Page 39 of Shadowed With Fear

“Professor Logan, it’s great to see you. Has the semester been going well?” I smile at him, sitting in the chair across from him. He sits back, a joyous look on his face.

He always did like me, and I can honestly say the feeling was mutual. Logan was a great professor, and an even better mentor when I was his assistant my senior year.

“As good as it ever is, my boy. What brings you here today?”

“I hope I’m not coming at a bad time, sir. I just thought I would pop in and see how you are. I’m here to pick up my girlfriend.” The lie burns. I don’t like having to lie to him. He didn’t deserve it.

“Hmm, a girlfriend, huh? Maybe there is hope for you yet.” He winks at me chuckling and I crack a grin.

“Yeah, her class ends in a little bit, but I got here early, so I thought I would pop in. See how you’re doing, how the semester is going. Any good prospects this year, sir?”

“You know, there are actually a few I have my eye on. I think one has caught the eye of my assistant as well. She has a lot of potential for something great. Quite like you did, Grayson.”

My ears prick up. “Yeah? Someone as good as me? Professor you wound me.” My hand clutches at my jacket and he shakes his head.

“It is the way of life. My assistant in Foundations has been speaking with her one on one. It seems they might be working closely together. She had come to him asking for some more individualized guidance on her portfolio. So, I am quite excited to see what she brings to the table with him overseeing her work.”

I nod along, but deep down the rage boils. This fucker has been twisting the whole situation. There is absolutely no way Dahlia would want to work with him personally after saying she felt uncomfortable, but that aside. That girl would rather walk through burning glass barefoot than ask for help. Dahlia prefers working through her problems on her own, especially those that deal with her craft. Which it’s a very admirable trait that she has.

“That’s great, sir. Who is the unlucky guy that got saddled with you?” I smile and he chuckles.

“I think you may remember him. He was in the class you assisted with. Ethan Cochrane. He is a fifth-year senior. Why do you ask?” He raises a thick graying brow. I nod to say that I do remember, but really, I don’t. The name doesn’t even sound familiar at all.

“Of course. I thought maybe I could give him some advice for his role, especially if he is thinking he will be working with tis star pupil in a more mentor-ship type of setting. I would like to make sure he succeeds, and their work is the best it could be.”

The old man sits back in his high-backed chair, hands folded on his chest.

“That’s good of you, son. I’m very proud of the man you have grown to be. I remember how lost you were in your university days. It’s good to see you grown into a great young man. If you want to speak with him, you might be able to catch him every now and then as he leaves school when you come to get your girl. He has a class in the evening most days. I think they end around 8:30.”

“Thank you, sir.” I fake looking at the time on my phone and begin to stand. “I’m sorry but I have to head out. It was good to see you Professor Logan— “

“Please, none of that professor bullshit, Grayson. Call me Harvey.”

I nod. “Harvey, it was great to see you. I hope I can visit you again soon.”

“Door’s always open.”

He shakes my hand, I walk through the door, and it closes shut, leaving me standing in an empty hall of the Art Building.

God, how I have missed this place. Outside of the Beckett home, this building was almost like a second home. I spent hours upon hours here, reveling in the smell of paints, old paper, and the crisp cool air blowing through the vents.

I can’t stay here for long though. I have someone to deal with first.

* * *

Wind blows softly across the nearly vacant parking lot behind the Art Building. I’ve been sitting on my bike, hidden behind a dumpster in the alley, waiting.

Fall is steadily creeping up on us. Stray leaves roll and tumble across the cracked concrete with each gust of fresh air blowing through my hair.

It’s 8:27, and my hands are burning for the feeling of this fucker’s face smashing against each individual knuckle.

There are only a handful of vehicles here—two trucks, an SUV, and what I think might be a utility van, so it will be much easier to approach him.

My foot taps an unsteady beat that echoes in the alley.

Any minute now. Nay second. Then once this is over, I can go to her. Taking my post beneath the treehouse.

I’ve found that the spot gives me the perfect view of her room and a few of the other rooms upstairs and downstairs. I just can’t see Brahm’s room and the living room.