Page 22 of Pink Ink

I glance up when someone drops their phone on the floor. Our eyes meet for half a second before he leans down to pick it up, and dark locks fall onto his forehead. He’s in one of my classes—Andrew or Alex or something? I should probably know it since I see him on campus all the time. Maybe I should befriend him too so I have more than three friends in this city.

I expect him to smile in greeting or maybe start up a conversation and ruin my creative flow, but he turns away, completely ignoring me.

I sag in my seat, scrubbing a hand down my face. Whatever. I need to focus on my next assignment anyway. I’ve spent the last week losing sleep over the mental ass-whooping I’ll get once Shaw releases the grades. He seems like the type of teacher who would fail a student out of sheer spite.

That’s a lie. His reputation as a professor is impeccable. Any grade he gives would be justifiable. On the other hand, his reputation as a general member of society is severely lacking. Mom once called him, and I quote, “A prickly, vindictive asshole.”

The only thing I have on my side is that I’m substantially less caffeinated than I was at our last interaction and I’m no longer stressed up to my eyeballs. That means that in his class later today, I willnotbe making comments about his artistic abilities, or speaking in general.

The clouds have morphed into a sea of blotted gray by the time I climb up the steps from the subway. Petrichor hangs in the air like a cloying fog with the promise of a coming storm.

Shades of charcoal begin threading through the sky as I pass the wrought-iron gates into campus.

A single drop of rain hits my cheek, and everyone around me seems to feel it too. Students hurry along the pavement, clutching bags, and using their jackets as makeshift umbrellas to protect their books. I rush past the fountains and up the marble steps into the library just as the skies open and water pelts the ground.

The battering rain is white noise against the empty quiet of the grand, Gothic space. I can hear each cough, the glide of pens against paper, the tap of fingers against keyboards, and every soft turn of a page. The sounds travel through the stone hall that rises three stories up to the vaulted ceiling. Daylight filters through the stained glass, scattering colors across the rows of mahogany tables.

My panting bounces off the arched walls as I climb the steps to the second floor. I’ve already spent an ungodly amount of time scouring thelibrary for information about where the picture of Dad might have been taken or any records about him during his time here.

A year later, and I have nothing to show for it.

Until today.

At least, I hope.

“Hi, Sue.” I smile, sidling up to the research counter where the librarian is using a single finger to type.

She squints at me over her glasses, wrinkling the pale skin around her eyes. “Oh! That was quick.”

My cheeks heat. An hour ago, I received her email saying she found the alumni book I’ve been searching for over the past two months.

“I thought you’d be at least a day before you came to look at it. You know, I wasn’t even trying to look for this book at the time. Isn’t it funny how that works? I was going through the archives, and what do you know, there she was. You wouldn’t believe where I found it,” she rambles, Southern twang harsh as she starts opening and closing drawers. “It was all hidden away, under a pile of unrelated books. I’m gonna have to have a word with Tim because it wasn’tcloseto the correct section. They wouldn’t even be considered in the same darn continent—Ah, there it is.”

She groans as she bends over. With a huff and a joint click that doesn’t sound pleasant, she manages to fish the big book out from the bottom shelf, then all but wheezes when she slides it my way.

“You can’t take it out of the library.” She drops back onto her chair. “But you can spend as much time as you like with it.”

Gripping the book in my clammy palms, I say my thanks and rush to the desk near the back wall, away from prying eyes.

The leatherbound cover thuds against the table when I throw it open. The register alphabetically lists every student who graduated from Cresswell that year, including what they studied, how long they were here, and the job they had lined up. Sue claims it was for recordkeeping and statistics.

Dad studied business, but I don’t have the slightest clue where he went after.

The smell of old books drifts from the yellowed paper as I flip page after page, scanning each line in case there’s a waywardTwhere there shouldn’t be.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I still, waiting for it to go away. The feeling of being watched sticks to my skin, and I whip my head around. Something flickers out of the corner of my eye, gone before I can see it clearly.

The empty space behind me feels like a taunt. Or maybe a threat.

I’m being paranoid.

The prickling sensation doesn’t go away, though, as I slowly turn back to the book. It gets worse when I make it to the very end without coming across anyone by the name of Richard Talbot.

I check every page twice over before flicking to the very start of the book to look a third time. It takes me a moment to register the symbol embossed into the bottom corner of the paper.

At first, it means nothing. Just a honeycomb stamped on the end page of the book. A distant familiarity. But my gut turns the longer I stare at it. I must be overthinking this, right?

I fumble through my bag for my phone, then pull up the image of my dad in the room with the hexagon ceiling. My eyes flick between the screen and the book. Over and over until there isn’t a doubt in my mind that this specific book is connected to my dad somehow.