Page 54

Dean Shea and Madame Kehane are seated across from Lyle at a table near the fire. Lyle looks perfectly miserable, his eyes reddened and his face tear tracked. Madame Kehane has a notebook in front of her, a fountain pen idly held between two fingers. Dean Shea leans over to take Lyle’s hand, his steak knife in the other, and—

“This is your table.” Bradley steps in front of me and waves down a waiter for water. I’m still waiting for a scream, a spurt of blood. But nothing comes. Another table twitters with laughter—older professors from the engineering school. “Will this be alright?”

I can’t squint around Bradley without looking bonkers. Instead, I slide in, facing away from the dining room, of course. My damp skin sticks on the dulled leather. I shouldn’t have worn this skirt; the tartan’s saturated with rain. Marcella sits down across from me, her face a serene mask.

“That will be all, Bradley, thank you.” Her eyes flit over the crowd, then she looks at me. “Well?”

I take my napkin and spread it smoothly over my lap. “Poor Lyle, did you see him?”

She flips the menu open, casts a withering look down at the contents, then closes it again. “It’s not too odd, is it, to take a grieving assistant professor out to dinner?”

When the news broke that Therese had died—been killed—Lyle’s wail pierced the quiet of the faculty floor. It hasn’t felt settled up there since.

“Well, it’s just that he looks so … terrible.” I twist to look over my shoulder and spy Madame Kehane noting something in the journal.

“Stop doing that,” Marcella whispers, snapping her napkin. “You’ll be noticed.”

I whip back around and duck my head behind my menu.

“Oh,” Marcella says, her fingertips brushing my kneecap. The touch sends a bolt of electricity through my bare, rain-dampened skin. “Lyle’s leaving. Or trying to.”

Her touch draws away and I’m left trying to catch my breath.

“Is he gone?”

“No, not yet.” She’s leaned in conspiratorially, a smile on her lips like we could just be talking departmental bullshit. “Shea has him sitting again. Looks perfectly miserable, worse than before.”

“Should we go over—”

“What? No. We don’t want them to know we’re here, if they haven’t noticed already. Do we?” Marcella adjusts the high beam of her gaze back to me, her glossy lashes batting as she moves closer. “No, we should instead act perfectly besotted with each other’s company alone.”

I take a sip of my water, letting the ice chips sting the back of my throat. She’s doing this to me, I think faintly. Making me want to be close to her.

I can’t find that I care. 9:15 PM comes and goes, and I miss my confession appointment. I wish I could say I’m relieved, but I only feel the guilt burrow deeper. I should be better. I should act better. I straighten against the leather seat, clenching my fists until my nails bite into the soft meat of my palms.

All around us the restaurant roars, an ocean of sound. The candle between us smokes, dribbling charcoal wax onto the tarnished silver candelabra. Marcella calls for wine and all I can do is look at her, how she’s fairly glowing as she glitters and smiles and laughs in that treble tone of hers, the place where she touched my knee itching for contact again.

My eyes run over the copperplate script menu items, not taking anything in. My vision swims about. There’s a waiter here, now, not Bradley but a pretty blonde girl dressed in a short black skirt and sheer tights.

“We’d like to split the chateaubriand, medium rare,” Marcella is saying, ordering for us, “and the best Bordeaux you have. And what’s your name, pet?”

“Caroline,” the girl replies, falling easily into Marcella’s orbit. Caroline preens as she leans in, and part of me wants to be disgusted, but part of me understands it, too. I feel the pull Marcella has. I don’t even necessarily want to, but I do.

Marcella shows Caroline her teeth. “Caroline, do be a dear and also get us a side of mashed potatoes and creamed spinach, too, won’t you?”

I roll my eyes and look back down at the menu. “Marcella,” I say, realizing how fucking much all this will cost. “I can’t afford—”

The chateaubriand is $125, which is obscene. What professor could pay for this? Certainly not me. I take another sip of water. God only knows what “the best Bordeaux” costs.

“Lamb,” Marcella says, taking my hand and smoothing it with her fingers, “allow me to treat you. It’s been a tough few days, hasn’t it? And you look famished. Pale.”

“No, I can’t,” I say, but I’m falling deep into the well of her blue eyes.

What is happening to me? Stop, stop, stop, a little voice inside me screams, but I don’t want to stop. I want to live for once.

And so I’m nodding instead, laughing at how easy it is to be at Marcella’s table. I want to stay here. It’s horrifying to me, but I … I enjoy being taken care of. I want her to pamper me, to croon over me, to buy me an expensive dinner. To look at me how she is right now.

The wine is delivered to our table. “Please decant it,” Marcella says. A dribble of liquid is poured into a wide crystal glass, and Marcella passes it to me. “Have you ever tasted a wine before you drank it? To make sure you like it?”