I'm struggling so bad with the coursework at Adamson, it's not even funny. I'm seriously in the bottom ten percent of the class. Not that I've ever been an A student—far from it—but I'm used to skating by with straight Cs.

“This is unacceptable,” Dad says, shaking his iPad menacingly in my direction. He has one of those rubber childproof covers on it with the PAW Patrol logo on the back. He grabbed it at the store, and when I tried to suggest a more appropriate case for a fifty-something year old man, he practically bit my head off and said it served its purpose, so what did I care?

Maybe he secretly watches the show? What do I know?

“I'm … sorry,” I hedge, biting my lower lip and sliding my gaze to one side. It's hard to look at him when his face gets all purple-colored like that. There are veins protruding from his neck that throb, too. It's all sort of graphic. It’s also a bit of a victory, too, considering how hard I’ve tried in the past to work him up with no results. This, at least, feels like maybe he does care. “The work here is really hard.”

“Charlotte Farren Carson,” he snaps, and that's when things get really scary. My dad doesn’t like to yell, so once that starts, you know shit is about to hit the fan. “If you don't bring these grades up, you can just kiss that trip to California goodbye.”

My mouth drops open, and my heart explodes into tiny pieces, spattering the inside of my chest with metaphorical blood. Sure, it sounds dramatic, but it feels dramatic, too.

“I'm nearly seventeen!” I choke out, thinking that's a good argument for him backing off and letting me do my own thing. Doesn't seem to help. Actually, I think it makes him worse.

“Exactly, which means you are most definitely not eighteen. If you want to run off on your eighteenth birthday and join the circus, then fine. But until then, you belong to me. When you're attending school on my dime, you will conform to my rules. Bring these grades up to a C average, or you're not going on the trip, young lady.”

Dad pushes past me and heads up the stairs, his shoes loud and clomping on the wood steps. I flip him off behind his back, gritting my teeth, and punching the wall next to the fancy woodwork that wraps the doorjamb.

It hurts like fucking hell, too, and I end up making my knuckles bleed. Cursing under my breath, I head for the bathroom. As I'm passing through the kitchen, I notice that the window above the sink is open, and outside … there's a rustling in the bushes.

I lean against the counter and peer out through the screen into the darkness.

“Who the hell is out there?” I growl in my deepest, most rumbling voice. All that does is make me sound like I have a sore throat. The rustling intensifies, and I push off the counter, shoving open the front door and pausing as the sound of shuffling feet sounds from the side of the house.

I'm not about to go after whoever it is, but now my heart is racing, and I'm wondering how much they might've heard from that conversation with my dad. Did they hear him call me Charlotte? How about young lady?

With a groan, I slump down on the steps and slide my palms over my face. Between the kiss with Spencer, the shadow in the doorway on Halloween, and the mountain of schoolwork I'm behind on, I feel like I might have a nervous breakdown.

Since when did life get so damn hard?

Sand, sun, and surf. That used to be my motto. Now it's … secrets, standoffs, and syrup. Yep, syrup. After I bailed on Culinary Club the other day sans flour, the Student Council tracked me down, and the twins held me still while Ranger poured maple syrup in my hair.

“I hate my life,” I groan, wrapping my arms around my head and putting my forehead to my knees.

“Why's that?” a voice asks cheerfully, and I lift my head up to find Church Montague standing in front of me. He smiles, and it lights up his whole face. Everything but his eyes. His skin even crinkles at the edges, but his gaze … it stays ice-cold.

“You wouldn't understand,” I grumble, glancing over at the forest on my right. The woods are thick and dark and untamed, and in the distance, I hear an owl hooting again. They're everywhere out here—some species called short-eared owls—but I hate them because they add an ominous tint to every moment.

Dickheads.

“Wouldn't I?” Church asks, tucking one hand into the pocket of his slacks. “Because your father called me over here, so I could offer up my services as your tutor.” I snort, and shake my head. What a ridiculous idea. There's not a snowball's chance in hell I'm letting Church tutor me. He'd give me the wrong answers just to fuck with my head.

“Why don't you just beat me up instead?” I retort, standing up and moving away from him toward the car. I've somehow stained the crisp white shirt that goes with my uniform, and the Student Council looks for any excuse to tag me with detention. I've got another uniform, unopened and in the trunk.

Opening up the front door, I lean down and pull the lever to pop it. Church looks at me like I'm an archaeologist on a freaking dig, like he's never seen such an ancient piece of technology.

“Yeah, it's not a Beemer, I know, bummer.” I head over to the trunk, and then pause when I feel movement behind me. Spinning around, I find Church far too close to me. He isn't smiling anymore.

He shoves me into the trunk and steps forward, grabbing my chin with his fingers so hard that it hurts.

“I warned you to stop digging into Ranger's sister,” he says, voice cool and smooth and matter-of-fact. It seems so at odds with his gold-brown hair and honey colored irises. But his gaze … no, that darkness fits right in with his black, broken soul.

“Let go of me,” I snarl, but Church just squeezes harder, and a small whimper escapes me. There's something about that sound that gives him pause, and his grip relaxes just enough that I'm able to turn my head away. But when I try to get out of the trunk, Church shoves me back in, pushes my legs in after me, and closes it on me. “Hey!” I shout, starting to feel a small surge of panic. If Dad's already retreated to his room for the night, then he might not hear me out here. I could be trapped all night. “Church!”

I can hear his footsteps moving off down the path before he pauses, and a small surge of relief races through me. He moves back in my direction, and I get ready for the trunk to open. Instead, it sounds like Church is bending down and putting his mouth near the lock.

“Sleep well, Chuck. And remember: this is your last chance. If you keep digging up old skeletons, you might just get shoved in the grave along with them.”

And then Church is walking away, and I'm left to scream myself hoarse inside the trunk of my dad's car.

Eventually, I give up and fall asleep. Dad will be up early, and then I can start screaming again. There's no point in it now. That, and like an idiot, I left my phone sitting on the kitchen island. Fat load of good that does me.

After god only knows how long of listening to the owls, I drift off. When I wake up later, shivering like crazy, I find that the trunk's been opened and moonlight's spilling in and across my skin in silver beams.

Blinking stupidly, I sit up and rub at my eyes. Church must've come back to let me out. Maybe even he realized how screwed-up leaving me in the trunk of a car was?