The hall was a whirl of colored lights, thumping bass, and the warm, sweaty energy of a school dance. For a moment, the grim reality outside its walls seemed to fade. Martin, spotting a refreshment table laden with donuts, slipped back into their playful banter. “Shall we procure some confections, m’lady?” he asked, offering his arm again with exaggerated gallantry.

  Jennifer played along, curtsying slightly. “Yes, fine sir, we shall.”

  But as she looked toward the donut table, her smile stiffened. Leaning against the wall nearby was Jeremy, flanked by two of his usual cohorts. He was watching the crowd, his expression sour. Their eyes met across the room—a brief, electric lock of mutual animosity—before Jeremy looked away, a scowl deepening on his face.

  Jennifer’s good humor evaporated. She linked her arm tighter through Martin’s and steered him away. “You know what? Donuts are… pedestrian. Let’s get a drink instead. Classier.”

  “Oh. Okay,” Martin agreed, easily diverted.

  They made their way to the punch bowl, a luminous red concoction in a giant plastic basin. As they filled their cups, Jennifer kept Jeremy in her peripheral vision. He had taken a seat alone now, glaring at his phone. She saw him type furiously, wait, then slam the device face-down on his thigh in clear frustration. Probably Ava, she thought with a flicker of cold satisfaction. Ignoring him.

  Taking a sip of the overly sweet punch, Jennifer’s hand jerked as someone bumped her from behind. A crimson splash arced from her cup, landing squarely on the front of her dress.

  “Oh, fantastic,” she muttered.

  “Go rinse it,” Martin said, handing her a napkin. “I’ll wait here.”

  She hurried to the girls’ bathroom, managing to blot most of the stain with cold water. As she emerged, Jeremy was walking down the corridor toward the hall. He didn’t look at her. He just shifted his shoulder deliberately as he passed, knocking her hard against the doorframe.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Jennifer stumbled, catching herself on the wall. She watched his retreating back, fury boiling in her veins, but she swallowed it. Not tonight. Don’t ruin tonight.

  She returned to Martin, who was finishing his punch. “All good?” he asked.

  “Fine,” she said, forcing a smile.

  After a moment, as a slower song began to filter through the speakers, Martin rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “So… you wanna, uh… try dancing?”

  Her heart flipped. “Yes. Of course.”

  They moved to the edge of the dance floor, a space cleared of the frantic energy of the fast songs. Neither knew what they were doing. It was a clumsy, sweet shuffle—stepping on each other’s feet, laughing at their own awkwardness, holding on just a little tighter than necessary. Jennifer looked up at Martin, at his smudged, earnest face, and wished with every fiber of her being that the music would never end, that they could stay suspended in this imperfect, perfect moment forever.

  But the paranoia was a worm in the apple. Her eyes kept scanning. And she saw him—Jeremy, breaking away from the wall and heading not for the exit, but for a door marked STORAGE at the far end of the hall, one that led into the school’s back corridors.

  Her protective instincts screamed. This was a pattern. He was planning something.

  She had to choose: the dance, or Martin’s safety. The moment, or the potential threat.

  Reluctantly, she pulled back a little. “Martin… I think I have to go somewhere private. Right now.”

  He blinked. “Somewhere private?”

  “Yeah. The bathroom. Girl… problems. You know.” She waved a vague hand.

  Comprehension—or his best guess at it—dawned on his face, followed by mild panic. “Oh. I see… I think?”

  “I’ll be quick!” she promised, and rushed toward the girls’ bathroom again. But she didn’t go in. She peeked back around the corner. Martin had turned to look at the dance floor, giving her an opening.

  She ducked out and slipped into the shadows, following the path Jeremy had taken.

  Meanwhile, in a dimly lit corner near the now-abandoned punch table, two SSS3 students—Luke and Christopher—were having a private celebration of their own. Christopher held a solo cup of punch that was decidedly darker than the rest.

  “This is the good stuff,” Luke snickered, taking a sip from his own spiked cup. “Teacher-proof.”

  “Shh, man, keep it down—”

  Their hushed revelry was cut short by the approach of a watchful teacher. “Luke. Christopher. Corner-hugging. A dangerous combination. What are you two plotting?”

  “Nothing, sir!” Christopher said, a little too quickly. As the teacher stepped closer, Christopher panicked. He didn’t want to get caught with contraband at his last school dance. In a split-second decision, he surreptitiously upended his cup, pouring its spiked contents into the large communal punch bowl. The dark liquid swirled and blended, becoming indistinguishable from the non-alcoholic punch.

  “We weren’t doing anything!” Luke complained. “Come on, sir, it’s our last night!”

  “I don’t care. Move. Now. Go socialize where I can see you.”

  Grumbling, the two seniors shuffled away from the corner, leaving behind a punch bowl that was no longer the innocent refreshment it appeared to be. The tainted drink sat there, a hidden trap in plain sight, waiting for an unsuspecting hand.