The Professor Page 19

  “Oh, sure, paint me as some kind of stalker just because I’m a woman—”

  “Take it outside, kids,” Miss Smithson cut in. She pointed sternly toward the grand doors that led out to the quad.

  “Gladly,” said Anthony coldly. He would come back for the humanities textbook. It wasn’t worth the fight. He pushed open the double doors, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the bright spring sunlight outside, and hurried down the library steps. To his dismay, Catherine kept pace with him.

  “Anthony.”

  He spun around to face her, walking backwards to continue increasing the distance between them. “Christ, Catherine! Leave me alone. I already told you that I’m not discussing this with you anymore.”

  Catherine stormed toward him, her raven-colored hair escaping from its high ponytail. Unlike the other girls on the university’s campus, Catherine had never adhered to the trend of neon fashion. She wore dark, slim jeans and a fitted, black crop top that bared an impressive stretch of her abdomen. “You call that a discussion? You broke up with me! Over the phone, I might add. And all for some girl who doesn’t even matter!”

  Anthony stopped, glaring at Catherine. She marched straight up to him, and when he spoke again, they were mere inches apart. “It was over a month ago. Get over it. And she does matter.”

  He whirled around again, strutting across the quad, but Catherine followed along. “She’s not one of us,” she hissed. “All that we’ve worked for, all the time and effort we’ve put into the society, into our relationship, and you’re just going to throw it away for this Natasha.”

  “Yeah, let’s talk about all that effort,” Anthony whispered back. He glanced around furtively, but none of the other Waverly students in the quad paid the bickering couple any attention. “We’re doing illegal shit, Cat. We’re hurting other people.”

  “Oh, don’t start.”

  “Don’t start on what?”

  “You knew what you were getting into at the very beginning,” said Catherine, taking Anthony by the arm to slow him down. “You knew what it meant to be a part of this society. Three years ago, baby Anthony, wide-eyed and wonderful freshman that he was, didn’t balk at what the society asked of him. We were inducted together, completed tasks together, and you didn’t have a single problem with it until you met her.”

  He shook off Catherine’s grip, ignoring the somber look she gave him in response. He’d fallen for the same look too many times before, and it had only ever gotten him into more trouble.

  “We’re supposed to be together,” insisted Catherine. “You and me! Didn’t you ever think about it, Tony? What it would be like after we graduated? Because I do all the time. You could work for my father. We could have a house on Staten Island and one in the Hamptons.”

  “And what if I don’t want that anymore?”

  Catherine stopped so abruptly that Anthony was thrown off by her sudden absence. He made the mistake of looking back at her.

  “This is how it’s supposed to be,” she said, her voice wavering. “Even your best friend knows it.”

  Anthony gritted his teeth. “You and Harrison are talking about me now? Remind me to thank him later.”

  “He’s worried about you.”

  Anthony strolled back to Catherine, glaring down his nose at her. “You know what I think? I think you’re worried that if you lose me, none of the other Raptors are going to fall for your crap. You’ll be alone and second best next to your brother. Again. Orson will go down in BRS history, and no one will ever give a damn about Catherine Lockwood.”

  Her answering slap resonated across the quad, startling a sparrow from the nearest tree and earning the pair more than a few concerned looks from passing students.

  Anthony ran a hand over his raw cheek, but a smug grin decorated his features. “Hit a nerve, didn’t I?”

  “You pretentious prick.”

  “I want out,” declared Anthony, disregarding her insult. “I’m done with this shit. If you want to keep digging this damn hole, go ahead, but I’m finished.”

  Catherine rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “You can’t just say you’re finished, Anthony. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “It does now,” said Anthony, and once again, he attempted to walk away from her, praying that she was just as fed up with the conversation as he was. No such luck.

  “Membership is for life,” she insisted, tailing his heels. “No one quits being a Raptor.”

  Anthony shook his head in frustration. “You don’t get it, do you?” he demanded. “I can’t keep this up. I can’t keep mysteriously disappearing to the library every time the Raptors need something from me. There are only so many excuses I can come up with before someone catches on.”

  “Someone?” asked Catherine in a dangerous whisper. “Or Natasha?”

  Anthony stared straight ahead, determinedly avoiding Catherine’s intent gaze.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” she demanded. She increased the length of her stride to keep up with his long legs. “She’s started to figure it out. Has she been asking where you disappear to in the middle of the night? How terrible for her to wake up in a cold bed—”

  “Leave her out of this,” he snapped.

  Catherine’s black eyes twinkled with pleasure. “Oh, Anthony, you are so deep in shit that your eyes are brown.”

  “Shut up.”

  “God, I cannot wait to tell everyone else about this. Little Anthony’s fallen in love.”

  In the shadows of a looming oak tree, Anthony seized Catherine by the sleeve of her shirt and pinned her to the tree’s trunk. “If you so much as breathe a word about her to the Raptors, I swear to God, you will pay.”

  A smile touched her lips, and she arched her back to press against Anthony’s chest.

  “Don’t mess with me, Catherine.”

  She pressed a palm to her heart as if swearing under oath. “I won’t. I promise.”

  Present Day

  For the second time in a mere matter of hours, I stood on the doorstep of Eileen O’Connor’s quaint, peaceful home, except this time, I had the ashes of her murdered husband tucked beneath one arm. I couldn’t bring myself to lift the brass knocker. Instead, I stared vacantly at the porch swing teetering in the light breeze, lost in thought. The sun was on its way toward the horizon, allowing another level of chill to set in. Dusk was nigh, and it was an unfriendly reminder that my window of time to free Wes from the Raptors’ clutches was dwindling rapidly.

  It turned out that we hadn’t needed Lauren’s friend from the rowing team to run tests on what was left of O’Connor’s body. The process would have taken too long anyway, and Lauren had managed to match O’Connor’s dental records to the remaining teeth in the makeshift urn. The ashes, without a doubt, belonged to him. Even though I knew that O’Connor was already dead, a heavy dread settled over me when Lauren showed me the proof. It was as if the knowledge finalized O’Connor’s passing, and the added anticipation of delivering the news to Eileen weighed on my shoulders like an anvil.

  The tabby cat jumped up into the window, peering inquisitively at me and meowing. The distraction finally spurred me to step up and reach for the brass knocker, but before I got the chance, the door swung open to reveal Eileen.

  “Hi, Eileen.”

  “Nicole! Back so soon?” Her eyes drifted downward to the wooden box beneath my arm. “What is—?”

  “May I come in?” I asked, my voice shaking. “I need to tell you something, and it might be best if we’re both sitting down.”

  “Of course.”

  I stepped over the threshold, led the way into the living room, and sat down on the couch, gesturing for Eileen to sit next to me. As she did, I set the box of ashes on the coffee table in front of us.

  “There’s no easy way to tell you this,” I began, avoiding Eileen’s eyes, “and I’m so sorry that this is the way you have to find out.”

  Glancing up at Eileen was a mistake. It was as if she already knew what purpose I was th
ere for. Her gray eyes watered, and the lines around her mouth trembled. I looked back down at my hands, intertwining my fingers.

  “George was murdered.”

  There was no sign of response from O’Connor’s wife, so I plowed onward. “The circumstances surrounding this are difficult for me to explain. You understand some of it. You know that he was wrapped up with something suspicious. His righteousness and the amount of illegal activity that he uncovered ultimately led to his death.”

  At this point, Eileen released a quiet sob but covered her mouth and gestured with her hand for me to continue.

  “Shortly after O’Connor disappeared, I found his body,” I went on. It seemed cruel to burden Eileen with these details, but she deserved the truth. “I should’ve told you as soon as I walked in here earlier today, but I just didn’t have the heart. Anyway, things went awry, and I lost track of him. I spent the day trying to relocate O’Connor.” I pointed to the box on the coffee table. “He was cremated. Those are his remains.”

  Eileen bowed over, cradling her head in her hands. Her shoulders shook with the intensity of her grief.

  “I am so sorry,” I choked out, working through the fact that my throat had closed up. “If I could have prevented it, I would have, but I didn’t know anything about what was happening until after he was already dead.”

  I broke down then, unable to keep talking. For a few minutes, we sat hunched over, coming to terms with what had happened. I hadn’t cried over O’Connor before. Not really. Sure, he had been an outstanding professor and mentor, but under any other circumstances, I couldn’t imagine being this distraught over a teacher.

  “Listen, Eileen,” I said once I’d gotten ahold of my overflowing emotions again. “It is imperative that you do not report this to the police.”

  That startled her. “What? Why?”

  “Because they don’t care,” I stated simply. “You picked up on a couple of those signs already when O’Connor first went missing. The local force works with the people that murdered your husband. That’s why there was no effort involved in the investigation. They covered up his death and ignored me when I told them about the body. Do not contact them. It will only make them aware of the fact that I have been in contact with you, and that is the last thing that needs to happen. Stay oblivious. Stay out of it.”

  “How am I supposed to do that in good conscience?” asked Eileen, leaning across me to pluck a tissue from a box on the side table next to the sofa. She dabbed at the tears on her cheeks. “We could go over the local force to the county, or even the state.”

  “Give me until tomorrow at least,” I pleaded, exasperated. If Eileen went to the police, it would topple any chance I had of rescuing Wes. There was no way the Raptors would keep him alive if they knew I’d set the state police on their tails.

  Eileen took in my tear-streaked face with sad eyes. “What are they holding over your head, Nicole?”

  “They have my boyfriend,” I said, and an additional wave of emotions washed over me. “And if I don’t play my cards right, he could end up just like your husband.”

  Eileen seized another handful of tissues from the box and used them to mop up my face. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Like I said before, the best thing you can do is to stay safe.” I wiped my nose, trying to put myself back together. “I’ll keep you posted as much as possible. With any luck, this will all be over in a day or two.”

  Eileen patted my back. It made me feel guilty. I should have been the one comforting her. But for the moment, it was a relief to let someone else take care of me, so I relaxed into the couch and allowed myself a few minutes of quiet.

  17

  “Dear God, Weston, this would go so much smoother if you would simply answer our questions.”

  Flynn was getting impatient. Wes could see it in the way she tapped one black heel against the steel leg of the folding chair, drumming out an irritated rhythm. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his mouth. He was tired, but the Raptors were far from finished with him.

  “Pay attention,” ordered Donovan, clapping his hands near Wes’s ears.

  “I told you,” growled Wes, leering at Donovan from beneath heavy eyelids. “I barely know anything about Nicole’s parents. She was raised by her aunt. Evidently, you and the Raptors are far more informed about Nicole’s family than I ever was.”

  “You must have seen it somewhere,” pressed Flynn with an exasperated sigh. “In Nicole’s things or at her aunt’s house.”

  “There is no key,” Wes insisted once again. “Or if there is one, I have no idea where it is. I don’t know how many times I have to tell that to you morons.”

  “And how many times do I have to tell you,” said Flynn, “that what I’m searching for probably doesn’t resemble your average house key, you absolute halfwit. For God’s sake, Weston, pretend like you have half a brain for a few minutes. Now, tell me, did Nicole have any kind of family heirlooms that she kept close?”

  Wes tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling of the warehouse in utter weariness. “You know, I might be able to answer these questions a lot more effectively if the duct tape around my wrists and ankles wasn’t cutting off the circulation to my brain.”

  Donovan smirked. “Nice try, Officer. It’s not happening.”

  “Untie him.”

  Wes’s head snapped up to attention. He stared at Flynn, wondering if the order was genuine or not. Apparently, Donovan had the same thing on his mind.

  “What?” he asked in a disbelieving tone.

  “I said untie him,” repeated Flynn. “From the chair, at the very least. Let him stand and stretch.”

  “Why?”

  “Davenport, just fucking do it.”

  Reluctantly, Donovan approached Wes. Wes kept a wary eye on the Raptor as he knelt at Wes’s feet with a Swiss Army knife and started hacking at the duct tape. It only took a minute or so to free Wes’s ankles, and when he was finally able to stretch his legs out in front of him, he let out a long groan of relief. Under Donovan’s gaze, Wes cautiously stood up, his hands still bound behind his back, and shook out his limbs. He’d lost track of how long it had been since he arrived at the warehouse, but it had grown darker, and golden sunbeams penetrated the high windows to illuminate the bland room. Wes looked up, watching the dust particles dance through the light, and wondered where Nicole was. As the hours wore on, he worried that he would never see her again. Then again, it was Nicole. If the Raptors hadn’t tracked her down yet, she was doing a pretty solid job of flying under the radar.

  Suddenly, a sharp kick to Wes’s right hamstring caused his knees to buckle. He thunked to the floor. Unable to use his hands to steady him, his teeth grated at the impact. He glared up at Donovan.

  “The concussion wasn’t enough, asshole?” spat Wes. “I thought you wanted me to cooperate.”

  “Better to ask forgiveness than permission,” said Donovan with a smile. Behind him, Flynn rolled her eyes.

  “Yeah, yeah. You can cut out all the fortune-cookie bullshit.”

  “Ma’am, what exactly is the point of untying him?” Donovan asked Flynn. “He’s even more annoying unhindered.”

  “Show him the lock on the trunk.”

  Wes repositioned a foot on the ground, testing his weight on his bruised knees, but Donovan seized him by the back of his police jacket, as if picking up a puppy by the scruff of its neck, and dragged him over to the reinforced trunk.

  Wes, at eye level with the strangely shaped keyhole, peered impatiently at it. “What am I looking at here, and what am I supposed to be telling you about it?”

  “Does it look like a regular key is meant to fit into that lock?” asked Flynn.

  It sure didn’t. The lock was a peculiar one to say the least. It was shaped much like a curved, upside-down V. A run-of-the-mill key would never be able to pop open the trunk.

  No matter how obvious the answer, Flynn seemed to be waiting for a verbal affirmation from W
es. “No,” he said shortly.

  “Excellent observation.” Flynn walked over to the trunk, kneeling down beside Wes. “Anything about it seem familiar?”

  Wes kept his mouth shut. At first glance, the shape of the keyhole simply confused him, but the longer he stared at it, the more familiar the odd outline became. Nicole had never truly known her parents, and as such, hadn’t been attached to many things of theirs. In fact, Nicole hadn’t really inherited much of anything at all from her mother and father, but there was one thing that she had made a point of holding on to.

  “Well?” demanded Flynn.

  “I have no idea,” lied Wes. He kept his gaze on the lock, afraid that if he looked Flynn in the eye that she would see straight through him.

  She stood up and growled in frustration. “That’s it. I’ve had enough. Donovan, let’s speed this process up, shall we?”

  Donovan stepped forward, and a wild grin spread from his mouth and lit up his eyes. “Oh? What do you suggest?”

  “Perhaps Officer McAllen just needs a little persuasion to jog his memory,” said Flynn. She ran her fingers almost lovingly through Wes’s hair then grabbed a handful of it and yanked his head back. He grimaced but didn’t make a sound.

  “Find the girl,” Flynn ordered Donovan.

  18

  Patience might’ve been a virtue, but it was a virtue Catherine Lockwood never claimed to possess. She waited in the Raptors’ clubhouse, a hidden collection of rooms in the bowels of the Waverly library, checking the expensive rose-gold watch that decorated her wrist every few minutes. For now, the clubhouse was empty. It was the middle of the night, and most of the other Raptors had retired for the evening. Either that or they were conducting BRS business elsewhere.

  Usually, Catherine loved having the clubhouse to herself. It was where she was most comfortable and confident on the Waverly campus. Here, she had standing. She was renowned in these underground hallways, though infamously so, and she often fantasized about the day she would become head of the society’s notorious council. Of course, that would only happen if she proved herself better than her brother.