Chapter 2
The school door clicked shut behind you with a soft thud, but the sound echoed loud in your chest. You stood there for a moment, unmoving, as the spring wind pulled at your coat and scattered the tension from your shoulders.
She’d said yes.
Dinner. Tonight. The same house. Same address. Same woman — and yet… not. Something about her felt off, but your mind refused to label it. Not yet. Instead, you held onto the thing that mattered most: she remembered you.
You started walking.
The streets of Greendale hadn’t changed much. Same cracked sidewalks. Same sleepy storefronts painted in half-faded pastels. The florist still kept that crooked bench out front, the one you'd once sat on with a snow cone in hand and sticky syrup on your fingers. You passed it slowly, trailing your fingers along the weather-worn wood.
It was surreal. Six years ago, you’d left this town like it was on fire, and now every corner felt like a memory waiting to pounce.
There was the coffee shop where Mary used to grade papers while you hovered nearby pretending not to watch her. The tiny used bookstore where she'd once helped you find a tattered copy of Wuthering Heights and said, “There’s something deliciously unkind about doomed lovers, isn’t there?” You hadn’t known how to respond then. You weren’t sure you could now, either.
Eventually, the fading light pushed you forward, back toward the motel, where the silence of the room wrapped around you like gauze.
You didn’t have much to unpack. You hadn’t planned on staying long. Just long enough to see her. To say what you didn’t say then.
You stood in front of the mirror and reapplied your lipstick, fingers trembling just slightly. Your reflection stared back — older, yes, but still marked by that same ache.
You weren’t a teenager anymore. And she wasn’t your teacher. Maybe this time, things could be different.
You just had to believe that.
Meanwhile, across town, Lilith was humming.
It was an old tune — something half-forgotten from a life she hadn’t lived — but it fit the mood. The cottage kitchen smelled like rosemary and butter, and the roast in the oven was coming along beautifully. Wine breathed in its glass. Candles waited, eager.
She wasn’t nervous. Lilith didn’t get nervous. But anticipation hummed in her blood like static, thick and hot.
And oh, Mary was livid.
“Stop it,” the voice hissed from deep inside her mind.
Lilith didn’t flinch. She simply stirred the sauce with a lazy grace. “Stop what, darling? Cooking dinner? Being charming?”
“You’re toying with her.”
“I’m giving her what you wouldn’t,” Lilith said, tasting the sauce. “You had her wrapped around your finger and you did nothing. You let her leave.”
“She was a child.”
“She was in love with you.”
The words landed like a slap.
Lilith smiled. “Don’t worry, I won’t do anything you wouldn’t have done eventually. I’m just accelerating the inevitable.”
“I would have never-”
Lilith rolled her eyes.
“You’re wasting your breath,” she muttered, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “You had your chance. Now it’s mine.”
Mary surged forward — or tried to. Lilith felt the sting in her temples, the psychic push, the desperate scream in the dark. But possession wasn’t a door you could kick down. It was a cage, and Lilith had the only key.
She adjusted the neckline of her dress in the hallway mirror, letting the fabric slip just slightly off one shoulder. Subtle. Tempting.
“I wonder what she’ll do,” she mused aloud. “If I touch her hand. If I lean just a bit too close. Will she pull away? Or fall right into me?”
Mary snarled.
Lilith returned the spoon to the counter, then glanced at the mirror across the room. Her own reflection gazed back—flawless. The mouth, the eyes, the tilt of the chin—every inch of Mary Wardwell perfectly constructed. Perfectly worn.
Except... not entirely.
She let her mouth curl just a little more than Mary would. Let her gaze linger longer than is polite. She intended to wear this skin beautifully—better than Mary ever did.
And that night?
She intended to make the little lamb squirm.
Back at the motel, you stepped into the heels you’d sworn you wouldn’t wear and checked the address again — even though you knew it by heart. Your hand lingered on the daisy charm around your neck.
Then you slipped out the door, into the night, and toward something that felt like fate — and danger — wrapped up in the same familiar smile.
The house was exactly as you remembered.
The same white shutters. The same ivy creeping up the side, curling around the windows like ink stains on old paper. Even the porch light, dim and golden, glowed just as it had all those years ago, casting soft shadows against the wooden steps.
You hesitated at the door.
For a moment, it was as if no time had passed at all. As if you were still that girl standing here with a book clutched to her chest, heart pounding, waiting for the woman on the other side to open it.
Only this time, you weren’t a girl. And she wasn’t your teacher.
You knocked.
The door swung open, and there she was.
“Right on time,” Mary—no, Lilith—said, her lips curving into a slow, knowing smile.
She looked stunning. That was the first thing you noticed.
The second was the way she leaned against the doorframe, just a touch more poised, more deliberate than you remembered. The neckline of her dress dipped slightly, exposing the delicate slope of her collarbone. Her hair, always impeccably styled, had the faintest softness to it now, a few loose strands framing her face in a way that felt almost… intentional.
You swallowed. “I didn’t want to be late.”
“I wouldn’t have minded,” she murmured, stepping aside. “But I do appreciate the punctuality.”
You stepped into the warmth of the house.
The scent of rosemary and butter wrapped around you immediately, rich and comforting. The dining table was already set—candles flickering low, wine poured, the plates arranged with careful precision.
“This looks…” You glanced at her, almost unsure. “You didn’t have to go through so much trouble.”
“Nonsense.” Mary—Lilith—waved a hand dismissively, moving toward the kitchen. “It’s a special occasion, isn’t it?”
Something about the way she said it made your stomach twist.
You shook it off and followed her into the dining room.
She pulled out a chair for you, the gesture smooth and practiced. You hesitated, then sat, watching as she took her seat across from you.
“Wine?” she asked, already reaching for the bottle.
You nodded, and she poured, the deep red liquid catching the candlelight as it filled your glass.
“To reunions,” she said, raising her own.
You clinked your glass against hers, the crystal ringing softly in the quiet room.
She watched you as you took a sip, her eyes never leaving your face. There was something intentionalin her gaze tonight, something that made your skin warm under her attention.
She smiled.
“So,” she said, twirling the stem of her glass between her fingers, “tell me everything. What have you been up to since you left Greendale?”
You exhaled, letting out a quiet laugh. “That’s a broad question.”
“I have time.”
And she did. She listened—really listened—as you spoke, nodding in all the right places, smiling at your successes, tilting her head with feigned curiosity when you spoke about the things that hadn’t gone as planned. It was seamless, the way she played her role. Familiar. Easy.
Almost.
And then, halfway through your second glass of wine, you said, “Do you remember the daisies I gave you? The one that sparked my nickname?”
She smiled immediately, radiant. “Of course. You brought them to me in my classroom.”
Your glass paused mid-sip.
“No, I didn’t.”
There was a pause. It bloomed.
Then she laughed gently, shaking her head. “Didn’t you? Hm. Maybe I’m remembering another time.” A slow sip. A flicker of amusement in her eyes. “You did used to bring me little gifts now and then. You were always so—adoring.”
Your stomach flipped. That familiar pull. You lowered your glass.
“I guess I was a little obvious, wasn’t I?”
“Oh, darling,” she said, her voice silken, “you still are.”
The room pressed in around you. Her gaze pinned you like a butterfly. You couldn’t tell if it was the wine or something else making your heart thrum in your chest.
Outside, the wind picked up. Tree branches scratched gently at the window.
Inside, the tension between you stretched thinner with every breath.
She leaned in, resting her chin on her hand. “You’ve grown into yourself beautifully,” she murmured. “But I can still see the girl who used to stare at me like I hung the moon.”
Your throat tightened.
“And you let her?” you asked, softly.
“I let her,” she echoed, smiling like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.