4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

The Dead Sea

I’m in Professor Stratford’s office, the rich scent of old books and leather surrounding me. He’s rolling up his sleeves, revealing strong forearms. Reading, of course, in a leather chair, by the light of a green banker’s lamp.

He looks up when I step inside.

“Anne,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble.

He’s holding me.

Space and time mean nothing here.

Death has no power.

His fingers trace the line of my jaw, tilting my face up to his. His lips capture mine, hungry and demanding. I melt into him, my body pressing against his. He tastes like whiskey and desire, a heady mix that goes straight to my head.

His hands roam my body, possessive, knowing exactly what they want. He cups my breast, his thumb brushing over my nipple through the thin fabric of my shirt. I gasp into his mouth, feeling a rush of heat between my legs. He growls in response, deepening the kiss.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, his voice rough. His hand slides down to my hip, pulling me against him. I can feel his arousal, his hard cock. It’s ready for me, and God, my body is ready too—slick and hot and squeezing.

Then I wake up, gasping.

A dream. It was only a dream.

The orange light through the window makes me blink in confusion. I’m not really someone who naps, but I fell into bed after classes. I’ve had enough of Thorne’s sly smiles. I’ve had enough of whispers on campus.

It’s exhausting.

Grief is exhausting.

I’m learning to hate Professor Stratford. It’s not fair to feel that way about someone who can’t defend themself, but I can’t help it. He shouldn’t have made me fall for him. He shouldn’t have made life seem beautiful.

I was happy enough with survival. Before him.

A knock startles me.

Is it Lorelei complaining that we left towels on the floor of the bathroom again? I open the door, my eyes widening as I take in the sight of Professor Avery Miller, professor of ancient history. Her beauty and poise look out of place in the slouched, pock-marked hallway of Hathaway Dormitory.

She smiles. “Hello, Anne.”

“Um.” I glance behind me. No answers there. “Hi?”

“I know this is last minute and you might have plans already, but I was wondering if you would have dinner with me.”

Plans? I don’t make plans for dinner. That would require a social life. I have only a handful of friends…and my books. I glance down at my jeans and an old T-shirt from my high school debate team. Then I look at her.

She’s wearing some kind of T-shirt dress that I suppose might pass for casual if you’re wealthy and gorgeous. The plum color sets off her dark blonde hair. A wide sash made from the same smooth cotton ties a bow around her slender waist.

“We can go out, if you’d like,” she says, since I’m standing there gawking.

“Oh, I don’t know.” I don’t have money. I’m guessing she would pay for my meal, but that would make me feel worse. Besides, I’m not sure what she wants with me. Nothing good. She’s one of the few people who know about my affair and have been kind to me, but I also hate that she needs to. I hate that I’ve become a pitiable person, someone who needs help, rather than a potential scholar. “I’m kind of tired.”

“That’s okay,” she says, gentle but persistent. “We can eat in the cafeteria downstairs. Faculty get a certain number of dorm meals.”

“Are you…sure?”

“Of course.”

I rub the sleep from my eyes and search for my phone, which is under my desk somehow. I barely even remember stumbling in here a couple hours ago. Daisy isn’t here, which strikes me as vaguely odd.

“Professor Miller, is this some kind of vigil?”

Her eyebrows rise. “Vigil?”

“Yeah, or like, a suicide watch? Daisy isn’t here, so I’m wondering if she asked you to spend time with me.”

She stops walking. The hallway is small enough that the conversation feels intimate. Her gentle voice adds to it. “Are you thinking about hurting yourself, Anne?”

“No. That’s what I’m saying. You don’t need to waste your time with me no matter what Daisy may have said.”

“Hey. Enough of that. Daisy didn’t ask me to come. And most importantly, you aren’t a waste of time, not to anyone, definitely not to me.”

They are very nice words.

That doesn’t mean that they’re real.

It doesn’t mean I’m not a burden.

Yes, I’d do the same for Daisy. And I’d tell her she’s not a burden. I’d tell that to anyone. My deep-down secret is that I’m not like everyone else. I’m worth less. That’s what growing up in a household where you have to parent your parents from the time you’re old enough to walk. Managing their emotions, cleaning their house, cooking their food. And then being told what you’ve done isn’t even good enough. I’ve been a burden from the moment I was born, and it’s left a soot-stained stamp on my soul.

I also know that the world wants me to pretend. It wants me to smile and nod and proclaim that I’m working on self-care.

So I don’t argue with Professor Miller.

“Maybe for this one meal, you can call me Avery.”

I give her a sideways glance. “I’m not sure I can do that.”

“You graduate next semester.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ll always be Professor Miller to me.”

“Hmm.”

The cafeteria downstairs hasn’t updated the letter board since before I moved in here. Meatloaf and green beans, it’s said for years, layers of dust and grease coated so that they probably can’t even remove the yellowed letters to tell us what’s actually going to be served.

It really isn’t appropriate for Professor Miller in her Anne Taylor clothes, no matter how business casual they are. But she picks up a tray and enters the line, so I follow her. Spaghetti. There’s a vat of spaghetti and a rock-hard breadstick. For dessert there’s watery, off-brand Jell-O.

There are not-so-subtle stares as we find seats.

For once I’m not sure whether they’re gawking at me for my notoriety or at Professor Miller for eating here. I’ve seen some professors take quick meals at Mayfair Dormitory, where they have Mediterranean bowls and house-made ice cream. Even so, they usually only eat with each other.

“Fraternization,” she murmurs with a small smile, opening the little paper packet holding the silverware. “This is very taboo of us.”

She’s referring to the stares. They don’t seem to bother her, but she apparently notices. “I’m sorry. I should have taken your offer to go off campus.”

Her hazel eyes twinkle. “Don’t apologize. Believe me, I’ve done far more shocking things than this.”

I don’t bother to hide my skepticism. “Really.”

A delicate, feminine snort. “One day I’ll tell you how my husband and I met. Maybe once you can call me Avery.”

“It might be worth it to hear the story.” From the expression on her face, it sounds like it would be a good one. Though I doubt it’s as…dangerous, sexual, and forbidden as how I met Professor Stratford.

“Oh, it will be,” she says. “I’ll give you a little hint. There was an auction.”

The word auction coming out of her bow-shaped lips makes me think of the fancy kind of auctions that rich people must have, with priceless works of art and a man holding a gavel. Then another idea occurs to me.

She isn’t saying that she was auctioned, right?

I blink.

A slow smile curves her lips. “I’ll tell you one day, when we’re off campus.”

Maybe she wouldn’t be shocked about how I met Professor Stratford in a hotel bar, offering a night with him for money to pay for books. “I think there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

“Good,” she says. “Appearances aren’t what matter. I have many published papers and lectures exploring ancient mythology that boil down to that.”

“How did you choose that area of study?”

“Oh, I didn’t really. It chose me.”

I think back to the afternoons I spent curled up with old books checked out from the Port Lavaca Library, making friends with Juliet, learning to fear Hamlet. Studiously avoiding Macbeth. “I understand that.”

“I know you do.”

It occurs to me that there may be an upside to meeting with her. “I have to ask you something. Do you know where Professor Stratford is buried?”

Her eyes shadow. “No, I’m sorry.”

Damn. “It’s fine.”

The heat stinging my eyes calls me a liar. She’s kind enough to let me wipe them away with the coarse paper napkin without comment.

She was a colleague of his. She should have been invited to the funeral, along with many other people. Why the hell is it such a secret where he’s buried? I wanted to find out so that I could pay my respects, maybe find some closure. Instead it’s turning into a mystery.

What if he’s not buried anywhere? What if he’s alive?

I shake my head, dispelling the thought. It’s ridiculous. Impossible. I saw him fall. I felt him die. I squeeze my eyes shut, the memory of that night playing out behind my closed lids. The underground storm shelters, the blood.

“This is such a hard thing,” Professor Miller says. “You’re so young, so people may want to dismiss your grief, but it’s clear that you felt deeply.”

“A little too deeply.”

“I’m sure it’s hard for you to focus on school right now.”

“Yes and no. It’s distracting, at least. Being at home over the summer wasn’t really better. Too much time to wonder.”

“That makes sense. He would be proud of you.”

“No, he wouldn’t.”

“No?”

“I might not even graduate.”

She coughs, her eyes watering, though it’s unclear whether it’s from what I’ve said or the bite of breadstick she’s just taken. Possibly she doesn’t know the quantity of salt being used in this kitchen daily could re-create the Dead Sea.

“Why would you say that?”

“Because…” I glance around, although most everyone has gone back to eating. “You know who’s running the department now.”

“Yes.”

“Well…she might not pass me.”

“Pass you? She’ll have to prove you deserve to fail. With your grades and your reputation with other professors, that would be hard to do.”

Possible, though. Especially with her neat little trick for the final exam. I might be the only student forced to argue against Shakespeare’s authorship. Which means that if she fails me, and I challenge the grade, that paper will then be judged by other Shakespearean scholars—particularly ones connected to Tanglewood University already, ones who never countenance any other idea.

I don’t explain the details to Professor Miller.

Or as she’s starting to be called in my own head, at least, Avery.

“I wouldn’t put anything past her,” I say.

After a long pause, she sighs. “You’re right. It would be foolish to underestimate her. Which means you might not pass.”