Claire’s POV
I sit at a long wooden table, dark and polished to a soft sheen, in the house of Reed Michaels. The room is large, wider than it needs to be, with ceilings that lift the air upward with a relaxed aura. An entertainment room, I think, though currently, I am doing research.
My books are spread in front of me, neatly, research articles printed from the university database, my laptop open to a half-written outline for my comparative literature project, margins crowded with notes about narrative power and silence as resistance.
Why am I here?
For my safety.
Jeremy didn’t say it like a warning. He just told me to organize myself and gave me a couple of minutes to do it, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Two others sit at the table with me, roughly my age. Sade.
