“Odd for a girl your age.”

I look to Beretta. “What are you, fifty?”

He ignores me, offering me some candy and shrugging when I shake my head to decline. “Your friends document everything from doctored morning pics to slinky new night numbers before bed, and you, Jameson Filano, have not a single account, on any platform, and there are no more than a handful of pictures of you on other people’s socials. Boring ones at amusement parks and group gala shots.”

“So, you are stalkers,” I tease, humor lighting both my tone and expression. I know it’s simply the way it goes. Everyone watches everything on social media; it’s what it’s there for. To make you feel seen.

“Social media is a shark tank. You swim, it’s only a matter of time before you’re bit in the ass.”

“Do you not enjoy that?” Beretta’s grin is broad and mischievous.

I roll my eyes, and Ransom leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He cocks his head, licks his lips, and as he desires, my attention becomes his.