Except her.
“Norma. Good morning!”
She hesitates, because I’ve never laid it on this thick with her. Had no need to—she’s useless to me, barely one step above the janitor and his migraine-inducing, lemon-scented wood polish.
“It’s Nora,” she corrects almost reluctantly.
“Of course. What can I do for you?”
She clears her throat. “It’s about Professor Sutter.”
My spine stiffens at the name. Sutter—the academic equivalent of a cheap suit. Ill-fitted for anything beyond mediocrity.
This call would have been over already if Thatcher weren’t staring at me with determined expectation, perfectly happy to wait for me to finish my call so he can catch me in a fucking lie and cart me off to Guantanamo.
“What of him?” My tone is clipped, but as warm as I can manage. All for Thatcher, of course.
“He’s taken ill. The dean requested you fill in for him. It’ll just be for two weeks at most.”
I stare at Thatcher, who’s doodling in his notebook while pretending not to eavesdrop on my side of the conversation.
Two weeks of regurgitating Lombard’s intellectual hand-me-downs sounds like hell on Earth. But something tells me I’m going to need as many brownie points as I can score. That, or I’ll have to leave town again.
“Of course,” I say, injecting just enough cheer into my voice to mask my irritation. “Happy to help, Norma.”
The relief in her voice is blatant. “Perfect! I’ll let the dean know.”
“I’m in the area, so I’ll come past and collect Sutter’s notes from his office straight away.”
She sounds confused. “Oh, uh, I can just email them?—”
“Yes, I fully understand how urgent it is. I’ll be right over.”
Now she sounds flustered. “Well, I guess if you’d prefer to?—“
“Alright, Norma. See you now.”
“Sorry, Professor, just one more thing,” she adds quickly before I can end the call and escape Thatcher’s unwavering stare.
“Yes?” My teeth clench tighter, and I turn it into a rictus grin.
“You don’t perhaps know how I can get in touch with Haven Lee’s father? He had a meeting this week, but he never showed.”
“What meeting?” I cut in.
“Oh, uh...” the liaison hesitates. I can just imagine her fussing with the cheap reading glasses she wears on the end of her nose. “Dean Winslow arranged a sit-down with him to air some grievances.”
The words hit harder than they should. And I know it’s just my paranoia kicking in again, but I swear Thatcher is leaning forward as he strains to hear.
I hold the phone away from my ear. “Do you mind?” I say dryly.
Thatcher looks surprised that I’m speaking to him, then gives me a chagrined shrug as he steps back.
One foot.
Jesus, this fucking guy?—
“Leave it with me.” I hear the sharpness in my tone, and smooth it out with effort. “Things are…delicate at the moment. You know how it is with these students. I’ll speak to the dean and make the necessary arrangements.”
