I pull my briefcase from the passenger seat. There's nothing suspicious inside, just a stack of student assignment submissions. I empty it onto the leather, the papers fanning out. One particular submission slides from the mix and flutters to the floor.
Sighing, I pick it up. Glancing at the first page, I note that when grading, this student would probably end up with a D. The work is sloppy, rushed. There's a dried spill of something, like milk on the cover page. It has smudged her signature, the blue ink bleeding into her name written boldly on the title.
MaryJane Bonnie Gatsby. [Department of Psychology.]
I sigh again, a short, impatient sound, and shove it back into the mix. I transfer a bottle of expensive red wine and two clean crystal glasses from a shopping bag into the now-empty briefcase. The weight is different, purposeful. I shut the car door and make my way out, the cold autumn wind hitting me for a moment, sharp and bracing. I lock the car with a soft beep and stroll into the university's main hall, feeling the weight of gazes from students and professors alike. I pay no mind to it. Let them stare.
My eyes track the surveillance cameras planted at intervals along the hallway ceilings. Their little red lights blink like unblinking eyes. Walking straight into her office to do this would be dumb. Even if I posed the death as a suicide, being the last person caught on camera leaving her space wouldn't be a good look for me. I need her to come to me.
Getting into an elevator, I pull out Aaron's phone. The facial recognition unlocks it with a smooth click. I skim through the contact list, finding the most recent text thread: Darcy Grey. It's a league of awfully pathetic, desperate messages from him.
[Why did you do it? Darcy please.]
[You have to tell them it isn't true!]
[For goodness sake, answer me!]
I scoff, a low sound of contempt. Just then, a tiny, muffled sneeze shatters the cold silence of the elevator.
"I'm so sorry," a feminine voice chuckles nervously, followed by another soft sneeze.
I look over my shoulder. A girl stands in the corner. She's quite young—it's easy to tell she's a freshman. She's wearing a pair of flared jeans, a red knitted scarf that looks cheap compared to the wool of my coat, and a simple black jacket. Her blonde hair is styled under a red knitted beanie, straightened so it falls neatly to her shoulders.
I realize I've observed her for a beat too long, but she's observing me too. Her peculiar grey eyes dart from my head to my shoes and back again, wide with a kind of startled recognition, like she's seen a ghost.
"Professor Maddox?" she calls out, the question tentative, as if she's trying to reaffirm a fantasy.
"Yes?" I turn back to my phone, my tone dismissive. I don't have time for a chat, or for whatever words of pity or condemnation she might be gearing up to offer.
My thumbs move over the screen. I text Darcy Grey.
[Come to my office in twenty minutes. Let's discuss this like adults. I'll give you what you want, if you're willing.]
I hit send.
"Are you alright, Professor?" There's a specific quality to the way she says it that pulls my focus back to her. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, but her expression holds a genuine, uncomplicated concern. It's etched plainly in those grey eyes.
I feel an unfamiliar, unwelcome tingle in my chest. The words ring strangely in my head. I've never heard them before, at least not directed at me. Not as Kairos. No one ever really cared enough to ask. That pathetic, starved part of me, the part that was always Kairos, feels it like a stray cat finally finding a hesitant moment of comfort on a stranger's lap. It's disorienting.
"You passed out yesterday at the rink," she continues, filling the quiet. "I was just wondering if you're okay."
'You'll never find love... not in this world or the next. You know why? The Creator doesn't love you.'
Samael's voice cuts through my skull, stark and cold, a reminder I shouldn't have needed. This is pointless. She's probably just intimidated, trying to get on my good side. Or maybe she's painfully naive, oblivious to the rumors currently poisoning my name across the entire university.
"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't," I say. My tone is clipped, icy, intended to freeze her out and put her firmly back in her place.
"Right." She nods, a quick, aborted motion, just as the elevator chimes and the doors slide open. We step out in unison and go our separate ways without another word. I don't look back.
I stare at my Rolex. Darcy will be here in roughly fifteen minutes. I'm certain she will be. The enigma of a broken Aaron Maddox offering her what she wants is a lure I know she won't resist.
I open the office door with a fingerprint scan, shutting it firmly behind me. The room is a disaster zone. Aaron had clearly shaken the place up during a final, furious outburst. The couch is overturned, copies of his own advance reader copies torn into confetti-like shreds. The printer and scanners lie upended on the tiled floor, surrounded by a debris field of paperclips and pens.
I roll up my sleeves. No time to dwell on the mess. I right the couch, open the windows to let in the cold, sterile air, and wipe down the chairs with a handful of tissues. The task takes about five minutes. I toss the used tissues into the trash can.
Next, I clear the desk, setting the bottle of wine and the two glasses in the center. I fill both glasses halfway, the rich crimson liquid catching the grey light from the window. As a final touch, I call a high-end restaurant down the street and make a reservation for one, under the name Maddox. I'll be needing a stiff drink and a quiet corner after this, regardless of how it goes.
I sit in the swivel chair, take a slow, deliberate sip of the wine, and open the phone's voice recorder app. I set it to record and place the phone screen-down on the desk, near the base of the lamp. Just two minutes left now.
A prompt flashes in my mind, the system's voice cool and efficient.
[Should I prepare weapons from the repository?]
"It's going to cost me wreckage points, right?"
[Affirmative.]
"Save it." I take another sip. The clock on the wall strikes the hour with a soft, definitive tick. A knock follows, three sharp raps on the door.
Right on time.
"She's here."