The assembled crowd parted to let Aidan through. Jeff did his best to disperse the rest of the on-lookers, but it was too late.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Jeff appeared at her side, his eyes wide and darting between her and Liam. “I’ll go let Rob know you need a minute,” Jeff said.
She saw the look pass between her best friend and the man she loved, as if they were reassuring each other that she was okay.Am I?
The soft snick of her dressing room door closing announced Jeff’s exit. And then they were alone.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated.
“Stop.” He gripped her upper arms in his hands and met her eyes. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head and he exhaled, fast and harsh, like he’d been holding his breath since he’d come into the room. He wrapped her in his arms again, but she could feel the wall between them just as surely as she could feel his back beneath her hands.
“What happens now?” she asked.
Chapter Thirty-six
Liam saw Min safely to her family in the lobby, Jeff promising to make sure she got home – and to text him when she did – and then took his time gathering his things from his dressing room. He loaded the extra pair of shiny patent leather shoes and the back-up tailcoat into the back of his Audi, and then he sat in the driver’s seat, Debussy streaming from some satellite radio station through the car, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn the key.
He knew what he needed to do. But could he be blamed if he dawdled on his way to the gallows?
Finally, after listening all the way through both Debussy’s violin and cello sonatas, he turned the key in the ignition and drove.
The Tudor-style two-story house wasn’t far from campus, but the drive felt never-ending. Liam turned his car onto the flagstone driveway and parked behind the familiar cream-colored Cadillac. When he looked up, Dean Van Aller was already standing in the doorway of his open front door, his hands dug deep in the pockets of his chinos.
Liam followed the dean through the front hallway and into the small study at the back of the house. “Scotch?” the dean asked, even as he readied a glass at the drink cart, pouring a healthy amount of Lagavulin into a heavy-bottomed glass before handing it off to Liam.
Liam accepted the drink and took a long sip. “So you’ve heard,” he said.
“I don’t knowwhatI’ve heard, son,” the dean replied, sitting in one of the leather armchairs and gesturing for Liam to do the same. “Care to tell me what the hell is going on?”
Liam held the glass with both hands. He should be nervous. He should be desperate and preparing to beg for his job. But he didn’t feel any of those things. How could he when he knew he wouldn’t do a damn thing differently?
He scrubbed his hand over his face and began. “I punched Aidan Dietrich.”
The dean plunked his own glass down on the side table. “ThatI did hear,” he said, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. “What the hell for?”
“I interrupted him as he was assaulting a student.” The dean’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “He let himself into a female student’s –”
“Melynda Taylor,” the dean supplied.
Liam nodded. “He let himself into Melynda Taylor’s dressing room, cornered her, and was –” he broke off. Truthfully, he wasn’t entirely sure how far Aidan had gotten. He hoped he had intervened early enough, but maybe… He took another sip of his Scotch, drowning the end of that sentence before he could even think it. “Anyway, I saw her fighting him, and him spouting obscenities. So I ended it.”
The dean leaned back in his chair, his tongue swiping at the corner of his mouth. “Is she pressing charges?”
“No,” he answered immediately. Again, the dean arched an eyebrow – a challenge, an invitation to explain himself. “I don’t believe so.”
“She is aware of her options?” the dean asked. Again, giving him an invitation to explain himself.
Liam just nodded and took another too-large sip of his drink. He couldn’t tell if the dean agreed with how Liam had handled the situation or wanted to chastise him for it. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He would do it all again.
“And the rest?” the dean prompted, looking suddenly so old.
Liam had never noticed the way Stuart Van Aller’s salt and pepper mop was turning white above his ears, the way the creases in his forehead became deep chasms of worry in his mottled skin. He could feign ignorance. Deny. But if the dean was tired, Liam was exhausted.
“I have been having a romantic relationship with her.”
