According to the info Finn had compiled, Violet Fox drove an old, black Honda Accord. The midsize serviceable car sat in the center of the lot, dwarfed on one side by a truck on monster wheels covered in army green paint. A Confederate flag covered part of the truck’s back window, along with a gun rack. We sat several rows away, parked next to a Volkswagen bug with a red hood that didn’t match the rest of its white body.

“Any more charges on her credit card?” I asked.

Finn reached into the backseat and hit a button on his laptop. “Not since the last time you asked five minutes ago. How long are we going to wait? It’s almost six thirty.”

“All the campus buildings except the library close at six,” I said. “If she’s not at the library cramming, Violet Fox should be on her way here right now. We’ll give her a few more minutes. This lot is almost a mile from campus. It takes a good twenty minutes to get here from the student center, and that’s if you’re hoofing it fast.”

Finn sighed and settled a little deeper into his seat. I rolled down the window. It was still drizzling, and the wet sheen of rain made the night seem colder and gloomier than it really was. Even in the Aston Martin’s plush confines, I could hear the vibrations of the concrete barriers and broken asphalt of the parking lot. Sharp, worrisome mutters that spoke of violence, blood, fear. This was a place where people got beaten, robbed, and mugged with alarming regularity, even for Ashland—

A figure passed through a gap in the concrete barriers.

A short, curvy woman with a mop of blond hair that had frizzed out to TBH—Tennessee Big Hair—proportions thanks to the drizzle. Violet Fox. She wore a heavy down jacket that didn’t do enough to shield her from the rain.

Her purse was looped over her chest and shoulder. She stepped underneath the flickering light, and a small metal canister glinted in her right hand. Pepper spray, unless I missed my guess. Smart, sensible precautions. This was a girl who was used to walking through here at night.

But she wasn’t alone. Another girl was with her. Blueblack hair, pale eyes, slim figure, designer jeans. I recognized her too.

“That’s Eva Grayson,” I said.

Finn’s green eyes latched onto Eva. He smiled and sat up in his seat. “Really? Owen Grayson never told me what a looker his sister is.”

“Then he knows you well enough to know not to do that,” I replied.