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I give a little shrug. “I can’t promise that the food is good—I only picked at the salad last time—but at least you’ll be rubbing elbows. And, of course, if we’re here together, that means they have one less reason to pin the—you know—on us.”

I’m babbling, and Lacie’s grip tightens on my arm. “Are you okay? Look, I know we haven’t been talking, I needed some time after—”

In truth, I feel dizzied. “I’m fine, it’s fine.” I knock on the door with my free hand and give her a smile that looks more confident than I feel. “Let’s go.”

TENLacie

What the fuck, what the fuck.

I do not want to be here right now. Marcella’s conversing happily with a group of grad students from the program who are further along in their studies, but I’m too anxious to even catch their names. I probably knew them, once, but now? Now, standing in Dean Shea’s house, his eyes catching on me every so often, I know in my bones this is a mistake. My throat’s so dry I can barely swallow, and I tug at the split ends of my hair.

I let go of Marcella’s arm when we walked inside, but now I wish I was still holding on to her. She looks like an anchor in a storm right now, shimmering in the twisting candlelight. Shadows climb the walls, dip their fingers between the rows of leather-bound books. While Preston might itself be a Gothic wonder, all flying buttresses and gargoyles and granite crenellations, Dean Shea’s house is a fading colonial nightmare. The floors tip and creak, the wallpaper is spotted and peeling. Crown molding crumbles around the unlit crystal chandelier in the library, its facets shining vaguely from the dozens of smoking candles. It smells like vellum in here, burned and animal, and I can’t tell if I should be grateful or if I should vomit. The space is stuffed full of graduate students, all jockeying for permanent positions, all scrambling to get to the top.

“Lacie, dear, how are you holding up?”

My breath catches as I turn to Dean Shea’s voice. There was a time I might have preened under his gaze, but now … There’s something hidden in his office, I’m sure of it—something that might incriminate him in Laurel’s death.

“Well. Thank you.” I pause as I take him in, the same as always, jovial and peaceable, his eyes wandering to my breasts and legs only a scant bit. “I apologize again for my earlier behavior. I was … distraught.”

He waves a veiny, waxy hand. “No, my dear, not at all. It’s upsetting to see a friend brought so low.”

I grit my teeth and force a nod. Behind him, Dr. Davies and Dr. Sims stand, swirling twin snifters of whiskey. The ice clinks within. Dr. Davies is the distinguished professor of Latin Studies this year, and the man must be, like, one hundred years old. He’s not bothering to hide his lecherousness, but his wandering eyes are on Marcella instead of me. The shapely curve of her ass, the glitter of her teeth. Dr. Sims, director of Nordic Studies, looms, and he’s looking down the neck of my dress. He might be my direct boss, in charge of every bit of scheduling and paperwork that comes across my desk, but I won’t let him take advantage of me this way. I step back slightly.

“So good to see you, too, Dr. Davies, Dr. Sims.”

“Yes,” Dr. Sims replies, his eyes still locked onto my chest, “and it is a shame to lose such a bright colleague.”

“Now, now, she was slipping even before she died,” says Dr. Davies. “But this new one. What’s her name. Marcie, right?”

“Marcella.”

He looks at me, watery, cataracted eyes keen. “Marcella. I hear she’s gearing up for some astonishing classes already.”

“And how are yours, Lacie?” Dean Shea smiles at me, showing off his rotting molars. “I know you had some … difficulties. Last semester. I take it the extra course load over the summer with Arjun was helpful?”

I shift on my feet and force myself to meet his eyes. “Yes, thank you. Arjun taught me a lot.”

What he taught me was how far being a fucking dick can get someone. I’d watch him in the basement classrooms of the library, sitting in the stacks with undergrads, getting a little too close. But because he was charming and because he was the star, he never got more than a slap on the wrist. Motherfucker. Laurel and I would talk about it all the time.

“Where is that boy?” Dr. Sims asks as he takes a sip of the whiskey in his hand. “I have some things to discuss with him for the spring semester.”

I clear my throat. Who gives a shit where he is? With Laurel’s death so recent—and with the time I spent in Shea’s office with Marcella still on my mind, if I’m being honest—I’m struggling to get ahold of myself. Since undergrad, I’ve had no relationships, the weight of the guilt I carry from my parents’ and church’s disapproval weighing so damn heavy on me. But to be a hair’s breadth from Marcella—

It was sinful, too sweet. And it’s made me less than the woman I thought I put together for Preston: keen and smart and proper. Marcella takes me to pieces, and I don’t want her to, but she does.

So yes, who gives a shit where Arjun is?

“Perhaps you could speak to me instead?”

Dr. Sims’s eyes narrow. “What about?”

He knows full well about what.

“Well, selections for the faculty showcase are coming soon, and I thought we could—”

“Ah, Lacie.” He waves his hand. “It’s too soon for you. Your proposal was half-baked, the tone of the essay all wrong. Sorry to say.”

“She is young.” Dean Shea looks at me with a critical eye, and I have the distinct sense he’s sizing me up to slip into the cadre of women he keeps at his beck and call. Anything to earn tenure track. Anything to not slip into anonymity. Therese is one of them. I feel so horrible for her—and even worse that she puts up with it. When I raise my eyes, she and Lyle are huddled in the corner, Therese’s face red as Marcella chats at them. Not with them, at them.