“Um…” I start, but then I’m briefly mesmerized by the sight of her wet hair spilling over her shoulders as she tugs the towel loose. This is the most she’s ever spoken to me. “Probably just homework.”
“All day?” Her eyes widen with theatrical alarm. “On a Saturday?”
“I have to write a story. For this writing seminar I’m taking.”
“Oh, with that young guy professor, right?”
I nod. Allison sighs, picking up her hairbrush from the dresser.
“He’s so gorgeous,” she says. “How the hell do you concentrate in class?”
Even if Alex is young for a professor, he’s way too old for me. The other girls in the English department talk about him like he’s a movie star, and they’re all obsessed with getting into his honors fiction intensive next semester. I’m just trying to survive this class.
“I wish I’d had him for my freshman lit requirement,” Allison says. “I got stuck with this female professor instead—she was so mean, oh my God.”
She laughs, and I force myself to laugh too, but suspicion worms through me. I don’t understand why she’s being so friendly all of a sudden. Not that she’s been unfriendly before now, but she’s pretty much ignored me beyond saying good night and have a good day if we happened to be awake at the same time.
I don’t know how to do this: make friends, talk to girls, talk to anyone my age really. In high school, kids only acknowledged my existence if they wanted something, like help studying for their AP English final.
But I should at least try. Allison is making an effort, so I can too.
“Actually,” I say. “Your boyfriend is in the writing seminar with me.”
Allison’s brow furrows in confusion. Shit. I said something wrong.
“My boyfriend?” she asks.
Maybe she has more than one, so I need to be more specific. Maybe she and Wes have an open relationship and she’s sleeping with lots of other guys. She’s so sophisticated. I bet she’s only talking to me because she feels sorry for me.
“Yeah,” I say. “Wes?”
Allison bursts into laughter, and I want to die. She’s making fun of me. I knew it.
She drops onto the edge of my bed, falling back onto the mattress, the ribbed material of her dress stretching over the slight softness of her waist. “Oh my God, I’m going to tell him you said that.”
“Sorry.” My face must be flaming. “I—I mean, I thought— I didn’t mean to—”
“Oh, no!” Allison sits up again and reaches for my hands. “No, it’s just—Wes is not my boyfriend. He’s more like my brother. We’ve known each other forever. Besides—”
She leans closer, amusement still shimmering in her eyes.
“I’m kind of over dating boys at the moment.”
7 SCARLETT
The emergency staff meeting is held at the theater building, Riffenburg Hall, since it’s the one place on campus with enough seating to accommodate the entire faculty and staff. Well, aside from the football stadium, but I suppose that might seem a bit disrespectful, given the circumstances.
Even though I’m a full fifteen minutes early, most of the seats in the auditorium are already taken, the low buzz of voices filling the space like a swarm of hornets. I spot a single open chair near the front and start moving toward it. Someone touches me on the elbow, and I spin around, face already sharpened into a glare.
It’s Jasper. He doesn’t even flinch at the vicious expression on my face.
“Hey,” he says. “I saved you a seat.”
I shrug my elbow out of his grip. We’ve talked about this—him acting too familiar in public.
He motions toward the center section, a few rows back, where his leather satchel and houndstooth coat are draped over two adjacent chairs. Drew, Sandra, Stright, and several other members of the English faculty are in the same row, though Kinnear is strangely absent.
Drew waves to me, holding a flyer printed on garish green paper. There’s one waiting on my seat too, with the clasped-hands logo of the campus counseling center and big block letters spelling out SUICIDE PREVENTION: A Community Effort.
So Jasper was right: this is about Tyler Elkin. Perhaps I’ve been worried for nothing. Whatever else this meeting means, it’s a clear indication his death has been accepted as a suicide, publicly and officially. Which means no one will be looking for his killer.
Kinnear appears, but not in the audience with the rest of us. He strides onto the stage, wearing one of his seemingly endless collection of scarves wound around his neck in a way he probably considers rakish. I let my mind wander again to one of my favorite fantasies: tugging the silk so tight around his neck his eyeballs pop like pimples.
I haven’t strangled someone in ages. I save certain methods for when it’s personal, which it so rarely is these days. Most of my victims are like Tyler: men to whom I have only the most tenuous connections. Murdering someone in my social or professional circle requires much more care, precaution. Finesse. I’ve wanted to kill Kinnear for years, but I’ve forced myself to hold off: for the right opportunity, for the perfect time. If I get the fellowship, though, I’ll be leaving Gorman in a few months, so time is running out.
A woman joins Kinnear onstage, taking up a position a few feet away from him. She’s gorgeous, wearing an impeccably tailored pencil skirt and a satin blouse the same shade of red as her lipstick. Dr. Samina Pierce, the head of the psychology department.
I’ve seen Samina around campus—she’s impossible to miss—but it’s rare to find her in the same room as Kinnear, despite the psych and English departments both being headquartered in Miller Hall. Rumor has it that she and Kinnear used to be married—though what a woman like her could possibly see in him is beyond me.
Kinnear taps the microphone. The crowd falls silent.
“Dean Whitmyre sends his apologies,” Kinnear begins. “He wanted to be here with you today to discuss this important new campus initiative. But I hope I’ll be an able substitute.”
I guess all his sucking up is really paying off. Shouldn’t be long now until his interim chairship turns permanent. That position should belong to Drew. He’s more qualified than Kinnear by every conceivable measure, and he has years of seniority. But Drew refuses to engage in the political games and petty sabotages that are Kinnear’s specialty.
Last year, I had everything in order for my tenure application—until Kinnear took my spot on the committee I needed to complete my service requirement, then barely bothered to show up for the meetings. Meanwhile, Dr. Stright, despite being hired three semesters later than me, sailed through the tenure process, thanks to Kinnear’s full-throated recommendation. Men like them are the ones who really get away with murder.
“As you all know,” Kinnear says, “Gorman lost one of its own recently. Tyler Elkin was amongst our best and brightest, and he was taken from us far too soon.”
Jasper leans in to whisper in my ear. “Well, maybe not our brightest…”
Drew glances over at us. I shift in my seat, crossing my legs to put some additional space between me and Jasper, and pretend to give Kinnear’s speech my rapt attention.