Teaching herself to code is one of Mikayla’s numerous extracurricular activities. She’s a sophomore at Gorman and already taking my most advanced Shakespeare course. The first class session, the upperclassmen underestimated her, assuming she was as innocent as her wide brown eyes and halo of natural hair make her look. Then she argued so fiercely about the sexual agency of Juliet some of the seniors looked like they wanted to hide under their desks.
“It’s such an honor to get to work with Dr. Pierce,” Mikayla says. “She’s brilliant.”
“Am I really?”
Samina has reappeared, one dark eyebrow canted with amusement as she dunks a bag of jasmine tea in her steaming cup. Mikayla’s cheeks color a little, and she busies herself distributing the folders amongst the various stacks on Samina’s desk.
“You can head home for the evening, Ms. Atwell,” Samina says. “Thank you for all your hard work today.”
I smile at Mikayla on her way to the door. “See you in class.”
Samina shuts the door, then sits behind the desk. There’s a cashmere scarf draped over the chair back, covering up the utilitarian black mesh.
“She’s taking one of your classes?” Samina asks.
I nod. “I’m her academic advisor too. Her freshman year, she was assigned to Uhler, but—”
“He’s an idiot,” Samina says, setting the teacup down on a matching saucer. I couldn’t agree more—though I wouldn’t say it out loud to a colleague, except maybe Drew. “I’m glad she’s got someone competent looking out for her. Smart as a whip, isn’t she?”
“She is that.” I sit in the spindly wooden chair across from the desk, crossing my legs. “Thank you for making the time to meet with me so quickly, Samina.”
“Call me Mina, please.” The cordiality of her words doesn’t match the unsettling directness in her eyes. “I was so pleased you offered to assist with our work, because I was going to reach out to you anyway.”
“Oh, really?” I brace my hands on my knee. “Why is that?”
“Tyler Elkin.” She pulls a notebook into the circle of lamplight at the center of her desk. “He was your student too, right? Introduction to English Literature, last spring?”
I try to get a look at what else is written on the notebook page, but her handwriting is too small to read from this distance, even more precise than my own. “Yes, that’s right.”
Samina picks up the teacup again and settles back. “What did you think of him?”
I can’t help feeling like I’m being psychoanalyzed. She’s never been a practicing psychologist—according to her CV, she went straight from a PhD program at Penn to teaching at Gorman alongside her then husband, Kinnear—but she would have been good at it. She swirls the tea bag meditatively through the hot water.
I lean back in my chair too. “He wasn’t the best student by any means. But he was…” An asshole. A rapist. A fucking monster who deserved exactly what I— “Well, he was so young.”
For an excruciatingly long moment, Samina says nothing. Then she leans forward, propping her elbows on the desk. “You can stop bullshitting me.”
My mouth goes dry, and my whole body stiffens. She can’t possibly know what I am, what I’ve done, but whatever she sees when she looks at me, it’s more than I want her to.
“Tyler was a terrible student.” She holds my gaze for a moment longer, before puncturing the tension with a short laugh. “All his professors hated him—whether or not they want to admit it.”
I want to laugh too, but I’m afraid the sound will come out harsh. Crazed. Still, a small portion of the tension seeps out of my shoulders.
“You’ve talked to his other professors?” I ask.
“I’m still working my way through the list.” She taps her pen against the Gorman seal at the top of the notebook page. “But so far they’ve all said similar things: Tyler was a slacker, rarely showed up to class or completed his assignments. Didn’t take well to criticism or consequences.”
That certainly matched my experience. Tyler believed he could do whatever he wanted and get away with it. His entire life taught him that he was special, that consequences didn’t apply, that he’d pass with flying colors even if he turned in his midterm two weeks late. Even in his final moments, I doubt he learned his lesson. But I didn’t kill him to teach him a lesson; I killed him to carve him out of this world like a tumor. And I’d do it again.
“Listen.” Samina flips the notebook shut. “I don’t care about Tyler Elkin any more than I’m guessing you do. Gorman’s probably a better place without him—though I suppose fans of the football team may disagree.”
I know I should at least attempt to look shocked. But it’s as if she’s reading my thoughts out loud.
“But at the same time,” Samina continues, “I find him fascinating.”
“And why is that?” Though I spend an inordinate amount of my time thinking about them, there’s nothing fascinating about boys like Tyler Elkin. They’re boring, as common as rats and equally disgusting.
“He’s an outlier. Most of the other suicides on campus, the person had a documented history of mental illness or substance abuse or both. But Tyler…” She trails off, clicking her fingernails against the crimson cover of the notebook. “He doesn’t fit the pattern.”
She hasn’t asked a question, but she’s looking at me as though she expects an answer.
“Well,” I say. “I guess it goes to show: You can never tell what someone’s like just by looking at them.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she says. “But the way he died is odd too. Young, athletic men like Tyler, they usually choose a more violent, sudden method of suicide. Self-inflicted gunshot, that sort of thing.”
She’s correct, statistically speaking. But I don’t use guns. I tried faking a suicide by firearm once in Chicago, and it was more difficult than I expected to get the angle right. That ended up being my only kill to ever attract FBI attention. The death was eventually ruled a gang-related killing, but I decided never to risk it again. There are so many less messy ways to kill a man.
“Tyler sounded awfully guilty in that final Instagram post,” I say. “Maybe the suffering was the point.”
Samina meets my eyes again—an intense, weighted look, loaded as a weapon—and all I can think is: How did a woman like this put up with Kinnear for even a second?
Maybe she’s changed since they were married. Maybe putting up with him was the thing that changed her.
This investigation, comprehensive or not, doesn’t have to change anything for me. Who knows, working with Samina could even prove useful to my plans for Kinnear.
If anyone has reason to hate the man even more than I do, it’s his ex-wife.
10 CARLY
“I can’t look.”
Allison turns to me. We’re outside the theater department’s lounge, which they call the green room even though it’s just a bunch of musty brown furniture. The Cabaret cast list was posted beside the door a few minutes ago, and it’s already drawn a swarm of students, like flies on rotting fruit.