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I don’t recall a single one mentioning that name, much less him being accused of her murder. And after he said Cole killed someone else last time, I went and searched the internet, but didn’t find anything.
Dr. Wright’s eyes haven’t left mine as I stare helplessly at him. Slowly, they start to narrow, but the anger is replaced with confusion. “Even now, you’re going to stand there and continue to cover it up with your lies?”
“I don’t… I don’t even know who she is.”
Like I’ve flipped a switch, the anger is back. “Get out.”
I grab my laptop, not bothering to stick it in my bag as I run out of the room. I don’t stop running until I get to my room, locking the door behind me.
Breathing heavily, I walk over to my bed and drop my bag and laptop on it before I sit down. My hands are still shaking, but I feel numb.
Time passes, though I’m not sure how long, before I manage to pull myself out of the strange mental shutdown I’m in.
“It makes no sense, because it’s nonsense,” I say as though there’s another person in the room with me.
I don’t know why Dr. Wright made this up, or why he’s out to get me, but the reason I can’t remember anything about this at all is because it never happened to begin with.
Sucking in a deep breath, I get up and walk into the bathroom to wash my face with cold water. With the water still dripping from my chin, I stare at my reflection and take a few more deep breaths.
“Pull yourself together, Tori,” I sternly tell myself.
After drying my face, I return to my bedroom, grab the laptop and sit down at my desk. There’s a really easy way to settle this. I go to Google and type Lucy Barnes, Murder.
The only results lead me to a seventy-year-old woman who was murdered a few years ago, and even then, her name isn’t an exact match.
I add James Keyingham University, and there’s still no matches.
Relief rushes through me, and I relax back into my seat.
Iknewit wasn’t possible.
But why on earth would Dr. Wright—aprofessor—make up something like this?
We didn’t exactly get off on the right foot, but the animosity has spiked straight into malice for no reason.
Did he know JP?
Did he teach him?
Or is it more than that? Is he friends with Syn? Is that why he was at the church on Friday night?
My mind is racing again, so I force myself to focus on one thing at a time. I load up the James Keyingham University homepage and search for his biography. Every professor here is listed so that the college can brag about their faculty members’ expertise and accomplishments.
Dr. Payne Wright, Ph.D.
There’s a full-length picture of him taken in his office. He’s leaning against his desk, just like he was with me earlier. Although his sleeves are rolled up, showing off the muscles and veins of his arms, and the top couple of buttons of his shirt are undone, he doesn’t look relaxed. He doesn’t even look happy.
The all-too-familiar cold glare has been captured with perfect lighting. Most annoying is that he still looks like a model despite this.
Dr. Payne Wright, Ph.D., joined the faculty at James Keyingham University as a Professor of Communication Studies. Dr. Wright graduated from the Annenberg School for Communication at the University of Pennsylvania…
He’s younger than I thought, either thirty or about to turn thirty, judging from when he received his Ph.D. He was also working in Silicon Valley—literally on the other side of the country—until he started teaching here last semester.
When JP was killed, he was in California. Which means, unless they somehow managed to cross paths, it’s unlikely that he even knew JP. Unless he befriended Syn this year, he probably doesn’t know him either.
Sitting back in my chair, I rub at the back of my neck. This is making less and less sense.
Until this year, I’ve never met Dr. Wright before. Admittedly, I did spill my coffee on him, but aside from that, I can’t think of a single instance where our paths could have crossed before. So, if he’s trying to fuck with me, I can’t think of a reason behind it.
