“Maybe this is all a mistake—”
“Come now, Morgan.” Hudson stepped close enough to back her into the table. But all he did was take his book and move away, leaving behind the faint scent of shea butter. “It’s worth looking into. At the very least, this might make for a more interesting subject for my thesis.”
“Magic? That hardly seems compatible with a degree in political science.”
“Divine right of kings. Occult sciences. Western esotericism. The bloody history of belief in preternatural forces that shape political systems and justify who gets to wield power within them is more novel than my original pitch.”
“Are you single-handedly trying to prove the myth that human beings use only ten percent of their brain by making sure ninety percent of yours is made up of pure bullshit?” But she was smiling,and not even against her will. Him getting something out of her misery was more acceptable than his belief, the kind of belief she hadn’t even been able to get from her parents as a kid or her best friend as an adult. “But fine. What do we do now?”
“I,” he said, lifting his book, “am going back to work. You can meet me at my house this weekend. My roommates are going to a matinee, so if you come around eleven in the morning, we should have some privacy.”
He left without waiting for her response, assuming—arrogantly but correctly—that she would agree. After all, it wasn’t as though she had a choice.
11
Saturday was a rare warm day, one where the sun chased away the glacial autumn wind. Ellory had a jacket folded into her backpack, but she wore nothing heavier than an oversize hoodie and a pair of turquoise leggings. Sleep had eluded her since they’d made their plans. Every night, she lay in bed for hours while the compendium of horrors she’d witnessed played out in startling detail behind her eyelids. Every day, she moved through classes and shifts like a wraith, jumping at shadows and waiting for her reality to tilt once more. Now that she was finally on her way to get some answers, or so she hoped, she was glad for the unseasonable heat to give her something else to think about.
A tray with two coffees from Powers That Bean rocked in Ellory’s lap as the Uber carried her through Hudson Graves’s neighborhood, which looked like an entirely different place in the light of day. The streets weren’t clogged with parked cars, and the air wasn’t thick with loud music. Without the marks of a college party in progress, it was a normal suburb with clipped lawns and reddening trees. Twochildren played catch on a sun-gilded sidewalk. A woman pushed a lawn mower through her overgrown grass. A stray cat weaved between the empty garbage bins in someone’s driveway.
She felt like she was in a sinister suburban drama. She half expected to see a single drop of blood slowlydrip-drip-dripdown a pristine window.
Hudson’s precious ’71 Barracuda was parked as close to the house as it could get without entering the living room, a literal orange traffic cone behind the bumper to warn people away from approaching it. The lawn was more yellow than green now, and the bushes that huddled beneath the front windows were more branch than leaf. But the porch had been newly cleaned, each beam of wood shining in the morning light. To the left of the stairs rested a lopsided jack-o’-lantern with a cell phone wedged inside.
The door swung open after a single knock. Hudson yawned out a greeting, more dressed down than she’d ever seen him: loose white T-shirt, black sweatpants, and white socks with yellow ducks on them.
Ellory grinned. “Is that for me?”
“Isthatfor me?” Hudson replied, eyeing the coffee tray with longing. His roots were growing out, night black tipped with sun gold. “Boone broke the fucking espresso machine.”
“There’s a phone in your pumpkin.”
Hudson yawned again. “That’s Liam’s problem. Come in.”
She handed him the coffee, and he stepped out of her way. In front of the silver L-shaped couch rested a black walnut coffee table that hadn’t been there during the party. Books were stacked in a neat pile on top of it. A sage-green rug—also new—was beneath it, lending the room a calming sort of elegance. From the kitchen, she could hear the tinny sound of R & B playing through laptop speakers.Hudson padded in that direction, and Ellory slipped off her shoes and laid them neatly in the shoe rack before following him.
His laptop was on the kitchen island, open and surrounded by papers. She’d expected more books, yet there was nothing here but an empty plate smeared with the remnants of maple syrup and a black pen that dangled over the edge of the sink.
Hudson settled onto a barstool and drained half his coffee. His eyes opened a little wider. “A cinnamon roast? How’d you know?”
Ellory opened her mouth to answer and then closed it. Because she realized, right then, that she had no way of knowing he preferred a cinnamon roast. Hudson Graves had never been in the Powers That Bean, at least never while Ellory had been on shift, but she had ordered it for him without even thinking about it. It hadn’t seemed strange until now.
hudson will h?lp
She cleared her throat. “You’re welcome.”
Hudson watched her for a moment over the rim of his cup and then took another sip. “There are eggs on the stove if you haven’t had breakfast yet. Bread’s on top of the fridge, apricot jam inside. I trust you can find the toaster by yourself.”
Once Ellory had fixed herself a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and jam, she settled on a barstool beside Hudson. His screen saver was the word of the day: MAGNILOQUENT. He pulled the laptop closer to himself and scrolled through news sites while she ate. There were no windows in the kitchen, but petal-shaped glass pendant lights hung over the island, casting a golden glow over the countertop. It was almost noon, yet the house was as sleepy as the man beside her, soft and open in a way it hadn’t been at the party.
The music played on. The aroma of coffee filled her nose. It was peaceful.
“I looked up the symbol in your note,” Hudson said, after he’d washed up and refused to let her help dry. “The backwardehas a lot of meanings, but the most relevant one is its status as an existential quantifier. In mathematical logic, that symbol essentially means, ‘There is at least one,’ or ‘There exists.’ And that’s—”
“The Warren University motto,” Ellory finished for him. “But why would I tattoo that on my neck?”
“School spirit, clearly.”
Ellory glared at him.
