Page 87 of Saint Céline
The words landed with terrible intimacy; there was no way he knew more than he did.
I placed Katherine’s notes back on his desk with careful hands.
Then I lifted my chin. “I’ll break up with him.”
Vincent watched me.
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Tonight.”
“You don’t get to dictate the exact hour.” My jaw tightened.
“I do when the alternative is your dismissal from the university.”
I stared at him. His cheek was still faintly red from where I had slapped him. The sight gave me one small, vicious thread of comfort.
“Fine,” I said.
“Good.”
“No,” I said, stepping closer now because fear had nowhere else to go except forward. “Not good. You think this means you’ve won something, but you haven’t. You’ve just taught me what kind of man you are.”
“And what kind is that?” He looked almost amused.
“The kind who thinks because he can find a weakness, he owns the person attached to it.”
Vincent’s smile faded slightly. I held onto that.
“You don’t own me,” I said.
“No,” he replied softly. “Not yet.”
I should have left immediately. Instead, I stayed still, breathing too hard, furious with him and with myself and with the fact that even now the room seemed to pull around him like gravity.
Then I turned toward the door before the anger could become something else.
His voice followed me quietly.
“Leave the file.”
I looked down. Katherine’s photocopied notes were still in my hand. I had not even realized I had taken them again.
For one irrational second, I wanted to keep them. Not only because they could help me, but because they were hers. Because some stupid grieving part of me wanted proof that Katherine’s mind had existed somewhere outside memory and accusation.
But Vincent’s gaze was waiting.
So I walked back to the desk and set the notes down.
He picked them up carefully and slid them back into the file.
I opened the door.
The lab outside smelled like ethanol and rain-damp wool from coats hung near the entrance.
At the threshold, I paused without looking back.
