Anne looked up from her phone.
God, what am I doing? she thought.
She exited out of the Killer’s Gallery app without answer Griselda. A part of her had been so tempted to press the button. She’d been so tempted to press the button that would lead to the death of a man she didn’t know.
She slipped the phone into her pocket. Its very presence on her person bothered her, but she tried not to think about it.
She tried turning her attention to the professor, but his speech was just so goddamn boring.
She had to get out of there.
She threw her shit in her bag — the pen and paper she’d barely touched during the lecture. Tried but failed not to make a scene as she stumbled out of the lecture hall.
The door made a loud groaning sound as she exited.
“Fuck,” Anne muttered, going outside.
It was hot outside. Too damn hot. That was Florida though — always too damn hot, except the couple days of the year when you walked outside and it was cold and you were like, “What the fuck is this bullshit I only own two sweatshirts but I don’t even know where they are,” and so you just have to suffer through the cold in a fucking tank top and sandals because Florida weather is cruel and capricious.
Anne leaned against the outside wall of the classroom, wiping sweat off her brow.
“What the fuck’s wrong with me?” she whispered, to no one but herself.