Monday came quicker than I thought it would. Three days, it turns out, is not a lot of time to mentally prepare for pretending to be a whole different person.
Vi was already waiting in the living room when I walked out. Black on black — jeans, sweater, boots. I'd raided Vincent's closet for something that said 'I'm not trying too hard' without saying 'I own a car named Shadow.'
"Ooh, black on black," she said, looking me up and down. "Me likey."
"I try."
"Don't strain yourself."
We took the elevator down to the garage. The doors opened, and there it was — Shadow, parked in its spot. And next to it, two more cars I definitely didn't remember.
A Mercedes G-Wagon. Matte black. The kind of SUV that looked like it could survive an apocalypse and still get you to brunch on time.
And an Aston Martin. Dark green. Classy. The kind of car you drive when you want people to know you have money without actually saying it.
I pointed. "We own those?"
"You own those." She raised an eyebrow. "Wow. The accident really did a number on you."
I walked over to the G-Wagon. Ran a hand along the side. Vincent knew his cars. I'll give him that.
"Which one's your favorite?" I asked.
"The Porsche," she said without hesitating. "Shadow's got personality. The others are just... rich people cars."
Fair enough.
Vi grabbed the keys off the hook, unlocked the doors, and tossed them to me.
"You're driving."
I caught them. Paused.
She smirked. Then climbed into the passenger seat like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
I got in behind the wheel.
"Vin," she said, buckling up, "you've driven this car a thousand times. Your body remembers. Just let it."
Easy for her to say. I used to fix cars — part-time job back when I was Gabriel. Scholarship kid, orphan money, the whole deal. I could strip an engine and put it back together blindfolded. I'd driven plenty of cars before, just not ones that cost as much as a house. Never even sat in one.
I placed my hands on the steering wheel. The leather was cool. Smooth. It felt like holding something extremely expensive.
Vi tapped the GPS. The screen lit up with a route.
"Here we go," I said.
And pulled out of the garage.
Google Maps said it would take fifteen minutes. We got there in thirty-five.
"Don't say it," I said.
Vi didn't say it. She just looked at me with that smile — the one that said I'm not saying anything but I'm definitely thinking it.
"What?" I said. "I have amnesia. In a way, I haven't driven a Porsche before."
She laughed. Actually laughed. It was the first time I'd heard it — light, easy, like she'd been holding it in for days.
"Fair enough," she said.
"I didn't want to scratch Shadow."
"Shadow is a car, Vin. Not a pet."
"She has a name."
"You gave her that name."
"Right. I did."
She laughed again as I pulled into a spot.
"You ready?" Vi asked.
No. Not even a little.
"Yeah," I said. "Let's go."
***
We stepped out of the car, and the first thing I saw — apart from the other very expensive cars — was the name.
Verity Nova University.
VNU.
Carved into a stone archway big enough to drive a truck through. It sounded like the kind of place where people wore sweaters with the school crest and talked about their gap years in Europe.
"Yo, Vinny's back!"
I turned. A guy built like a refrigerator was jogging toward us, football jersey stretched across shoulders that probably had their own zip code. He waved like we were old friends.
I raised a hand. It was generic. It was safe.
He grinned, gave me a thumbs up, and kept jogging.
Two girls walked past. A blonde and a brunette. Both in matching VNU sweaters. The brunette looked me up and down like I was on a menu.
"Hey, Vinny," she said. Voice low. Sultry. The kind of voice that had definitely been in my penthouse at some point.
I just nodded and kept walking.
Vi leaned in. "You're popular."
"I gathered that."
She shook her head with a smile and kept walking until she stopped at a junction in the hallway. "You got your schedule?"
I pulled out my phone. Scrolled. Found it.
"East Hall, room 302."
"That's down the hall, take a left, then another left. You'll figure it out." She paused. "You're smart."
She said it like it was a fact. Then she walked off. Didn't look back.
I found the room five minutes later. The door was open. Voices spilled out — loud, easy, the kind of noise that came from people who'd known each other for years.
"Vinny!"
A guy near the window spotted me first. He raised a hand. I nodded back.
"Hey Vinny," a different guy called. "Party this Friday at Lisa's. You in?"
Before I could answer, an arm slung around my shoulder. Another guy, taller, wide grin. "Give the man a break, he just got back from—" He paused, like he wasn't sure what to call it. "You know. The thing."
A few people groaned. "Boo, let him speak for himself."
I didn't speak. Just shrugged the arm off gently and found a seat. Back corner. Quiet. Or as quiet as this place got.
I pulled out my books. Set them on the desk. Took a breath.
"Someone's early today."
I looked up.
It was Emilia. Standing over me, looking down like she knew something I didn't even know I was supposed to figure out.
I opened my mouth —
"Scoot over."
I blinked.
She didn't repeat herself. Just stood there, waiting.
I moved. She sat down next to me like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like she hadn't just appeared out of nowhere and claimed the seat like it was hers by birthright.
Maybe it was.
"Good morning," she said, pulling out a laptop and setting it on the desk.
"Good morning," I said.
She didn't look at me. Just opened the screen and started typing.
"I'm guessing the old me wasn't the early type."
She paused. Turned her head just enough to glance at me.
"No," she said. "He wasn't."
Then she turned back to her screen.
The room kept filling up around us. No one else sat in the seat on my other side. Either they were giving me space, or they knew something I didn't.
Then a girl dropped her bag on the desk in front of us, sat down, turned around, and rested her chin on her hand. A small tattoo on her neck, peeked out from her collar. Another one curled around her wrist, thin and black. She wasn't trying to hide them.
"Hey, Vinny." The girl said. Soft. Slow. The kind of voice that knew exactly what it was doing.
I glanced at Emilia. She didn't even blink. Just a small roll of her eyes — not jealousy, annoyance. Like this was a script she'd read a hundred times.
"Hey," I said.
The girl smiled. Then turned back around, just as the professor walked in.
I stared at the back of her head. Then at Emilia. Then at the empty seat beside me.
What kind of life has Vincent Elias Dorrington been living?