At that moment, Esther knew what Susan was expecting, because she’d already witnessed the storm that words like this summoned. Susan was braced for it, drawing closer to McGraw, breath held, eyes wide. When Esther opened her mouth, Susan would expect hail and fire, as if Vectra had, in fact, opened a vortex to the underworld and a beast of fury were about to claw its way out from within Esther’s skin.

Instead, Esther said, “Maybe you could send me some links?”

“Whatever. No need to pretend, Grooty.” Vectra shrugged and looked past them to the far side of the room, as if scouting for someone better to talk to. “I don’t really expect you to come. Gotta go.”

“I’ll see you at your gig!” Esther called out in desperation.

“Er . . . that’s a week away. You’ll see her tomorrow in lectures,” Ed Gemmell said, looking confused.

“AND AT LECTURES!” Esther bellowed across the room, waving as Vectra turned and rolled her eyes before leaving.

That night, Susan had a think. A proper one. The kind that brought with it some perspective. It had been fun tonight—not with Vectra—but with McGraw and Ed Gemmell. Easy, almost, as if . . . well, as if they were friends. All the things she’d done, all the running away and the backfired acts of vengeance: the contract, the stalking, leaving a party where she’d been enjoying herself, the sleepless nights spent resenting his very existence. These were not the actions of someone who’d put the past behind her. It was the behavior of someone who was dragging it with her.

Maybe it was time to let things go.

And so, in the deadest hour of the night, when only foxes and insomniacs roamed the campus, Susan cut across the barren patch of grass between J-block and F-block. The door opened more smoothly than the other blocks’, the hinges better oiled, the bottom of the door sanded to swish a little smoother over the bristles of the doormat.

Avoiding the sensors that would turn the lights on to illuminate the communal hallway, Susan weaved her way upstairs to number 15. There, she took an envelope from her pocket and slid it silently under the door.

It was done.

The next morning, McGraw woke up in a timely manner by willpower alone. In nothing more than a pair of jogging bottoms, he did some cursory sit-ups and push-ups, just a few to get him moving while he toyed with the idea of testing his new soldering iron . . .

Once he was dressed and about to leave for the first hearty meal of the day, McGraw saw a stark white envelope edged under his door. Plain, businesslike, with no hint of who had put it there. An eddy of torn paper spiraled out when he opened it. Inside, he found a page from a notebook, torn off and folded in half, on which was written a single word.

Truce.