“Soon he’ll be unstoppable,” Molly said of Colton. “He’s a junior now. He’ll graduate May ’97. With the Inhoffe connection and his family’s influence, he’ll get elected to state office in ’98. He’ll be Governor before he’s 40.”
Matt nodded. It was probably true. The Langleys were Oklahoma’s Kennedys.
“He’s just honing his skills here,” Molly continued. “Like a serial killer torturing critters before moving on to humans.”
Matt nodded numbly. A frisson of dread coursed through his veins. He was thinking of Debbie. “I gotta go,” he announced suddenly. He stood, wished Molly a Merry Christmas, and headed for the exit.
The Registrar’s office was shoehorned into a windowless corner of the building. Its door was covered in red Christmas paper, crisscrossed with a green ribbon to look like a giant present. That had to be Debbie’s doing.
Matt pushed open the door, stepped inside.
The office was not a large space. There was a counter. Behind that were the desks of the three women who worked there.
Two—not three—women hunched over their desks.
Debbie was not one of them.
One of the women—Liz—looked up, saw Matt, and burst into tears.
The other woman—Matt couldn’t remember her name—stood quickly. She put a hand on Liz’s shoulder (more of a “pull yourself together” touch than sympathetic), handed her a tissue, and stepped to the counter to deal with Matt.
Other Woman was in her sixties, widowed, had grandkids. Just because Matt couldn’t remember her name didn’t mean he didn’t know her. They had talked during some of his visits to Debbie.
“Debbie’s gone,” Other Woman said, matter-of-factly.
Matt could see that. What he wanted to know was when she would return. Was she OK? Why was Liz crying? And why was Debbie’s desk empty? As in no pictures of her cats. No pictures of him or the rest of the team.
“Debbie doesn’t work here anymore,” Other Woman said.
Oklahoma wasn’t the prettiest state any time of the year, but in December it was the ugliest. It was a prairie, after all, pancake flat, the ground fried crispy over the long summer, desperately hanging on for spring rains. Snow wasn’t on the menu until January, if then, so no White Christmas, boys and girls. The only snowmen were the plastic lawn decorations twisting in the constant gusts.
Matt’s Jeep tore through the streets on its way to Debbie’s house. His mood was black. The only detail he’d been able to glean from her coworker was that the dean had called Debbie to his office. While she had been there, a security guard had shown up and boxed her belongings. She’d been escorted to her car, told never to return to campus. Merry Christmas.
Matt could not escape the feeling that he had let Debbie down.
His eyes misted.
He white-knuckled the steering wheel. Took corners so fast the handcuffs hanging from his rearview mirror jangled angrily. Yes, handcuffs. A parting gift from Garland to remind Matt of who had tamed him.
Matt had news for all of them: this Mustang wasn’t tame and never would be. Not in a bedroom. Not anywhere. He’d consented—one time—to be handcuffed and face fucked by Garland. Fine. No shame in that. No regrets. No sequels either. If he ever played with handcuffs again, he would be the one doing the taming.
What galled him was how he had let William geld him where Colton was concerned—because, face it, while Debbie’s firing had been instigated by Colton and abetted by Dean Smith, it had also been enabled by William. There was culpability to spare.
William had been Godmother of the GM for a year now. He had pulled his punches and turned his cheek at every one of his ex-lover’s provocations. Had stopped Matt from giving the guy a well-deserved vigilante beatdown. Had instead led Colton to believe that he, William, was in possession of an antique wooden box full of Colton’s old love letters and cards to him.
Debbie’s house loomed into view.
Debbie’s 1984 Chevy Chevette, always garaged, was parked askew on the driveway. The driver’s door hung open.
Matt parked behind her car, got out, and investigated. He’d never been this close to it, was surprised to see that the tires were nearly bald.
Her boxed belongings were in the passenger seat.
He retrieved the box, closed the driver’s door, and walked to her porch, past a plastic lawn Santa and a sleigh full of toys. Past the scattered cat graves, gnomes,and whirligigs.
Knocked on the front door. Waited. Knocked again, a little louder.
Peered through the door’s window. Saw Debbie huddled on her couch, holding all three cats in a tight hug.
