“I am so sorry for your loss,” she says. “When is the funeral? The obituary didn’t say.”
Her words are rote. Empty. She’s never been particularly skilled at pretending to care. We’re alike in that way—not caring. Difference is, I excel at pretending otherwise.
“You’re not here to talk about Evelyn.”
Her smile tightens. “No,” she agrees. “I’m not.”
I made no secret of how contemptuous I was of my mother. Yolanda doesn’t have any specifics—those I’ve always kept to myself—but she knows I’d sooner perform Evelyn’s autopsy than attend her funeral. Maybe, then, I’d finally prove my theory that she was born without a heart.
Yolanda signals the waitress, orders a bottle of their most pretentious Bordeaux, and settles back against the leather. Her posture is careful. Controlled. But her hand is in her lap, and I know for a fact she’s turning her ring around her finger.
Impatience, or nerves?
Thankfully, she doesn’t force too much small talk on me. The arrival of fall, our football team’s shot at state, the new Mercedes model launching early next year.
Our waitress returns with Yolanda’s wine, Winslow ignoring her the entire time as she opens it, simply flicking a hand at her to wave off the tasting.
“Shame about the police investigation,” Yolanda says as she picks up her wineglass by the stem and swirls the liquid with a practiced motion.
I clear my throat. It’s not particularly loud in here, but surely I misheard.
“Investigation?” Why is my voice so hoarse?
She pauses, eyebrow twitching. “Too busy rending your clothes and rolling in ashes to check the news?”
I lick my lips to cover a smile. It’s easy to forget Yolanda has two masters and a PhD when she’s forever flashing her tits and batting her eyelashes.
“Absolutely,” I murmur before taking a swallow of my bourbon. “And don’t forget the wailing and gnashing of teeth.”
She tilts her head, taking a long sip of her wine as she studies me over the rim with dark-rimmed eyes. “I’m shocked, Bastian. The father of one of your students is found dead, and you haven’t conducted an impromptu therapy session with her yet? I thought vulnerable and suffering was just your type.”
I dip my head, briefly shutting my eyes. “You’re referring to Miss Lee’s father.”
“Mm,” Yolanda hums. “So youdidknow.”
I sigh. Shrug. “A drug overdose in a pathetic college town. What is the world coming to?”
She turns away with pursed lips, annoyed at my lack of a reaction. Probably thought she’d catch me off guard with the news. Or…
“I’m going to take a wild stab in the dark here, but is it at all possible that Miss Lee wishes to drop my class?”
Yolanda’s head snaps straight, eyes narrowed. She takes a slow sip of wine as if she’s composing herself, then mutters, “I’ve warned you beforenotto toy with me, Bastian.”
I love it when Yolanda pretends she has claws. It’s always a pleasure to remind her that she doesn’t.
I bring my glass to my lips. “If memory serves, youbeggedme to toy with you.”
Her mouth falls open.
I lean in over the table, dropping my gaze to her mouth. “Hm. Yes…” I muse. “That’s about the size of the ball gag we used, wasn’t it?”
“Miss Lee laid a complaint against you. As did Mr. Jordan, your T.A.,” she snaps.
“Did they now.”
“That’s three complaints this semester alone.” She takes a measured sip. Then another.
“Three? Who, pray tell, is the third?”
