Of courseit did.
Henry Rothwell didn’t study crime as a theory. He studied people right before they broke.
And because my brain was apparently committed to ruining my life, my first thought was:I wonder how fast he’ll figure me out.
As I knocked, I had the sudden urge to curtsy, andwhat the fuck was that?
Dr. Rothwell pulled the door open and leaned one hand against the frame.
His posture was locked down so tight I wondered if every violent thought inside him had been ordered to stand still.
Crisp, white shirt sleeves were rolled to his forearms, veins faint beneath the skin. I stared half a second too long and sort of hated myself for knowing exactly where I wanted his hands.
Damn.
I’d had him as an instructor before, but “had” was generous. Rothwell’s lectures were basically academic concerts—hundreds of students, impossible waitlists, and me somewhere twelve rows back pretending I wasn’t psychologically rearranged every Tuesday and Thursday.
Distance had done absolutely nothing to prepare me for him up close.
Wexley presented Henry Rothwell as polished and untouchable, but standing here, only a few feet away, the cracks were easier to spot.
Faint exhaustion shadowed his eyes. A pale scar cut along one side of his jaw.
He looked less like a professor and more like someone who knew exactly how capable he was of ruining your life.
Henry Rothwell was beautiful in a way that made rational feel optional.
Not safe. Not soft.
Built like a bad decision with tenure.
“Archibald Quinn?”
“Yes.” The word came out too fast. “Yes, sir.”
Ohmygod.
Bury me under the rich people stairs.
I did not justsirhim in the doorway.
His mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile.Not exactly.
“You’re one minute early.”
I couldn’t tell if that was criticism, observation, or the conversational equivalent of putting a hand around my throat.
“I… like to be prepared.”
His eyes held mine. “Come in.”
I noticed the desk first, all heavy mahogany and old money, the kind of piece that looked like it had been dragged out of a queen’s office.
It didn’t feel like a professor’s office the way Wexley wanted offices to feel. This place hadteeth.Shelves were packed tight, spines cracked and softened from being pulled down too many times.
Even the air in here felt different, smelling of coffee, paper, and something faintly smoky underneath. It was the kind ofscent that made the room feel more like a hideout than an office.Thiswas where Henry Rothwell came to be left alone with his ghosts.
It shouldn’t have mattered.
