Her boots were caked in thick, heavy mud from the obstacle course. Every muscl

p bunk. Her arms felt like lead as s

e turned the squeaky metal knob, letting the hot water blast ove

lathered her hair. The distinct, crisp scent of cedarwood a

owel was wrapped tightly around her wet hair. She was wearing ov

ttom bunk. She was applying a wet sheet

ion. She remembered the exclusive, minimalist bottles sold at a boutique her mother frequented-the kind rumored to be custom-blended for the Astor famil

enom in her voice with a sweet, curious tone. "Wha

er guard up, already wary of Blair's sudden, fake sweetness. "Oh, I don't remember the name," S

In her mind, the narrative hardened: Sloane was a manipulative schemer, playing the inn

ayed the sympathetic listener, nodding and agree

nk. She pulled the thin, scratchy blanket over h

ed over the metal bedrail. Her fingers brushed against

ager camp dinner. But she pulled her hand back. It was t

near the cargo pants. Her sharp e

She realized Sloane was guarding t

nd shut off with a loud click. The ma

er muscles finally relaxing as th

smartphone from under her pillow, blat

r thumbs flew across the screen, typing furiously

ely: Tip off the instructors

wing screen. She typed

ble humiliation. Blair slid the phone away, staring up at the wood