Ms. Hartley’s office provides sanctuary and strategy both. She listens to everything without interrupting, face growing graver with each detail.
"I knew something was wrong," she says finally. "I didn't know… I would never have thought it was this."
"We need to warn everyone," I tell her. "Every omega who recentlybonded."
"Carefully," she agrees. "We don’t want to cause unnecessary panic." She thinks for a moment. "I'll frame it as a contamination concern. Quality control issue with herbal supplies. Anyone who received unsolicited packages should turn them in, even yours, Elowen." She pauses. “We should inform the police as a matter of urgency.”
“Not yet,” Elowen says. “We don’t want to alert whoever is responsible.”
Her eyes meet mine briefly, and I know what she is thinking. The police will liaise with Officer Brennan on campus, and if he is our killer, he’ll cover it up somehow and we’ll have wasted precious time.
Ms. Hartley nods. “I’ll have to notify the dean of course. It will be his decision regarding how we proceed.”
“We understand,” I say.
Pushing it will only make her question our motives for keeping this quiet, and if she believes Elowen is the killer’s next target, she’ll probably make arrangements to send her home. Without us. And the thought of her being so exposed, so vulnerable…
“We’ll spread the word to other omegas,” Tyler says. “Seraphina can help with that.”
"Can you tell us who has access to heat records?" I ask Ms. Hartley.
She hesitates. "That's confidential?—"
"Four people are dead," Calder states flatly. "Confidentiality matters less than preventing number five."
Her shoulders slump. "You’re right."She types something into her computer and blinks before facing us again. “I’ll have to tell the dean that I’ve given you this information.”
“Of course,” I say, speeding up the process.
"Four people have full access to omega heat schedules. Me, obviously. Dr. Hayes from health services. Dean Morrison, and Officer Brennan from security."
28
ELOWEN
The kitchenin Calder’s apartment smells like garlic and olive oil, something simple we thought we could manage after the weight of the day. Four people with access to heat records, but only one of them rings alarm bells when his name flashes behind my eyes.
Officer Brennan. But what possible motive could he have?
Tyler chops vegetables with methodical focus. Julian reads instructions from his phone. I stir the pan, watching steam rise. It’s all they trust me with.
Calder stands by the counter, unnaturally still.
His knuckles press white against the granite. The cedar-smoke scent that usually grounds me has sharpened into something almost metallic, ozone before lightning, a warning before the storm breaks.
"I need a minute." His voice sounds scraped raw.
He walks toward the bedroom before any of us respond.
Tyler's knife pauses mid-slice. Julian's eyes track Calder's exit with the kind of attention that means calculation happening beneath the surface.
"Should we—" Tyler starts.
I'm already moving.
I sense his fear. Whatever's happening, he doesn't want to face it alone, which is exactly why he shouldn't.
The bedroom door stands open. Calder paces between the window and the bed, rolling his sleeves to his elbows in sharp, agitated movements. The compass rose tattoo on his inner left forearm catches the glow of the bedside lamp.
