Page 45

It’s enough to make me ill.

“Lyle is a wonderful addition to Classics,” I say, my voice strengthening as I gather some steam, “he’s been doing very interesting work. The department can’t only consider the impact of Scandinavia and the Latin-speaking countries, can it?”

“I can very well discuss my own contributions,” Lyle snaps, “but thank you, Lacie.”

God, I can’t do anything right, can I? I’m wracking my brain, trying to come up with an apology that doesn’t make me sound simpering and soft, when Marcella’s fingertips tighten on my arm.

“I have only seen the best of this department. Lacie, Lyle, and Therese are some of the finest scholars I’ve had the privilege of working alongside. I do so admire their work.” A droplet of sweat rolls down Marcella’s throat, dipping into the hollow of her collarbone.

I hate my need to be rescued nearly as much as I hate how effortlessly she does it.

“Really, Marcella, that is high praise.” The dean hums and I cannot take it, how he’s turned the high beam of his gaze on me like a scalpel biting into soft flesh. I quail a little because I knew, didn’t I, that I don’t belong here? But because Marcella asked me to come, I did, called to her like a pet.

Now Lyle and Therese are looking at me, too, and I feel myself begin to bottom out. The sounds are growing too loud all around me, the clicking of teeth against crystal and the screeching laughter and the stink of mildew. The pressure of people gazing at me, wondering who let me into this place even though I earned my spot here. I earned it. I worked so hard and just when I thought I was on the right track, every signpost was written in another language I couldn’t parse and competition heightened to a fever pitch, and now tenure has never seemed so distant.

I want to sink to the floor and cry for mercy, but I can’t.

“Marcella,” I grind out, “could you please show me where the bathroom is?”

“Of course. Only, I don’t remember where it is.”

Dean Shea raises his arm to point the way. “Down that hall, right next to my personal office.”

“Thank you. Excuse us, Dean Shea.”

She grabs my arm and guides me through the din. I lower my gaze to miss the following gazes of the Classics department.

“Come on,” Marcella snarls, pulling me through the hallway padded in evergreen tartan, past wall niches filled with dusty busts of Roman ancients. The wooden floor creaks as she leads me deeper into the house.

“What’s wrong?” I pull away from her and stop just short of a closed door. The voices behind us are distant, receding; dinner must be starting. We’ll have to go back soon, or we’ll be missed.

“I should ask the same of you.” Marcella leans hard against the wall, her face slick. Powdery wallpaper catches on her shoulder, her teeth clicking together as she tries to master whatever is happening to her.

“I’m—I’m fine. Just overwhelmed.” That’s the short of it: my head is buzzing, and my eyes are aching with tears it would be suicide to release. On the pretense of rubbing my face, I crawl my fingers up to my ears and press in. For just a single second, there’s silence, and I can breathe.

“When you’re done falling apart, listen—”

“I’m not falling apart,” I snap.

She softens briefly, putting a cradling hand to my chin. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “Can I help?”

My breath rasps, my throat too tight to breathe properly. In this single second, Marcella has seen me, made me feel like I’m worth something. Her thumb rubs my tense jaw.

“Just breathe, lamb,” she whispers. “In and out, that’s my girl.”

After a moment, my ears stop screaming. My heart slows, the cold scrim of sweat on my throat drying. “What—what were you saying?”

“Ah, yes. That.” Marcella straightens, taking her hand from my face. “I’ve learned something.” In the dark, she seems to glow, her pale eyes catching silver in the scant light. “Dean Shea is obsessed with ranking.”

I huff a laugh. “Is that all? Who told you that, Dr. Sims?”

Her gaze is deadly even if her words falter. “Fuck you. Just because you’re overstimulated or whatever it is, doesn’t mean you can be cruel.”

I match her tone for tone. I can’t help it, my relentless control on my emotional state unraveling. After I saw her cozying up to Arjun, no matter what the reason, after our argument in Dean Shea’s office, she doesn’t feel trustworthy. This is a marriage of convenience, so to speak, not a friendship. Tonight reminded me of that: no matter how lovely she is, how kind-seeming and comforting, she’s using me as much as I’m using her. She used me as a shield against Dean Shea, and then she came to my rescue to look like some savior. “Yeah? Fuck me? Bend over.”

Marcella bares her teeth. “After you.”

My chest heaves. This is stupid. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is finding out who was responsible for Laurel’s death and making sure they’re brought to justice. “Ask your ‘source’”—I crook my fingers in air quotes—“to do better.”