"Let him ask."
"You don't understand. He's—" She stops, and there's something in her expression that makes my blood run cold. "He's not a good person to have as an enemy."
"Neither am I."
She looks at me for a long moment, and I can see her trying to figure out what I mean by that—trying to reconcile the polite, intellectual classmate with whatever she's sensing beneath the surface.
"I should go," she says finally, but she doesn't move.
"Drink your coffee first. I made sure they got it exactly right."
She picks up the cup, and her hands are shaking slightly. "Why are you doing this?"
"I told you. I care about you."
"You barely know me."
"I know enough." I lean forward, keeping my voice low. "I know you're brilliant. I know you light up when you talk about your research. I know you have dreams that terrify you because they're so different from what you're supposed to want. I know you feel trapped in a life that was chosen for you. I know?—"
"Stop." But her voice is barely a whisper. "Please stop."
"Why? Because it's true? Because hearing it out loud makes it real?"
Her throat moves, and I see her jaw clench. "I'm engaged. I'm going to marry Thad. That's what's supposed to happen."
"Supposed to. But is it what you want?"
She doesn't answer. She just stands, leaving the coffee untouched again, and walks out.
But this time, she looks back.
—
Vince callsme two days later. "I found something," he says without preamble. "About Whitmore. You're not going to like it. Or hell, depending on what you’re doing with the info, maybe you will."
I sit up straighter on my couch. "Tell me."
"There was a girl. Emma Hartwell. She was a sophomore at USC when Whitmore was a senior. They dated for about three months."
"And?"
"And she dropped out suddenly in the middle of the spring semester. Transferred to a school in California, as far from South Carolina as she could get. No official complaint was ever filed, but there were rumors. Whispers about an incident at a party, about Whitmore getting violent when she tried to break up with him."
My hand tightens around the phone. "How violent?"
"Violent enough that she ended up in the hospital. But the official story was that she fell down some stairs while drunk. Whitmore's father made sure of that, seems like—paid off the right people, made sure no charges were filed. The whole thing was swept under the rug as a 'boys being boys' incident."
"Where is she now?"
"Still in California. Married, different last name. She's not going to talk, Romeo. I tried reaching out through intermediaries, and she made it very clear she wants nothing to do with anything related to Whitmore."
I nod, blowing out a sharp breath. "What else?"
"There were other incidents. Nothing as serious, but a pattern. Girls who dated him briefly and then cut off all contact. A harassment complaint that was withdrawn. Rumors of controlling behavior, possessiveness, anger issues. Nothing that stuck, nothing that could be proven, but?—"
I suck at my teeth briefly, that familiar rage coiling in my gut. "But enough to paint a picture."
"Yeah. This guy is bad news. And his family has enough money and connections to make sure nothing ever comes back on him."
