Fucking animal.
I hold his eyes, then wink at him, before I slide the glass across the bar toward him. He looks at the glass, then back up at me.
“Vodka, straight. Just like I know you like it,” I tell him, before adding “I’ll be waiting upstairs.”
I know without doubt that he will down that drink then head upstairs to meet me in one of the bedrooms.So fucking predictable.
I don’t stay to watch. I already know how this ends. How he ends.
I slip out the same way I came in, unnoticed, unimportant. My pulse stays level. My breathing never breaks stride.
Outside, the night cuts cool and clean. It settles into quiet the further away I move from Legacy House. But I know the silence won’t last. Something is bound to break the atmosphere.
Back in the dorm room I’ve invaded for the weekend, I lock the door and wash my hands. Slow. Careful. Once. Twice. A third time—because some habits don’t die when people do.
I sit on the edge of the bed and pull the envelope from my bag.
There are three names on it. I draw a finger across one. Then I lie back and stare at the ceiling.
One down. Two to go.
3
JUSTIN
Idon’t get many calls at 4:00am, but when I do, I know it’s important. Like life or death urgency.
I don’t answer it right away. I finish reading the last line of the report on my screen, commit the phrasing to memory, then pick up.
“Goliath.”
The dean’s voice is tight, clipped, urgent. There’s no need for introductions. I have every university within a 500 mile radius on speed dial, their numbers saved to my contacts. The bulk of what we do has to do with crimes on campus grounds, so it’s important to know who we’re talking to at all times.
“We have a situation,” the dean rushes to tell me.
You always do.
He talks too fast. He tells me all about an Alumni event at Legacy House on campus grounds. We don’t usually do parties, so I’m not sure why he’s calling, but I listen patiently, waiting for the punch line.
He tells me there was a male in his early thirties who collapsed in the kitchen. The paramedics were called and therewere no obvious signs of trauma. The incident was believed to be a case of a heart attack, but the dean’s not so sure.
He pauses, like this needs gravity. I almost roll my eyes. Almost. We warned them—no more parties, no more excess, no more stupid privilege. But men like that never listen. They think money makes them indestructible.
It’s the same old story: grown boys poisoning themselves and acting shocked when their bodies finally say no. Too much of everything, not enough consequence.
“But there was… foaming at the mouth.”
The words cause me to immediately straighten in my chair.
Heart attacks are clean. Predictable. Easy enough to explain and diagnose. Whereas, foaming is messy. It leaves behind questions begging to be answered.
“What’s the toxicology status?” I ask.
“Pending. But”—another pause, longer this time—“we can’t afford speculation.”
Of course you can’t.
If only the fucking deans could get their fucking fingers out of their dumb asses, I wouldn’t have to constantly clean up their messes. I had more important things to do than clean up frat party messes.
