Page 42 of Duplicitous
Class is painful. I’m blinking for too long and struggling to keep my eyes open. Despite my best efforts, most of Professor Hirst’s words skim over my mind without sinking in.
His voice is low and rich, and his light English accent is enigmatic. I can’t place exactly what region he’s from, and I’mnot an expert anyway. He’s probably posh, given his precise enunciation, but sometimes he sounds almost American.
This is a distraction I can’t afford. I don’t need to know where he’s from. I don’t need to know anything about him other than what he has to teach me about Vikings.
My vision blurs slightly, and I stare at him in an effort to look alert. He gesticulates with those big arms as he continues his lecture. His biceps strain against his crisp white button-down shirt with every movement. It’s almost indecent for an academic to be so buff.
How does he find the time to do research when he must put in hours at the gym every day to maintain that physique?
His dark eyes flick to me, and I hastily scribble a nonsensical note to break from his gaze before he asks me another question.
How much longer will I have to endure this?
There’s not a clock on the wall, so I risk reaching for my phone to check the time. I pretend to fish in my bag for another pen and discretely press the button on the side of my phone.
A news story shows on my lock screen, drawing my attention for a precious moment. I really need to delete that distracting app, but it came with my phone.
Before I flick the story away to check the time, my eyes catch on the photo that’s featured.
I blink.
It’s Rich.
Then I read the headline:University of York Student Found Dead.
My shocked gasp draws everyone’s attention.
Professor Hirst stops talking.
I don’t even think about his potential censure and pull my phone all the way out of my bag. Dread is a lead weight in my stomach as I tap on the story to expand it.
“I’ve warned you about phones in my lecture, Miss Williams,” he says.
I don’t respond. My eyes fly over the article.
Once.
Twice.
I skim it a third time.
I can’t accept it. It’s too vile.
Rich’s body was found in the river, but he didn’t drown. Someone cut his throat. The police are searching for the murderer.
The boy who stole a sloppy kiss from me in my kitchen is dead.
“What’s wrong?” Amala asks.
I jolt when she touches my arm tentatively to call my attention to her.
“Rich.” I manage to push his name through my tight throat and give her my phone.
She looks it and claps a hand over her mouth in pure horror.
“Alright,” Professor Hirst says in clipped tones. “Both of you. Take the phone outside. Now.”
I glare at him. For a moment, I consider telling him to fuck off. Our classmate is dead. His lecture doesn’t matter.
