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Marcella paces over to me, unhurried as she walks past the door, almost goading someone to find us. She places the heels of her hands on Dean Shea’s desk so we’re face-to-face. No, that’s not right. She’s leaning over me, her brows twitching up. “Strange question, since I’m helping you find her killer.”

My pinky’s touching the document with her picture from the now-dead Dean Hansen. But if I confront her, there’s no telling what she’ll do. Her eyes bore into mine, almost shining in the darkness, a strange spangle of light catching the diamond-paned windows and casting the books in an eerie green glow. “I—I know, it just—”

“Just what, Lacie? Thought I would endanger my own tenure by sneaking around to help clear both our names? You’re smarter than that. Act like it.”

I catch my breath against bared teeth. “I’m being direct and thorough.”

A smile ticks the corner of Marcella’s lips, the plush curve begging for a kiss. “You’re fighting against the very natural assumption that I’m your competition.”

“Aren’t you?” I bite. “We all are.”

“In this moment, we’re not. Believe me or don’t, I don’t care.” Her smile fades a little and she closes her eyes, chin lifting like she’s scenting the air. Her fingertips curl on the desk and she leans in, her eyes locking on the cluttered surface. Carefully, she brushes the papers aside until the dull wood surface is exposed. In the corner, the radiator hisses and ticks. “Check the other desk drawers.”

“I did. All of them. It’s just student stuff.”

“No. Kneel down. Desks of this age tend to have a hidden compartment beneath the central drawer, accessible by key. It’s a funny little innovation.”

“How do you know the age of this desk?”

She offers me a feline smile, but it’s unsteady around the edges. “Just do it, Lacie, I’d like to get out of here.”

“Usually when women ask me to kneel, it’s a bit sexier,” I grumble, which earns me a soft, surprised laugh from Marcella that reddens me from my cheeks to my ears.

God, I don’t even recognize myself like this.

Burying my shame, I twist my flashlight so I can see the smooth underside of the desk. Oddly, though, there’s a little cutout. My fingers seek it in the shadowed half-light, and I squint as I pull down a hinged piece of wood.

“Anything?” Marcella says, her voice dropped to a whisper.

A small keyhole. “Yeah, hold on.”

Tugging gently, I try to pry it open. No luck.

“Locked, but there’s something there.” I tilt my head up only to find Marcella has leaned farther over the desk. We’re so close to each other, her hair tickles my face.

I flush again and drop back on my heels. Then my phone starts to buzz, half a dozen texts.

Oh, shit.

Lyle: Someone’s coming upstairs

Lyle: Oh shit, it’s Arjun

Therese: Guys, get out of there

Lyle: Where are you???

Lyle: Fuck!@! Why aren’t you answering?

Therese: Shit shit shit

The door beep-beeps, and Marcella throws herself backward to hold it closed at the same time I duck down. We’re lucky it’s dark; Arjun peers in the window and makes a confused sound. The lock beep-beeps again, the handle rattling as he curses.

I meet Marcella’s wide eyes, my heart slamming and slamming, my fingertips going tingly, then numb as I see my entire career flash before me. All that hard work, gone in a single moment of stupidity.

Marcella tosses her head toward a small supply closet and I crawl on my hands and knees toward it. Not exactly dignified, but no time to think of it.

Arjun’s silhouette disappears and it’s our only chance. Marcella leaps silently, fluidly, across the floor and then we’re both inside the closet, pressed together in the dark.