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Dr. Sims scoffs. “Come now.”
Two people have been murdered. Murdered, though they’re being treated like suicides. I think of Melinda, who found Laurel. Ultimately, some poor undergrad found Therese after we did. I worry about them. I worry about all of us.
If Dean Shea is asking me these questions, doesn’t that make me a target? The icy fingers of fear grip my throat. “No, Dean Shea. I’m absolutely fine.”
“Absolutely fine,” Dr. Sims mutters derisively.
Lyle stays silent, studying the paper he was given.
“Well, Lacie,” Dean Shea says after a moment, “you have stiff departmental competition. Whatever it is that’s going on, I ask that you … handle it. Or you’ll be put on probation. Are you truly ready to sit in on orals next week?”
Oh … fuck. Next week?
“Yes, Friday,” I squeak out. “Of course.”
I don’t even know who I’m assessing.
“Good, good.” He stands again, looks me dead in the eye, his lip curling with a sneer. “Don’t ever let this happen again. We depend on our assistant professors to uphold the good name of this department. If you can’t, Sims is right. Do the honorable thing and step aside.”
“I understand. I’m sorry.”
He gives a soft harrumph. “Will we see you at the Winter Ball?”
It’s everything I can do not to burst out into hysterical laughter. After all that? He’s asking if I’m going. I promised Marcella I would, but I just want to bury my head in the sand. I’m exhausted. “Yes,” I say. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“Good, good. And Lacie,” he says. “Do be a dear and clean yourself up. We don’t suffer hysterics in Classics.”
Lyle stands and opens the door for his superiors. He gives me a hard once-over, then nods, the frames of his glasses glinting in the low light.
It’s all I can do to hold my head up until they leave.
Fuck.
I drop my head down on the seminar table, willing myself to breathe. In, out. In, out. My pulse pounds in my fingertips, my eyes still watering. But I can’t let myself cry. No more.
Swallowing hard against the growing lump in my throat, I pick my phone up. It’s still smattered with teardrops, and I wipe them away angrily.
I think I have some information.
Can you meet me at the Perk in five? I erase five and put ten instead. I’ll wash my face and get my act together.
I don’t want her to think of me this way: broken, crumbling. She’s relying on me. She told me as much.
Marcella: Don’t you have class, lamb?
Long story. Can you meet?
Marcella: If you’re that desperate …
Despite my panic, I smile a little. It’s just a little flirting, and even when I remind myself that she constitutes danger—she could implicate me in murder, for one, and for another, could take my position in Classics—it still buckles something inside of me. She’s put another crack in a façade I thought was smooth and unerring, allowed me to be weak in front of her. She made me break apart at dinner, but I can put myself back together again.
Very.
I can feel her smiling.
Marcella: Ten it is
By the time I’ve straightened myself up in the dingy Classics bathroom and gotten to the Perk, Marcella is already at our usual table. She has one of those vile frappé things in front of her, the top drizzled with chocolate sauce. But she also has a large black coffee. For me.
