Page 113 of Lethal Kiss

“It’s sad, but it happens. But I won’t let them hurt you. All you have to do is leave with me.”

She leans away from my probing tongue. “I … I don’t know. Can I think about it?”

I close my eyes lightly, snorting. “Only if you let me get you off again.”

Lacie’s knitted forehead unfurrows, her eyebrows springing up. “Now?” she asks, her lips a playful smile, sudden as sun breaking through clouds. “Already?”

Chuckling, I kiss the soft skin of her belly. “Unless you’re too tired?”

She shakes her head, but by the headboard, a phone begins to ring. It blares, ruining the peace we’ve made here, this tiny sanctuary shattering a little.

“Christ, that’s loud. Can you silence it?”

Lacie groans as she shimmies out of my grip, grabbing for my juddering iPhone. But when she picks it up, her breath catches, her pulse sprinting.

The shock on her face gives me no time to be languid. I shoot up, the heat inside me quelled for now. “What’s wrong?”

She turns the phone around so the fever-bright screen lances through the dark.

SECURITY ALERT

MISSING PERSON

LYLE JACKSON

Jackson, 32, was last seen on Preston’s campus yesterday evening following a department meeting wearing a black overcoat, dark jeans, and navy sweater. REPLY with any information to 866–952-PRES or type STOP to end notifications.

“Marcella,” Lacie breathes. “What did you do?”

TWENTY-EIGHTMarcella

“Do you think they’ve already searched his apartment?”

“I’m not sure.” I’m up and out of bed, throwing on my clothing. If this is my fault—something I don’t remember even doing—this is a death knell for our supposed safety. One dead golden boy is one thing, but another?

“How else would they know he’s missing?” Lacie asks, tugging a new pair of sweatpants over her legs.

“Who knows? It’s plain that they’re keeping tabs. I don’t know how, but I’ll find out.”

“Find out?” Lacie echoes. “It’s too late for that, Marcella.”

I snap, “Don’t you think I know how fucked we are? Let me at least try.”

Lacie stares at me from the side of the bed, worry plain on her pretty features. After a moment, she murmurs, “Do you really think you would do … that … and not remember?”

The truth is I have no idea what I’m capable of. If I don’t remember anything last night, including how I got home, there’s very little chance I would remember killing someone.

Lifting my chin and affecting confidence I in no way feel, I say, “If they suspected me, they would have come here by now. I’m sure of it.”

But would they? I don’t put it past them to ignore the murder of a professor, at least at first, but to make such a fuss over one that’s missing—to make sure the entire campus knows it? Something is afoot.

There’s no time to swipe on lipstick, to curl my hair, to dress myself in the wiles I’ve always used as armor. Instead, I’m in sweatpants and a Henley, swiping my hair into a long ponytail before kicking into cozy—and silent—slippers.

Lacie and I peek from my cracked door, down the hall. No one’s about, the weekend dead zone of overworld professors off the clock working in our favor. But mercifully, too, there doesn’t seem to be any police presence. Or, worse, Dean Shea and the rest of them.

“Okay,” I say, my voice brittle, “I’m going to go check if his room is locked. Stay here.”

Lacie nods, green at the gills, as I slip into the hall. Stopping at the door with “Jackson” stenciled in gold, I run my fingertips over the doorframe, seeking any remainders of his energy.