DEAD PRESIDENTS

THREE

The Pi Sigma Theta house looks pristine from the outside, a stark contrast to what's inside.

I suppose it could be worse, especially considering how many of us live here, and it's certainly better than a lot of the other townhouses on Greek Row. Thanks to the money our dues and alumni bring in, we've managed to acquire and remodel three adjoining buildings, knocking down enough walls to give us space to house nearly forty brothers. Plus, we're situated on a corner lot, which means we have prime green space in a part of the city that has almost none.

Despite being a senior, I never lived here before this year. Pi Sig was kicked off campus when I was a freshman, banned from returning for two years after a myriad of noise violations, underage drinking citations, and a few uglier accusations. Most of the boys have never lived here either, but no one from my pledge class will ever forget the things that happened in the basement.

We have to be careful not to lose this place again. I hate myself for it, but the first thing that came to mind when I found out Sam had died was Thank god it didn't happen here. One dead body in this house was more than enough.

I nod to a few brothers gathered on the porch as I make my way up the front steps and into the house. It's uncharacteristically quiet inside, but the funeral has left most of us unsettled, coming to terms with the fact that one of our own will never return. I've been through it before, and yet the blow never softens, even though this time it wasn't my own best friend being put in the ground.

Don't think about that.

I roll my shoulders to release the tension as I bypass the living room and head for the stairs. I've got a couple hours before my talk with Tyler, Aaron, and Mitch tonight, enough time to figure out what their punishment will be. Fines won't make a difference, and there's a thin line between what classifies as decent discipline and the university's definition of hazing. They all know better than to snitch to the administration or even our national organization, but one wrong word and the house I've worked so hard to build back up will come tumbling down.

And that's exactly what Kennedy Bryant wants.

There's an unease in my chest that I can't shake, and our conversation at the cemetery refuses to leave my head. I made the mistake of trying to crack her mask, of trying to see if she'd lose the control she's clinging to for dear life, but I ended up revealing my own hand. Not all of it, thankfully, just enough of a glimpse that she knows I'm onto her, and now it's going to be damn hard to keep out of her web.

But I refuse to get tangled. I can't let her destroy my own plans.

I pull out my keys when I get to the narrow landing of the fourth floor, letting myself into my bedroom. Being president is a shit ton of work, more than I expected when I ran for the position at the end of last year, but there are perks—like not having to share a room. The "penthouse" is up in the turret of the original Pi Sig townhouse, the one on the corner lot. With high, sloping ceilings and near one-hundred-eighty degree views of the front street, side yard, and back alley, it's easily the best room in the house. Plus, it's got enough space for a queen-sized bed, and the ensuite bathroom doesn't hurt either.