Page 8 of Lethal Kiss

“Of course, but what about—”

“Later, later, Lacie.” He glances at his phone screen. “I’m on my way.”

We’re clattering down the stairs, me two steps behind him. “But Dean Shea—”

He turns at the bottom of the stairs and I nearly slam into him. I hold the railing for purchase, breathing hard.

“Lacie. Your concerns, whatever they are, are unfounded. Preston University is an incredibly difficult program in which to achieve tenure, and I’ve endeavored to make the Classics department the most competitive in the country. Whatever dropout situation you want to talk about, believe me, I and the board have discussed the ramifications of ratcheting up our requirements ad nauseam.” He gives me a thin-lipped smile. “My suggestion is this: instead of spending so much time worrying about everyone else’s ranking, focus on your own work. Wouldn’t want you to start to slip.”

I drop back on the steps, blinking at him. He’s still smiling at me. “Yes.”

“Well, then, now that’s settled. I’m off.”

He leaves me standing there in Lowell, staring after him, a squirm in my gut I can’t quite account for.

Why is Marcella in Laurel’s room?

I don’t go straight back to my room. Instead, I walk the campus. Unknowingly, and through no fault of her own, Marcella’s appearance is linked now in my mind to Laurel’s disappearance. It’s like someone just made an even trade. But it’s not even, is it? It’s not at all.

Laurel was my friend. A little dowdy, and no fun at all at the department happy hours, but still.

My fingers are turning red from the cold; the sun is already down. I have so much work to do. I should get back, but something feels so wrong to me about all this—especially how flippant Dean Shea is being. Has to go plan a dance? Pshh.

Without conscious thought, I’ve ended up at Craven Quad. Faculty housing’s on the top floor there. There’s my window. I leave the little faux Tiffany glass lamp I’ve had since undergrad on. It’s no fun to come back to a dark apartment. I don’t like how the shadows eat the corners, the space beneath the bed. I turn a little, to Laurel’s room. Marcella’s room, now. The lights are off but a computer must be on. There’s a diffuse glow backlighting the window, the shapes of stacked moving boxes.

Sighing, I shift my bag on my shoulder and swipe my keycard. The light blinks green and the door unlocks.

Inside, there’s a soft hum of voices. No one’s in the halls, but the building is so old, the doors so thin, you can hear everything. I pass sounds of giggling, the restrained, tight breaths of students doing god knows what. I hurry up and up and up the stairs.

Undergrads hate being in Craven Quad because they know their professors live right above them. Honestly, if I was an undergrad, I would probably hate it, too.

I step onto our floor and immediately the vibe shifts. This area is better kept, doesn’t smell like vomit, isn’t stacked with trash. The floors are lined with comfy rugs and the walls still sport the yellowing wallpaper from back when this dorm was constructed for the well-to-do children of the social elite.

What am I kidding—it’s still that.

I stop at my door. The gold leaf 211 is partially rubbed off. But it’s been home for nearly two years. It’s not like I go home to see family anymore.

I have my key in the lock when a voice says, “Hey.”

I look up. Marcella.

She’s smiling at me in that way—it’s like, I don’t know, when a panther has cornered a deer in the forest. I take a breath, thrust my shoulders back, turn toward her. “Welcome to Preston,” I say, my voice betraying the barest hint of a shiver.

I can’t put my finger on why she scares me like she does. I’ve been around beautiful women before, obviously. But none have been like her. It’s probably that she has, in one fell swoop, supplanted me and everyone else I work with. It’s grotesque.

Marcella grins at me, her teeth agleam in the light filtering out of her room. “Aw, thanks. Sweet dreams.”

She closes Laurel’s door and I simply stand there, heart hammering.

“Hey there.” Lyle peeks out from behind his door. “New one?”

I raise my hand and give him a wan smile. “Yeah, you meet her, too?”

“Only in passing. Why?” He cocks his head, pressing his glasses up his nose.

I like Lyle just fine. Hails from Baltimore, did his undergrad at Northwestern and grad work at Kalamazoo, studying the intersectional structure of sinning in the early church. He slips out into the hall and crosses his arms.

“Apparently,” I say, my voice diving to a whisper, “she’s already up for tenure.”