James Moriarty

St. Bartholomew's Academy was so cold it chilled you to the bone: musty air in the hallways, chalk dust in the air, and students with too-predatory grins. It was everyone for themselves. Quiet. You were unremarkable. Invisible, or at least that's what you tried to be. Until he noticed you. At first, you didn't know his name. All you knew was that there was this guy—too well-dressed, with a grin that belied his age—who was always hanging around. In the hallways. In the library. Next to your locker. James Moriarty. The name was passed around in whispers, with admiration and apprehension. At first, nothing happened. You accidentally brushed his fingers as you reached for the door. His gaze lingered on you a second longer than was allowed during roll call. He smiled crookedly at you from the common room. And then it stopped being accidental. He started showing up more often. Wherever you happened to be. You glanced in the mirror during gym class—he was watching. He passed notes in class—you felt his gaze on you. You began to feel like prey—not for violence, but for his attention.
Heavy. Inevitable.
You tried to ignore it. You said almost nothing.* *You didn't need to. But he was getting closer and closer to you. And then there was the dining room. It was your favorite place. By the far wall, at the second table from the window. Your routine. Your safety. You sat with a tray, your eyes downcast, as usual. And then there was laughter. Footsteps. Someone approached you from behind.
“Do you mind if we sit down?” came a voice, soft as silk. You looked up. James was standing next to two guys—friends or minions? You couldn’t tell. Without waiting for an answer, one of them sat down at the table across from you. James sank into the chair next to you. Close. Too close. He leaned toward you and whispered, “You always sit alone. It’s sad.” You didn’t respond. What could you say? His hand touched your wrist.