If I wasn’t stuck in place, I’d be backing up for the door right now.
Winslow watches Haven without so much as a blink, her ring spinning around and around and around.
When she finally stands, my knees want to buckle with relief…until she speaks.
“You will continue attending Professor Rooke’s class?—“
“What? You can’t?—“
All it takes is a raised finger, and Haven falls silent.
“I will speak to him, but it’s ultimately his prerogative.” Winslow’s already reaching for a file on her desk. “In the meantime, you will attend his class, and you will keep up your grades if you wish to keep your funding.”
“For how long?” I ask when it’s obvious Haven’s used up all her courage.
Winslow’s jaw tightens. “I’ll address this once Professor Rooke returns from leave.”
“Leave?” Haven’s voice is too sharp, but neither woman seems to notice. “Where is he?”
The look Winslow gives her could strip paint. “That’s none of your concern, Miss Lee. Now?—“
“Look, Mrs. Winslow,” Haven cuts in.
“Miss,” I mutter.
Haven glances at me, frowning, then back at Winslow. “Miss Winslow,” she corrects. “Things have been…rough, okay?” Spots of color appear in her cheeks, and my stomach tightens.
She’s so far off script, I don’t know where this is even going. How much she’s willing to reveal. But I swear, if Haven tells Yolanda about the three of us, what wedid?—
“When I got here, I was living out of a fu—out of a car. To say the other kids weren’t welcoming is an understatement. Then you force me to take this—“ she waves her hand dramatically, and I swear it looks like she’s about to cry “—messed-up class that triggered every childhood trauma I have, and now…”
She breaks off, whipping her head away and pressing a hand over her mouth.
“My father just died, okay? I need time to process.”
“Robert Lee,” Winslow says quietly, shaking her head. “I knew I recognized that name.” Her eyes dip briefly, like she’s pissed off at herself. For what, though? Not making the connection?
“Please, if I can just have a few days to?—”
“I can see just how grief-stricken you are,” Winslow cuts in dryly.
Haven’s tearful expression fades. “Guess I’m still in denial.”
“You should visit the counseling center. We have campus therapists available around the clock. Now, if there’s nothing else…?”
Yeah. About a thousand fucking things.
But Haven looks like she’s about to start throwing gas on this dumpster fire, and you couldn’t pay me to stay in this office a second longer.
Riversiders don’t snitch. Not even when they should.
I pull Rooke’s keys from my pocket and set them on her desk. “These are his.”
Winslow stares at the keys as if they’re a dead rat. “I’m not a courier service, Mr. Jordan.”
“I know, but…”
She picks up the keys with obvious distaste. “I’ll see that he gets them.”
