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Ineedher, and her grandfather had the audacity to die and drag her home for a funeral. Well, then again… I hesitate, folding my arms as I stand in my room and just hover. Maybe it’s better she isn’t here. It’s impossible to not draw connections between the two women who looked a lot like my roommate. From their hair, to their eye shape, to their complexion and face shape…allof them had similarities to her.
So maybe it’s not safe, as long as Jack the Ripper of Juniper-lookalikes is running around. But if she’s not here, then I need another option. My nerves thrum and pulse just under my skin, and my heart seems to race in my chest as I recall the look on Professor Solomon’s face.
Maybe I’m going crazy. It’s a strong possibility, with the week I’ve had, and maybe I’m just throwing blame wherever it seems to fit, even without a reasonable excuse to do so. There’s everychance that he was justthere, or that he really does live around here.
So why am I jumping to him being some gory, seasoned serial killer hiding out in St. Augustine, Florida? After all, what serial killer ends uphere, when there have to be less conspicuous places to go? Like Canada. And would he really be a photography professor?
I’m being stupid.
But that interpretation doesn’t hit right, and I still can’t shake the way my professor looked at me, or his questions. As if it mattered if I knew her. If he’d killed her, would he have cared? If she were my friend, would my least favorite professor have some kind of regret for what he’d done?
Well, in the month that he’s known me, he hasn’t exactly shown any kind of fondness toward me, so I doubt it. Though, I can’t help flashing back to Oliver kissing me in the hallway, my professor’s eyes on mine. And it doesn’t help one bit.
Sitting down, I try to figure out what I’m going to do. I have nothingtodo, for the most part. No homework, no stream, no laundry. I’d planned to just take it easy today and maybe call Oliver, but now I’m not so sure.
Now, all I want to do is stare at the table and run the past hour’s events through my head over and over again. Look for some kind of connection or explanation that I can use to chase away the fear and apprehension I feel.
That lasts all of twenty minutes, max, before I drag myself to the sofa and collapse onto it with a groan. My hand finds the remote automatically, and I turn on one of my least favorite talk shows before burying my face in the rough, embroidered pillows that are arranged just so on the sofa.
I’d prefer one of my own, and a better blanket than the quilt I drag onto myself, but well… It is what it is, and now that I’m here, I don’t feel like moving. Not even when my phone digs intomy hip and I worry it’s going to leave a bruise. My mind drifts, thankfully, until finally I’m dozing with the noise of the talk show and dramatic family reunions filtering through my brain, lending itself to the strangest dreams I’ve ever had.
My phone wakes me, ringing a muffled noise from my pocket as I turn over to lie on my stomach. The sound gets louder as I do, and I reach back, half asleep still, to drag it out of my pocket and up to my ear without bothering to look at who’s calling. For all I know, it’s a call to talk about my imaginary car’s extended warranty.
“H’llo?” I mumble, still fuzzy as sleep clings to me like a better, softer blanket than the one draped over my legs.
“Blair?” Oliver sounds happy, as always, but a little concerned as well. It doesn’t do much to wake me up more than I already am, and I just hum my agreement at my name. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I admit, curling onto my side to face the back of the couch. “I’ve had a pretty shitty day, actually. What time is it?”
I don’t get a chance to look at my phone before he says, quickly, “It’s almost six.”
At night? Had I really slept for almost ten hours? Glancing at my phone screen, I see he’s right. It’s nearly six at night, and I haven’t eaten all day.
Not that I really feel hungry, truth be told, but I roll off the couch and stumble into the kitchen, anyway. There are a few granola bars in the cabinet, and I snag a chocolate chip one to rip open while I talk. “I had an awful morning,” I admit, sitting down at the table and rubbing my eyes. With him on speaker, I have both hands free, and I can still hear his soft sigh.
“Are you okay?”
“I guess. Maybe? I don’t know.” I hesitate, half-wishing that I could tell him about my suspicions.
But… can’t I? IlikeOliver. I trust him, even though I’ve known him for just over a month. But it’s still so new, and I already think he’s convinced I’m paranoid due to the man outside my apartment last time.
But if I can’t tell Oliver, who can I tell? I need help. I need someone to understand my thoughts, or at least disagree with my suspicions. Can’t Oliver do that? Besides, out of anyone, he knows Professor Solomon best. Surely, he’d be the right person for the job.
“I found a body this morning,” I continue, tearing off a corner of the granola bar.
“Holy shit, Blair.” He lets out a whistle, sounding half-horrified, and half-impressed. “Who?”
“Actually, I don’t know. Some woman I saw at the coffee shop before I left. I was walking home, and I saw her purse on the ground. I thought maybe she’d dropped it and was looking for it and…” My brain so helpfully flashes back to the way her throat had gaped open like a second, smiling mouth and my stomach clenches in refusal as I swallow the stone-dry granola bar piece. It nearly makes me gag and scratches my throat the whole way down like it’s covered in thorns.
I cough once, then again, and stand up so quickly the chair rocks back and nearly falls before I right it and grab a bottle of water out of the fridge to wash down the pain.
“Are you there? Are you okay?”The concern outweighs the curiosity in his voice as I sit back down, head in my hands.
“I’m fine,” I say, voice only a little hoarse. “I choked on a granola bar.”
“How’d she die? Was it…?”he trails off, not saying the last word, but I know what he’s asking.Was it murder?
“Well, I doubt you spontaneously or accidentally slit your own throat.” I snort weakly, eyes closing hard against the mental image. “So, yeah. I’m going to go with murder, Oliver.”
