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Can you hear me?SixStanding at the traffic lights, Bruno and his owner round the corner, his overweight body making him pant as he comes over to sniff my leg before being pulled away. She doesn’t say hi today. She jerks her head in acknowledgment, and I awkwardly wave as she passes.
The atmosphere on campus is still somber. Abigail’s empty chair taunts me. I’m transfixed, my pen tapping wildly against the table surface. Is it too soon to move the empty seat? “Ms. West, what will your paper topic be?” Professor Ashraf asks. I hear the turning of heads, the creaking of chairs as all attention lands on me. A weight pushes down on my chest, the room feeling two times smaller than moments ago. Sweat begins to pebble on my forehead. Just speak.
“Neurobiological foundations of fear,” I answer, swallowing down my anxiety and flicking the pages of my notepad to distract myself from everyone’s attention. Marco, Marco, Marco covers the entire thing. Slinking down in my chair to make myself smaller, I stare at him, waiting for him to move to someone else. He knows I hate speaking to the room. Eyes burn into me as they all wait to smirk and turn their noses up at my answer.
“Elaborate,” he requests. Asshole.
Concealing the annoyance I feel toward him, I clear my throat. “I want to explore how terror affects cognitive structures.” Training my eyes solely on him, I add, “More accurately, an individual’s response to fear.”
His brow lifts, intrigue hooking the side of his mouth. “Keep going.” He waves his hand in a rolling motion.
Sitting up a little straighter, I add, “I want to know why it affects people differently. Is it the biological or chemical makeup of each individual's brain?” Did Willis Langford feel fear? Or just get off on embedding it in others?
“Interesting. I look forward to reading your findings. Daniels, tell me what your topic will be.”
Relieved he moved on, I write out everyone’s topic, turning when I feel Stephan’s gaze boring into the side of my face. “What?” I crinkle my nose.
“Nothing. I’d just like to take a walk inside your mind.”
Letting out a short bark of laughter, I shake my head. “Trust me, you wouldn’t.”
I nudge him when he’s still staring at me and not answering our Professor, who called his name. Turning to face the rest of the class, he confidently replies, “I’ve always been interested in nature versus nurture. Suppose criminal tendencies can be passed on biologically, I want to study prolific criminals, their background, and their offspring.” My heart rages.
Jack.
Jack.
Jack.
There’s a humming in my ears. Stephan’s lips continue to move, explaining his topic, but I can’t hear anything but my own breathing. When the room comes back into focus, everyone is packing their stuff away to leave. “Liz? Are you coming?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, stuffing my crap into my backpack and darting from the room.
We’re only a couple feet into the corridor when someone calls out, “Ms. West.” A man I recognize from the day Abigail’s body was discovered. He was the officer in the sedan. “Cover the body.”
“Yes?”
Stephan pats my shoulder to signal his departure. I want to chase after him to rescue me from whatever it is this detective wants. The older man looks tired. Heavy bags sit under his eyes, creases pulling at the corners. He reaches his hand out for me to shake. It’s cold and clammy. The urge to scrub my palm down my coat is overwhelming. “I’m Detective Barnett. I’m speaking with Abigail Cane’s friends.”
“We weren’t friends,” I blurt out, halting his sentence.
Concern tugs down his brow. “Well,…I was told you sat next to her in class.”
“By who?” I scowl.
“I’m sorry?”
“Who told you I sat next to her? It wasn’t a choice: we’re just two people in the same class.” Why am I so defensive about this?
“All the same, with you sitting next to her, maybe you overheard any conversations she may have had. Any indication she was anxious, scared in the days before her death?”
“She was just Abigail.” I shrug. “I’m sorry, Detective. I have no helpful information.”
“You never know what might be useful. It can be something small that doesn’t seem important. When was the last time you saw Ms. Cane?”
“There’s lipstick on this mug. I want a new one.”
“Saturday. She came into the coffee shop I work at.” He jots that down in a notepad. The pen looks like something you’d get from a box of Scrabble or Ikea.
“Was she alone?” I try to bring that day back. Her face is like a neon light in my brain.
“There’s lipstick on this mug. I want a new one. You should really make an effort to ensure you only serve from clean mugs. It’s a health hazard.” Pouting ruby red lips. A petite frame. A curtain of auburn hair.
