3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Inside The Globe

Thorne ignores me for the rest of class.

It’s a small blessing.

Class eventually ends with the harsh scrape of chairs against the worn floor. Students gather their belongings, eager to escape.

I take my time, deliberately slow as I pack my notebook and pens into my bag. My heart hammers in my chest, anticipation coursing through my veins.

Most of the students have already filed out, their voices echoing down the hallway. Thorne is at the front of the room, watching.

Good.

I reach into my bag, pulling out the decoy—a battered manuscript, the paper yellowed, ink faded. I make a show of trying to hide it, my hands fumbling as I tuck it into the inner pocket of my bag.

I stand up, slinging my bag over my shoulder.

One step toward the door.

Another.

“Ms. Hill,” she calls out, her voice sharp. I freeze, like a deer caught in headlights. Her gaze flicks to my bag, then back to me. She knows. “A moment, please.”

“Yes, Professor Thorne?”

She walks toward me, her heels clicking against the floor. Her eyes never leave mine, her gaze intense, probing. She stops in front of me, her hand outstretched. “What’s in your bag?”

I clutch my bag tighter, my knuckles turning white. “Nothing.”

Thorne’s lips thin. “Don’t lie to me.”

I take a deep breath, my heart pounding in my ears. I reach into my bag, my hand wrapping around the pages. I pull them out, my hand trembling slightly. Thorne’s eyes widen in surprise as she takes in the battered appearance.

She snatches it from me, her fingers brushing against mine.

I suppress a shudder at the contact.

The old script is convincing. “What is this?”

“It was a gift. From Professor Stratford. It’s mine.”

Thorne’s grip tightens on it, her knuckles turning white. She knows the significance, if it ever belonged to Stratford. “It looks old. And valuable. I don’t think he gave it to you. I think you stole it from him.”

My heart races. “I did not.”

“Perhaps I should take this to the ethics office.”

I look up at her, my eyes filling with tears. They aren’t fake tears, but I’m not crying for the reason she thinks. “I didn’t steal it. I was working on it with him, when he…when he died. Writing notes for him. That’s all.”

Thorne’s eyes flash, a mixture of anger and triumph. She thinks she’s won, thinks she’s broken me. “I understand. And you probably didn’t know who to return it to, after his untimely passing.”

“Yes,” I say, sounding grateful.

She tucks the book under her arm, her eyes never leaving mine. “Don’t worry, Ms. Hill. You aren’t in trouble. The university owns whatever he was working on, which means the university now owns this manuscript. Your help, such as it is, will no longer be needed.”

I nod, pretending to be upset. “I understand.”

She turns away, dismissing me. I watch as she walks back to her desk, the pages still tucked under her arm. I can see the tension in her shoulders, the rigid set of her back. She’s excited.

I turn around, my heart pounding in my chest. I’ve planted the seed of revenge. Whether it will come to anything, I don’t know, but I walk out of the lecture hall wearing a small smile.

The smile doesn’t last for long.

The courtyard outside the building is usually full of students on their way to class. A few of them might lounge on the grass studying. Or a couple of jocks might roughhouse.

Today everyone has their heads together, whispering, gossiping. News of the liberal arts department has never been this scandalous before.

And Brandon stands at the coffee shop.

It’s shocking how much he looks like his father. I didn’t see the resemblance the first time I met Professor Stratford at the Pinnacle Hotel. That’s because he’s the original, the fully formed version. While Brandon has softer edges, as if he’s still growing into his face. I’d found him cute once.

Now I find him heartbreaking. He reminds me of what’s gone.

He straightens when he sees me, as if he’s been waiting for me.

That’s not what I need today.

I try to avoid him, but he steps in front of me, holding out a steaming paper cup. “The way you like it,” he says.

Damn it. I do want caffeine, but I don’t want it to be from him. I’m not even sure what it’s supposed to be. A peace offering? A bribe? “No, thanks.”

I don’t stop walking, but he doesn’t take the hint.

Instead, he follows me as I head toward my next class.

A girl whispers to her friend as I walk by. Her eyes dart to me, then quickly away. Her friend nods, her brows furrowed.

I quicken my pace, eager to escape. The murmurs grow louder as I pass.

“Go away,” I mutter. “Or we’re both going to end up on Tanglewood Tea.”

“So what?”

I make a sound like a growl. It’s what comes out naturally as I hold my hand out for the coffee, muttering a surly thanks . “Maybe you don’t care about everyone gossiping about you, but I do.”

“They don’t even know what they’re talking about.”

“That doesn’t stop them.”

He sighs. “Maybe we can talk about this in private?”

That makes me stop. He’s sighing at me, as if I’m the annoying one? “What does that even mean? Like should we go have dinner somewhere, maybe head to the pub for a few drinks with your frat-boy friends?”

An uneasy shift. “It doesn’t have to be like that.”

“What would it be like, then?” I can tell my voice is rising, but I can’t seem to soften it. It’s either yell at my ex-boyfriend or start sobbing in the middle of campus. “Would it be a date? Now that your dad is dead we can have sex again?”

He flinches. Everyone is listening now, watching us.

I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I know you lost your father. I know you’re grieving, but I’m not going to be the one to comfort you through it.”

“I know that.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture I remember all too well. His father has a similar one. Had a similar one. I have to remember he’s in the past tense now. “I don’t know.”

“Once you figure it out, maybe you can explain it to me. All I know is that Professor Stratford is dead, and you wouldn’t even let me grieve him.”

That was the only text I had sent, a month after school let out. I asked where he’d been buried. It’s not like I was going to stroll through the funeral or anything. I only wanted to lay flowers there. And maybe a book.

He’d left me on read. Unanswered.

“Anne, please. It’s complicated.”

“Yes, it’s complicated. And every single version leads to one thing: I should be allowed to mourn him. I should be allowed to stand by his grave with flowers. So if I’m not even good enough for that, then you can go to hell.”

A feminine voice rings out. “Anne!”

My friend Carlisle pushes her way through the crowd. Her pretty face is marred with worry. “What’s going on? Is he bothering you?”

I brush tears away from my eyes. “It’s fine. I was just leaving.”

Her soulful eyes search me. Then she loops her arm through mine, helping me escape the crowd. I let her lead me away, grateful for her help. The stares follow me like a shadow.

I take a deep breath, trying to rein in my emotions.

The chatter fades into the background, replaced by the crunch of gravel under our feet. The air is crisp, the sun casting a warm glow over the campus, a stark contrast to the grief coiled within me.

“You okay?” Carlisle asks, her voice soft.

“I’m fine. Just...frustrated. Everyone saw me talking to him. That is probably going to end up on Tanglewood Tea.”

She squeezes my arm, her grip reassuring. “No, it won’t.”

I manage a small smile, grateful for her support even though I don’t believe her. “They’ve been posting a lot about Thorne and the takeover. They’re hinting at some pretty dark stuff. Stuff about the Shakespeare Society too.”

Carlisle’s grip on my arm tightens. “That’s a good thing, right?”

“Sure. It’s good. A little late, though.”

She’s silent, her gaze fixed on the path ahead. “Late?”

“Late, now that he’s dead. They’re the ones who outed my relationship with him. Maybe he would still be alive if not for that.”

“Do you really think that?”

“I don’t know, but if they talk shit about me, then I won’t be safe either.”

She stops and faces me. “They never mentioned your name.”

I frown, remembering. It’s a little hazy in the miasma of grief, but she’s right. They only said that Professor Stratford was sleeping with a student. It was the student doing work-study in the office that handed out our mentorship assignments who shared my name. “Why are you defending them?”

She bites her lip. “I’m not.”

Shit. I made her feel bad. I didn’t mean to do that. “Listen, I’m sorry.”

“God, don’t apologize.”

“No, I need to. You were so great coming to my rescue back there. I’m not great company right now.”

Her eyes turn almost watery. “Anne.”

She can’t start crying. If she does, then I’ll start crying. And if I start crying, I’ll never stop. “I’ve got to go, okay?”

I head for the library, my throat tight, my shoulders down.

Over the summer, I read every article I could find that touched on Professor Stratford’s death. The official label was a heart attack, so there’s no discussion of poison or murder. Each one felt like a slap in the face. Still, I read them because I hoped that one of them would have found out where he was buried. It only occurs to me now that I have another resource.

The grand entrance of the Registrar’s Office looms before me, its heavy glass doors revealing desks. It also contains the Hall of Faculty. That’s a fancy name for a dusty corner on the second floor. It contains the name of every professor who’s ever taught at Tanglewood University.

Which means he should be there.

Along with the date of his death…and the location of his grave.

Some famous people have graduated from this university. Their photos are framed on the wall, some even signed. Actors, judges, politicians, CEOs, poets. I find the little box labeled S , then the index paper that says Stratford, William . It has his degrees, his honors, professional publications. There’s even a section for some documentaries he’s in, such as Inside the Globe: Hidden Secrets Inside Shakespeare’s Theater . I’ll have to look it up online, even though it will be heartbreaking to see him.

Under death, it has this year.

And nothing else.

Where the place of burial would be, it’s blank.