There’s a bench that’s sheltered from the rain, right here in the entrance. I take a seat and run through the talking points in my head: I am very sorry. I have not been myself lately. Yes, I had food poisoning. But also, the fertility issues are really starting to take a toll. (As cold as she can seem, Jordana has two kids, and she will, I think, sympathize with this.) But it’s not an excuse—that part’s important. And I will do better. Did I mention I am very sorry?
I take a deep breath and put in my earbuds. I tap Jordana’s name in my contacts.
“Hi, Margo.” She answers on the second ring, her tone giving away nothing.
“Hi, Jordana, thanks for making the time to talk.”
“Of course. How are you? I mean,really?”
Her concern takes me aback.
“Doing much better, thank you.”
“That’s good to hear, Margo. You know, I do genuinely care about you, which is why your behavior lately has been so concer…”
I don’t catch what comes next. A man in jeans and a brown blazer has stopped, halfway across the green, in the middle of the brick path that leads to where I’m sitting. He wears glasses with thick black frames. He’s bald.
He’s Curt.
He cocks his head, pinning his gaze to me, trying, I’m sure, to decide if I am who he thinks. I look down at my phone, letting my hair fall around my face, and rise slowly from the bench.
“Jordana, I’m so sorry, I have to call you back,” I whisper.
“Margo, what? Are you seri—”
I hang up and turn sharply to the left, down another brick walkway. The green is nearly deserted now; it’s fully raining and classes must’ve started at eleven. I allow myself a half-glance back over myshoulder in time to see Curt pick up speed. My heart bangs against my rib cage.
Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I walk as briskly as I can. If I run, it’ll erase any doubt he might still have about who I am, though I can’t even know for sure if he’s still behind me. I’m too afraid to turn around and risk him getting a closer view of my face. I see movement out of the corner of my eye—a student exiting through a side door from Healy Hall. It’s my best option. I hurry over and slip inside before the door can close.
A vacant corridor of repeating brick archways stretches before me, possibly even more haunted-looking than the exterior. It doesn’t help that my own footsteps follow me like a ghost’s, echoing off the checkerboard tile floor. Doors, presumably classrooms, line the wall to my left, every one of them closed.
I come to a turnoff, another brick passageway that will funnel me deeper into the core of the building. I scramble down it just as a sharp, metallic sound cracks the silence behind me—the push-bar releasing on the exterior door. Someone else has come inside.
Leather-soled footsteps approach, hitting louder and harder than the ones my sneakers made. He’ll reach the turn any second. I crouch behind the base of the nearest archway, tucking my knees to my chest to make myself into a ball.
The footsteps stop. All I hear is my own rapid breathing.
Then two drawn-out syllables singsong down the corridor: “Maaaaar-gohhhh.”
15
Curt’s voice, eerily calm like it was on his front porch a week ago, sends a chill across my skin. If I stay put, he’ll find me. If I get up and run, he’ll follow.
A third choice—the only real choice—floats into my head, blotting out everything else around it: I am not the one who should be cowering here as if I did something wrong. Even if I were, I don’t have time for this bullshit. I just need to face him.
I push a hand into the rough brick and hoist myself up. The main corridor is only two or three steps away. I take them swiftly, and when I reach the turn, I walk out into the open without hesitation. He’s a few yards down the hall, his stance wide.
“Hi, Curt,” I say nonchalantly.
He narrows his eyes and takes fast, sweeping strides to meet me. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he hisses.
“Jesus, don’t be so dramatic. It’s an open campus. Shouldn’t a tenured professor know that?”
He shoves a finger into my face. “Don’t you fuck with me, you little psychopath. I saw you last night. Outside the house. I know it was you, and I called the cops, just like I said I would.”
I frown at him. “To tell them what, exactly? That you think youmaybe, possibly, saw a woman outside on the public sidewalk, who might have, at one point, been interested in buying your house?” I laugh. “I’m sure they rushed right over.”
“You need to listen to me, Margo.” His voice trembles. Is he afraid of me? “If you don’t leave us alone, you’ll regret it—that’s a promise.”
