Page 15

Lacie: Are you ok?

Lacie: Laurel?

FOURMarcella

You’d think that a dean’s house would be grander, but no. In my experience, they’re almost always crumbling brick and mortar façades with a big, flashy sign out front. Dean Shea’s is no different. Arjun pulls up to the curb, the engine of his car sputtering. So much for classy transportation.

I reach for the door.

“No, wait—” he says, scrambling out of his side and opening the door for me.

“Aw, you shouldn’t have,” I croon, fluttering my lashes down so I can look up at his wide, amber eyes.

“Well, for you, of course.” He takes my hand in his papery warm one. His brow knits, just slightly. “You cold? Your hand’s like ice.”

I pull away with a sly smile. “Raynaud’s syndrome. Runs in the family.”

“Oh. Got it.” He’s still looking at me funny.

“Don’t worry, nothing you could have done. I’m always a little chilly.” I step to the curb. “Shall we?”

“Oh, right, yes.” He extends a hand. “After you.”

The door is ajar, the rumbling of voices leaking out onto the pavement like so much oil. And I suppose it is: snake oil and lies, all these men, nary a feminine shape to round out the bunch.

Fun, I think, all sarcasm and bile.

But the truth of it is that it’s harder to get a mark alone if it’s an old boys’ club only. No distractions mean I’ll have to come up with some other reason to slip away with Arjun. Well, I always have triumphed before, so why not now? Hopefully there’ll be enough booze to make everyone loose and lazy. Taking a faux breath, I stall at the door.

“Nervous?” Arjun asks, his hand pressing to the small of my back. “Don’t be. You look gorgeous. You’re gonna stun in there, I know it.”

I allow my gaze to flutter to his, a little coy. “I hope you’re right.”

The moment lingers between us, sharp and electric. I feel the thump of his heart through his fingertips on my spine. It’s almost too easy—like junk food out of a vending machine. The issue is this: Dean Hansen wasn’t exactly filling, and by the time I saw his death reported in the school paper, the thing inside of me was already hungry again. Beggars cannot be choosers, I suppose.

“Is that one of my stars I see?” a voice booms. Dean Shea flings the door wide, his smile turning lupine and altogether too wide. Arjun has the good sense to look sheepish, his cheeks reddening under the praise. Dean Shea turns to me. “And Marcella. What a treat. Come in, come in.”

We have no other choice: whisked inside a colonial that smells of mothballs and, beneath it, decay. The stink of mold and mildew, the ratty, raggedy smell of wet paper as we enter a packed library thick with waxy smoke and the din of raised voices. The bookshelves seem to lean in all around us, stuffed with tomes older than this house. But all that glitters is not gold. Not here.

There’s damp in the ceiling, skittering rats beneath our feet, waiting for the moment the party ends, and they can slink from the shadows to feast on the dregs. Tinny music issues from unseen speakers, heady and shimmering as the room’s candlelight.

Beneath all of it, there’s a slithery, coppery snap of spilled blood. These places are old, storied. I wouldn’t be surprised if people were murdered in this very library. I make a note of it for later.

But for now, it’s a glittering bunch of men in their suits and boat shoes: classy, but not too much. Handsome, but only if you don’t look too hard. They call it the cheerleader effect when it’s a group of women, every imperfection hidden by the flashing of shiny hair, the sweep of short skirts, the sugared glaze of lip gloss. In a gaggle, one can hide a myriad of flaws. The same is true of a group of men in suits. But look close, and you can see the broken blood vessels around their noses, the waxy tone of their skin, the pilling of the sweaters beneath their threadbare suits. And here, their eyes are watery from drink already.

My lips tingle as they pull wide in an unabashed smile. “So pleased to be here, Dean Shea.”

“Please, call me John. At least for tonight.” He pushes Arjun to the side as he leads me to the center of the din. About fifteen men and a few quiet women circle the dingy white rug. Arjun makes a small sound of discontent, but he swallows it quickly. Can’t bite the hand that feeds.

“I’m so excited to introduce you to the crew in Classics.” He thinks he’s so funny, and I giggle along with his dumbass alliteration. “Everyone, this is Marcella, our new tenure track. I’ll make a more proper introduction at dinnertime.”

I recognize a few faces from the library stacks, from the halls. I offer them my glitteriest smile, my dark hair whispering around my shoulders. The women, mouse-quiet, stare over the rims of their drinks.

“So lovely to be among this wonderful group. I hope I’ll make my mark here.” I know I will.

“Come, circulate. Don’t be shy.” Dean Shea claps his hands. “Only a few minutes until dinner, I’d say.”

As he leaves my side, Arjun comes to take his spot again. His fingers tighten around my wrist and I turn to him in faux surprise.