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Click, click, click.
“I’m not sure, Hannah. How about I think about it and get back to you?”
“Oh, um—”
I brought up my calendar on the desktop and scanned all the meetings, classes and deadlines I had coming up. “How does the end of next week sound?”
She frowned lightly. “So you’ll get back to me about us going out not this Friday, but next Friday?”
“No, Friday I’ll have to research for the party page, but Sunday would work.”
That way I’d have time to weigh up the pros and cons of dating. I’d made the mistake before of dating someone who worked in the office. Bad idea. But I couldn’t ignore the warm ache at the thought of someone wanting to spend time with me. Someone who actually seemed to like me.
Someone who would discover my dead body before it started to rot in my apartment.
“Okay, Liam.” She gave a small chuckle, then turned and left. “Next Sunday it is.”
The door shut behind her with a soft click, and I stared at it for a good ten seconds before the chief brought me back to the present, snapping his fingers in front of my face.
The chief left soon after, leaving me and the dodgy light alone in the building. Finally, I picked up the phone and dialed Beckman Hall.
The girl who answered sounded almost identical to Hannah, and I did a double take before introducing myself. She recognized my name right away. “I just loved the piece you did on ghosts of university past and present and that. Really great.”
What was it with that Christmas piece? Had no one any real taste? I cleared the strange mix of delight and disappointment from my throat, and my voice came out deeper than its usual baritone. “Thank you. I’d like to speak with a Dylan MacDonald?”
“Just a sec.” She must have covered the phone because, though I couldn’t make out what she was saying, I could make out voices. A long moment later, she said, “I’m sorry, Dylan came back sick from his field trip. He might have glandular fever. He’s gone back home and I don’t know when he’ll be back. Do you want me to leave a message on his door? Or, he has a friend crashing in his room for a couple days . . . maybe he can help answer your questions?”
I declined the offer. Dylan would have no idea who I was or what I was after, and I didn’t want to leave details in a note on his door. I certainly didn’t want to involve his friend.
Just before I hung up, the girl spoke again, “So, like, how do you choose what party you write about?”
“Random, mostly.” This wasn’t entirely true; I chose parties that were close to my apartment.
She continued, “Beckman Hall is having a ball this Friday, would that count as a party?”
I almost declined, but I reconsidered. If I attended this ball, I’d be at Beckman Hall, where a photo of The Raven hung in Dylan’s room. Maybe, if I was clever enough, I wouldn’t have to wait until Dylan returned to get a glimpse of the vigilante.
I leaned back. “Actually, I think Beckman Hall ball would work splendidly. How do I go about getting a ticket?”
Beckman Hall cafeteria-turned-ballroom looked like it had been sucking on gangster hats, feather eyelashes, fringed skirts and cigarette holders for so long that it started spitting feathered scarves and velveteen gloves to the floor in protest.
Wearing plain black slacks and a black shirt, I slipped easily into the shadows, and no one gave me much more than a passing glance. Now that I was here, all I had to do was write some notes for my column, find out where exactly Dylan roomed, and sneak inside for a quick look around.
A voice cut through the plucking of bass strings, and the familiarity stilled me. Trying to fit myself against a life-size silhouette showcased on the wall, I skimmed the heads of the crowd toward the voice. No. It just wasn’t possible. How could he be here?
I blinked at the guy dancing to the lively jazz—black pants, white shirt and suspenders.
Quinn.
It’s no wonder he doesn’t have friends.
My throat pinched as I swallowed, and despite the . . . rawness that overcame me seeing him, I couldn’t look away. Thank God he wasn’t gazing in my direction. I slunk closer to the wall, trying to be more inconspicuous.
How was it that Quinn was at almost all the parties I went to?
I’d read up on Beckman Hall, and this ball was famous, but really? It was unfathomable that we would run into each other at a party—three times in a row.
I searched for Shannon, but didn’t see her anywhere in the thickening crowds of top hats and suave come-ons. Nor did I spot Hunter hidden in a corner. Was it just Quinn?
