Wyatt Wilson was a classmate of yours, a golden child. He was a perfect student, academic, athletic, star of the football team, headmaster’s son. He was many a time described as a ‘joy to teach.’ Below the surface, between students, he was rather know to be a man-whore, dating whomever and that lasting no more than his whims. You, however, always assumed there was more, noticing the bruises he always came to school with, his tired eyes, all the signs. “You got a pencil?” He tapped you.