Kline snorts into his drink. “Always do, Mom.”
“Anyway, I’m calling it. We have an early shift, and I don’t like working on shit sleep,” I say.
“Yeah, no one likes you when you’re tired,” he mutters with a smirk. “You become more of an asshole than usual. What the hell was that earlier, anyway? With the intern?”
I tense slightly. The last thing I want is a breakdown of my behavior. “Lack of sleep. And my deep, undying hatred of ride-alongs that you were far too quick to agree to.”
Kline gives me a knowing look, smug as hell. “You liked her. Don’t gotta lie, Perez.”
“I’m not lying,” I grumble. Then add, after a pause, “But yeah. I liked her—or at least my dick did. Can’t deny that she is hot.”
He chokes out a laugh. “So what, that’s your excuse for acting like a dick to her? You get all flustered and revert to middle school tactics?”
I groan, dragging my hand through my hair. “I don’t know, man. She got under my skin. I was a dick because I didn’t know what else to do. I just hope she’ll forgive me and take my lame ass excuse.”
“You’d better hope that excuse of yours comes with a peace offering,” he says, finishing the bottle and then sliding it into the ever-growing pile forming.
“Yeah, well. Good luck with the bartender.”
“You too, loverboy,” he calls after me, already eyeing the bar again like he’s deciding if he’s got one more in him.
I shake my head, chuckling to myself as I head toward the exit. If he actually shows up to shift tomorrow, it’ll be a damn miracle.
SEVEN
RAELYNN
By the timeI cut across the long, brick-lined green in front of Koffler, the sun is already a fist on the back of my neck. Morning heat rises off the pavement in soft mirage-waves. It’s not even nine yet, and I’m already regretting my choice to wear all black. The steps up to Koffler are crowded—the slivers of shade feel rationed—and the soundtrack is first-week chaos: iced coffees clacking ice, syllabus complaints, “what’s your major” micro-introductions.
I dodge two guys on skateboards and sidestep a poor soul juggling a melting frappuccino, his cell phone, and a crumbling breakfast burrito like he’s in a circus act. I shoulder past with a murmured “sorry” and yank open the door to Room 204.
As soon as I step into the lecture hall, a blast of ice-cold air hits me, and I welcome it. The cool air immediately chills my flushed skin, causing goosebumps to bloom. I let out a sigh of relief as I make my way to my chosen seat, halfway up the tiered rows, and slide in beside my friends. Khloe has toned down her school spirit and decided that chaotic comfort was the choice attire for this lovely morning. She’s in an oversized graphic tee with a worn-for-wear skull printed on the front, the collar of theshirt hanging off her right shoulder, a pair of black leggings with little tears in the knees, and her tan Ugg boots. Her hair’s loose and wavy, like she rolled out of bed and let the breeze style it.
Marlena, on the other hand, looks like she stepped out of an Instagram ad for fairy grunge. She’s rocking a pale blue knee-length dress with soft lace detailing, paired with heavy black combat boots. Her blonde curls are arranged in perfect ringlets that bounce every time she laughs during her conversation with Austin. Compared to them, I look like a half-assed horror movie reject. My favoriteScreamtee, faded black leggings, and my scuffed combat boots. I tossed my hair into a high ponytail and didn’t bother with makeup. I just didn’t have it in me this morning—not the time, not the energy, and definitely not the fucks.
After quick greetings, I settle into my seat and slide my laptop out of my book bag.
Henley stands at the front of the room, arms folded, radiating that unreadable calm of his. He’s dressed in dark gray slacks, held up by a pair of matching suspenders. His white shirt is crisp with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing his tattoos that decorate his forearms. His jaw is freshly shaved, and his hair is tousled just enough to look deliberate without being try-hard. There’s something effortlessly sharp about him, like he walked out of a noir detective film and into our class.
As soon as the clock reads nine, Henley doesn’t wait. He dives right into the lecture.
“Today, we start at the roots—where modern criminology first took shape,” Henley begins, flipping to the first slide of his PowerPoint. A black-and-white portrait of an old man with wild hair and sunken eyes flashes on the screen.
“If you are going to remember any name this week, make sure it’s this one: Cesare Lombroso. The so-called father of criminology,” Henley says, his voice smooth and commanding.“Lombroso believed criminals weren’t made, they were born. He believed that one could identify a criminal by studying their physical characteristics, such as sloping foreheads, facial asymmetry, long arms, and large ears. Basically, if someone looked ‘off,’ he assumed they were dangerous. He called them ‘born criminals.’”
He clicks through slides: old anatomical sketches, diagrams of skulls, unsettling mugshots.
“He spent years cataloguing cadavers, measuring skulls, searching for the biological blueprint of evil,” Henley continues, his voice even but intense. “It was pseudoscience, obviously. But at the time, it was revolutionary. Lombroso was the first to suggest that criminal behavior had observable, measurable causes. That crime wasn’t just a result of sin or poor choices—it could be studied. Predicted, even.”
The lecture completely enthralls me, and by the end of it, my Google Doc is filled with bullet points, quickly hashed-out notes, underlined phrases, and several question marks and stars on points I have more questions about and what I thought was important to remember.
At the end of the lecture, Henley goes over the assignment—a short reading, and then a one-page essay in response—then dismisses us with a curt nod.
“Raelynn, can you stay for a moment?” he calls as soon as I rise, my laptop tucked under my arm as I pick my bag up off the floor and set it into my seat.
A few heads swivel my way, and heat floods my cheeks. Of course, Khloe shoots me a look that screams mischief. Her smirk says it all—her brain is already busy spinning some fantasy about a scandalous affair between me and the professor. I’m convinced at this point the womanlivesin the damn gutter. Sex isalwayson her mind. It does not matter who the subject matter is.
“Not a fucking word, Khloe,” I mutter, holding in a nervous laugh as I shove my laptop into its designated slot and sling my bag over my shoulder.
