Page 151 of Because I Killed Him
“Of course, Mr. Prew.”
I weave through the rows of the Blue level, slowly filling with chattering students, and take the seat beside him. We’re shoulder to shoulder, close enough that I notice the faint shadows beneath his eyes, as if he hasn’t been sleeping well. His Altimor pocket watch rests on the desk between us, its bezel dulled where his thumb has worn it. He picks it up,fumbles with the chain, clips it to his waistcoat, then rubs a hand over his mouth and sighs.
“I can’t read your mind,” he says at last. “You’re going to have to tell me what I did wrong.”
“You did nothing wrong,” I assure him. “Why would you think you did?”
“Because, unless I accidentally insulted a dead relative, the way you’ve been acting these last few weeks doesn’t add up. Was it the seashells? If I crossed a line—”
“No, Edmu—” I stop myself. “No, Mr. Prew. Truly, that is not the case. I love the seashells and the Florence Engine, too. As I said before, it has been very stressful preparing for finals.”
He nods, but for the first time, I can tell he doesn’t believe me. “I think it’d be a good idea to change our schedule. At least until summer break.”
“What kind of change?”
Even in profile, I catch the worry on his face, dulling his features like a visor. “The deal was for protection, but you’re always off on your own. It’s a big campus. If something happened, I might not get to you fast enough. I think you should start joining me at night, too.”
Every ounce of my reason knows this is the last thing I should do. “Is there a specific threat that concerns you?” I ask.
“There is. Miss Hussey’s trial is about to start.”
Given that I’m the key witness, Edmund is right that Irene is a threat, but he’s wrong that this is a good idea. Still, this conversation confirms what his mother said: there’s a plan to keep Irene from being convicted. Maybe Edmund knows more than he’s letting on. And maybe this is his way of shielding me from it.
I don’t answer right away, even though I’ve already made up my mind. When I look up at him, I catch his gaze fixed on my mouth, and I’m pulled back to one of our first meetings, to the moment he asked whether my mouth was even capable of saying yes. Now, more than ever, he looks like he wants it to.
“Very well, Mr. Prew,” I say softly. “I shall join you in the evenings as well.”
His brow furrows in surprise, yet I can’t mistake the relief in his voice. “You will?”
“Yes.”
Edmund remains frozen for a moment, as if caught in the word, before his expression softens into a smile. He loosens his tie, and with each tug of his thumb against the fabric, the rest of him loosens too, as if his strange, unnatural stillness had only been tension.
“I don’t want you to feel like I’m twisting your arm,” he says. “I’d like it if you were… well, happy.”
I am. Being near him makes me happy. But wanting him and not being able to have him has taught me how much happiness can hurt.
“I’ll be happy as long as our evenings still leave time for the Jolt & Jive,” I say.
He laughs. “You really like tap, huh?”
“I love it—and waltzing. Do you dance?”
“Tap, sure. Waltz, no.”
“You never learned, or you never cared for it?”
“Oh, I learned. My grandmother taught me when I was seven. I just don’t do it.”
“Now you’re making me curious.”
“Let’s just say I’m saving it,” he explains.
“What for?”
Edmund pauses, thinking for a moment, then grins and gives his head a slight shake. “No. I don’t think I’m gonna tell you that.”
I lean in, grinning back as I prepare to press him, when I spot Jack striding toward our table, looking incomplete without Dickie at his side. Dickie and Charlotte aren’t in this class; they’re both off in Artificial Intelligence & Civil Order, probably drafting contingency plans for what to do if the AI decides it no longer wants to shine our shoes.
