“Everyone involved is cooperating fully with law enforcement to try to quickly determine the location of the other young women he victimized. As soon as we have any updates, we’ll communicate them without delay. Thank you for you being here today and for continuing to help us search for our missing students.”
Questions are shouted at the dean immediately.
I turn, shaking my head at Shane as my heart sinks. Deep down, I’m more and more convinced Daniel isn’t Casanova.
“Dean! Dean! Can you tell us the circumstances of Casanova’s death? Was he shot by law enforcement?”
“He was not shot. I’m not at liberty today to share the details of his failed abduction, but I’m sure the facts will emerge in due course.”
It wasn’t a failed abduction. He wasn’t there to kidnap me.
“Dean! Who is the student? Is her name Avery Kershaw?”
I freeze. Someone leaked my name.
Shane’s arm comes around my waist and guides me to a walking path. For a moment the dean’s eyes lock with mine, causing at least ten heads to swivel in my direction. Shane moves around me in an instant, blocking their view of me.
We cut down a side path to the parking lot where the Porsche waits. Reporters and their cameramen pursue us.
A part of me doesn’t want to run. A part of me is tempted to stop and share my concerns, so women don’t return to campus unaware they may still be targets.
I don’t speak though. My body hurtles along the path, feet crunching into snow and leaving dark footprints.
We reach the car, and Shane puts me in the passenger seat, ignoring the shouting reporters rushing toward the lot.
As ever, he is calm.
Once inside, he maneuvers the car around the throngs like a Formula One driver. “You all right?” he asks, glancing over.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I wish the dean had waited, but I trust the FBI will keep working on the case until they’re satisfied it’s really over.”
Shane raises his hand to block the media from taking pictures of me through the windshield. My bodyguard until the bitter end.
Once we’re out of the lot, he shifts gears and leaves everyone far behind. By the time we get on the expressway, we’re lost in a sea of holiday travelers.
“Hey,” he says.
I turn my head toward him. “Yes?”
“That settled it. We’re going out of town for New Year’s Eve. Pick a place, or I will.”
“Edinburgh?”
“Yeah, sure.”
His hand rests on the gearshift, and mine snakes over to cover it, stroking his knuckles.
“What made you choose Edinburgh? If we’re over there, why not London? Or Dublin?”
“In his article, Erik made it sound like Edinburgh’s Hogmanay is the best New Year’s celebration in Europe.”
“Sorensen? What article?”
“The one in the school newspaper around this time last year.”
Shane’s brows rise. “Last year? How did you see it?”
“I read Ethan’s.”
