Page 78 of Darling Venom
“Richards,” Tate finished for her, shooting me a leveled look.
He clearly didn’t want to see me.
Yet another reminder this wasn’t my finest idea.
Sylvia darted out of her chair. I half-expected her to curtsy at him. Instead, she gripped her wrist with the opposite hand, issuing a rushed apology like she expected him to behead her for poor service.
“I’m so sorry, Dr. Marchetti. She said she had an appointment, but I can’t find it in the system and don’t remember making one. I can call security right now.”
“No need.” Tate hooked the clipboard he was holding onto a nearby door and continued to his office without another word.
I followed him, ignoring Sylvia’s laser glare on the back of my head. He swung the door open and closed it behind us after I slipped through.
The last time I was here, other, more carnal things had distracted me. This time, I cataloged every inch of the room, more interested in figuring out Tate than I’d like to admit.
The space suited him—all dark woods and sparse furnishings. A clinical void. It looked like the kind of place where you delivered bad news. Two chairs sat before a heavy maple desk for the recipients and one tucked beneath for the deliverer.
Thick textbooks filled a built-in bookcase. Wall-to-wall windows offered a view of the city, high enough to render people faceless but low enough for them to still look like people. The lounger in front blocked most of the mini-fridge beside it from view.
A row of Ivy League diplomas, certifications, and awards decorated the opposite wall.
I fingered the deep blue Yale frame before moving on to the crimson Harvard one. “Which did you like more? Harvard or Yale?”
I was clearly stalling, and naturally, Tate didn’t let it slide.
“Why are you here, Charlotte?”
“Kellan said you and Hannah used to argue at the dinner table over whether he should apply to Harvard or Yale, as if he could get into either.”
“He could, and he did,” Tate clipped, voice as thin as his patience. “Why are you here?”
“What?” I stilled. My thumb left a print on the frame’s glass surface as I pivoted to face him. “He said he didn’t have the grades.”
Actually, he’d said he didn’t want to apply.
I believe his exact words were—no way in hell.
“Why are you here?”
“What do you mean he did?”
“He received an acceptance letter from Harvard that December. Early-decision. Special concentrations. I’ll ask again. Why are you here?”
I reeled back as if he’d slapped me.
Kellan Marchetti—who hated school, structure, uptight historical institutions—applied to Harvard.
I didn’t know what shocked me more—that he sent in an application or that they admitted him with his grades. He once mentioned Terry took over the inheritance from his mom and blew it on drugs, leaving him with barely enough to fund St. Paul’s tuition through senior year.
So, who would’ve paid for Harvard? Tate?
Kellan had three months left until he graduated and escaped the bullies. Two weeks until he turned eighteen and escaped Tate. He wouldn’t blow it on another four years shackled to his brother, relying on him for tuition money.
But still… He also wouldn’t have applied if he didn’t want to get in.
The Why hovered between Tate and me, something I hadn’t wondered in years. I thought I’d come to terms with Kellan’s death, figured out the reasons he’d chosen to go, and known everything I could about the circumstances.
Wrong, apparently.
