10. Theron

10

THERON

DEVIL'S ADVOCATE - THE NEIGHBOURHOOD

"Wouldn't it be easier to take Manchester home? Do you always take a side street like Monarch?" Nyssa Oliver had asked as I turned up out of nowhere to give her a ride home.

It was a fair question.

The kind of immediate curiosity a bright, gifted young woman like Nyssa Oliver would have.

I should've been better prepared. Sharper on my feet if I were going to pull off what I did. Luckily, the shadows of the car disguised my silent panic. They gave me the cover I needed to make up something on the spot.

Why was I on Monarch Street? How likely is it that I just happened upon Nyssa?

Not likely at all.

The unvarnished truth was that I had spent the evening watching her. Earlier in the day, Nyssa had been uncharacteristically distracted—she checked her phone three separate times during my class.

It was Samson Wicker texting her about his course load. The oaf needed help with his classes again and we were barely a month and a half into the fall semester.

Nyssa agreed, accepting his invitation to come over.

All exchanges I read for myself. All messages I saw from her iCloud account.

I tracked her every move from the AirTag I had slipped into her bookbag when inside her apartment and listened to the exchange from the mic I had also planted.

So, as Nyssa went to meet her slow-witted meathead boyfriend, I was already aware. I was lurking in the neighborhood, prepared to step in if I needed to.

If he got out of line.

He almost did. She practically had to knee him in the groin just to get him off her. He refused to give her a ride home, a recurring theme that came up again after the art festival fiasco.

Nyssa was shocked that I showed up to save the day—or night , more accurately speaking—but it wasn't as though she didn't secretly welcome the rescue.

Days go by on the calendar, and I'm not the only one doing the seeking.

Class ends and most students pack up and vacate the scene as promptly as possible. Her friend Heather Driscoll, who should probably be grieving the recent death of her parents, leaves with Macey Eurwen at her side, talking about the shopping they'll do that afternoon.

And then there's Nyssa Oliver, who lingers at her desk, her eyes curious and gleaming, framed by long, natural lashes. Every movement of hers is slow and measured, like she's biding her time, waiting out the moment.

I shuffle papers and pack my things, pretending not to notice from the front of the room.

It's a charming little game we play. The uncertainty that hangs between us is almost addictive. It's an exhilarating rush where we put feelers out and wait for the other's response.

Nyssa craves approval; she wants to know she has mine.

Little does she know, she already has it. She won it a long time ago. But more than that—she's earned my fascination.

Infatuation.

She clears her throat and then takes the chance.

"Err, Professor," she says cautiously, "I was wondering if we could have a word."

"Yes, Miss Oliver?"

"I had some thoughts about our discussion during class."

Of course, you did. You think much more dimensionally than the rest of the class.

On the outside, I remain nonplussed. Staring her down as she approaches, I say, "Such as?"

"It's regarding what you said about the death penalty," she says. "You stated that it typically provides justice and closure to the families of the victims."

I arch a judgmental brow at her. "Is that something you disagree with?"

"Sure, in some circumstances, but we can't overlook other elements. There's the fact that the legal system is steeped in biases. If you're rich, you can afford better representation than someone poor relying on public defenders?—"

"I assure you, as a former defense attorney myself, it is substantially easier to get someone off a murder or manslaughter charge than it is to get them convicted. The bar for conviction is extremely high. There is a reason conviction rates typically pale in comparison to the number of arrests made. The number of cases that make it to trial. The same goes for rape and sexual assault."

"But what about the few who do slip through the cracks?" she presses determinedly, even taking a step toward me. "One in eight people sentenced to death row are later found innocent, Professor. That's not even touching on the racial disparities that exist in our legal system. People of color—Black people—are more likely to be prosecuted for capital murder than White people, especially if the victim in the case is White themselves."

I fold my arms and lean against my desk, half genuinely interested in what she has to say, and half attracted to how passionate she becomes.

I'm not sure I've ever been this turned on by legal arguments before.

"Valid," I admit. "Then what is the solution, Miss Oliver? Are you suggesting we eliminate the death penalty altogether? What about the families of victims from heinous crimes? Let's say, an obvious example in our own community, the Valentine Killer? Are you suggesting if he is really back—if he has truly returned—that should he or she be caught, they should not face the death penalty?"

Her brows knit closer, her internal conflict passing over her face. "Well… for someone who committed really heinous crimes… I'm not sure…"

"Part of critiquing legal theory, Miss Oliver, includes an understanding that the system will never be perfect. No legal system in the world is or ever can be. But typically, we strive for what best serves society. How familiar are you with ethical philosophy?" I ask. "I would argue much of our justice system is a utilitarianism approach, meaning what benefits the greater good prevails. Some innocents may slip through the cracks, but what is the relative cost to allowing a much larger number of not-so-good people to go unpunished?"

"People deserve to suffer for what they've done," she says with immediate conviction, making me tilt my head to the side. "If they've wronged others, then they do deserve to suffer."

"Interesting take considering the argument you just made against the death penalty."

"I'm against innocents being punished. I have no concern for bad people."

"How would you suggest delineating between the two?"

"We can start by working toward consistency. Equal treatment and punishment under the law."

"Noble concept. Agreed. Tell me some of your ideas."

An hour passes before we notice the time and our discussion comes to an end. Nyssa has another class coming up and I have grading to do.

"I can't remember the last time I lost track of time like this," she says bashfully. "I'm running late. This campus is massive and takes you ten minutes to get anywhere."

"It was designed that way. Castlebury was built centuries ago," I say with a wondrous glance at the chain-link chandelier that hangs from the ceiling. "Back when it was fashionable to have bookcases that led to other rooms and hidden dwellings underground. Many still exist today…"

"It sounds like you're very familiar with them."

"I've been here for quite a long time. You should hurry. You don't want to miss your class."

"Maybe we can pick up where we left off next time." She casts me a reluctant smile before we part ways .

I watch her go equally as reluctant, almost wishing she could stay longer.

The fact that we remained so engaged we exchanged ideas and discussed legal theory for an hour does nothing to quell my obsession. It merely fuels it further.

Nyssa challenged my positions and put me on the defensive. All things I welcomed as I countered what she said and left her to consider my perspectives in the same way.

It's the first of many after-class discussions like this.

In the coming days, Nyssa makes a habit of remaining behind after the rest of the class clears out. She always approaches my desk in the same hesitant manner, clutching her books, wearing such an inquisitive look on her beautiful face that I'm powerless to turn her away.

How can I when she's begun to take up more and more space in my head?

In the coming nights, I make habits of my own.

As Nyssa dozes peacefully, out cold after hours of late-night studying, I creep closer to her bed and gently lay a blanket over her. Her books are splayed out around her. Peaches has found her spot closer to Nyssa's head, nestled between some throw pillows.

The room's dark enough that I slink back into the shadows.

She stirs minutes later as if suddenly remembering she had been in the middle of reading. She sits up and rubs at her eyes before snapping shut the books and twisting off the reading lamp by her bed.

I stay still, hidden by the window drapes, as she wanders the dark space confidently, having memorized the placement of every stick of furniture. She's awake but not entirely so by how she shuffles into the bathroom to pee and quickly wrap up her hair.

She returns to dig out a pair of pajamas from a drawer in her dresser.

I resist the urge to make myself obvious as she changes mere feet away from me.

The skirt she'd worn today and fallen asleep in slides to the ground. She steps out of it and slips on a pair of pajama pants. The same happens with the sweater she's had on. It crumples to the ground as she stands so close by, completely topless.

Hot arousal rushes me and I become a little lightheaded. I blink through it, standing firm as I drink in the beautifully erotic sight.

The situation might be mundane—Nyssa Oliver changing before bedtime—but I've begun to find everything she does fascinating in some way.

Her body would fit mine so perfectly. Her supple curves flush against my straight, lean frame. I would worship her ample, teardrop-shaped breasts and rounded hips. I'd appreciate her in ways an oaf like Samson Wicker never could…

I'm practically erect in my pants as Nyssa tugs her pajama top over her head.

She sets aside the legal books she's been reading and crawls into bed next to her ginger cat. Peaches seems to be much more situationally aware than her mother; her bright green eyes blink over at the window as if she's aware I'm in the room with them.

Luckily, we've become friends.

The purr she makes has Nyssa giving off a small sleepy laugh. The last dim light in the room, the lamp on the other bedside table, gets turned off and total darkness follows .

I wait another twenty minutes, until I'm sure Nyssa's deeply asleep, before I finally leave her bedroom.

The key to her apartment, along with my other methods of tracking her, have made it incredibly easy to do what I'm doing.

Arrive minutes before she does and then spend the evening watching her.

Even on nights I'm not inside her apartment doing it, I'm miles away doing so from her iCloud and AirTag and the camera I've installed.

All things I rationalized as being for her benefit. For her safety and well-being considering her douchebag boyfriend couldn't be trusted.

But things, if I'm being honest, I've done for my pleasure.

To feed this… infatuation that's quickly growing.

By the next faculty meeting, I launch my next endeavor I've aptly titled: Ruin Samson Wicker's Life.

"Most of you are aware of what we will be discussing," says Pamela Williamson, our faculty head. She peers around the room with a grim tightness about her face. "We received screenshots of messages between two students about their plans for this Halloween party. These students have been identified as Samson Wicker and Lucas Cummings. Neither one has been notified their private messages have been anonymously sent to faculty."

"I would think they deserve to know," pipes up Professor Burrows. "Their speech is their own. It is a violation of their First Amendment rights?—"

"We are aware of what rights the students do and don't have, Professor Burrows. However, that goes out the window the minute we have reason to believe they are participating in illegal and illicit activities. Drug use is one of those activities."

"My boys don't do dope," pipes up Coach Shanks, folding his veiny arms. "They know better than that. They're aware they're off the team if they pop positive."

"We would like to think they are. But if these messages are true, we must act."

Another professor by the name of Percy Barker raises his hand. "Could they be fake messages?"

"That's possible too. But we've had the campus cyber officer look at them, and at this time, he doesn't believe they are."

I hide my smirk behind the peppermint mocha I've snagged at the student union. It's not uncommon that I remain on the sidelines as other faculty members debate the importance of staff potlucks and other mundane things.

But it's never been more entertaining to listen to them squawk at each other.

Particularly since it's a mess of my own creation.

I screenshotted the messages Wicker and Cummings exchanged. I sent the anonymous email to the faculty distro.

As Coach Shanks practiced with the rugby team on the field last Wednesday, it was me who casually strolled into the male locker room and planted the drug evidence in the side pouches of their gym bags.

It was me who snuck a few milligrams into the protein shakes I found in their lockers.

A party drug called Euphoria crushed into powder substance and stored in little plastic baggies.

I didn't typically have Euphoria on hand—or any drug beyond over-the-counter medication—but there was one thing being the older brother of a recreational user like Theo had taught me. It was that it was shockingly easy to get your hands on drugs off the street if you knew where to look.

One quick deal under the veil of secrecy, and I was in possession of what I needed to sabotage Samson Wicker.

"We'll have to drug test the team," Pamela Williamson says, sighing. "That's the only way we find out for certain. We'll do the whole team just to be sure. Shanks, you'll have to inform them at practice later today."

The roided-out coach scoffs. "If they pop negative, you're going to have egg on your face, Pam. And potentially a lawsuit on your hands."

"We'll worry about that after the drug test. And after we search their lockers."

I walk out of the meeting practically with a pep in my step… or as much pep as someone as brooding and disgruntled as me can possibly have.

The October afternoon has turned gray and rainy, but while students prop open their umbrellas and scurry across campus, I'm taking my time. I stroll through with my peppermint mocha and grin noticing Samson Wicker and his oafish group of jock pals camped out at the student union.

He has no clue what's coming his way.

I pull out my phone and check the latest on Nyssa's iCloud. She's posted a cryptic message on her Instagram.

All things happen for a reason .

Complete with a vase of flowers haloed by natural sunlight pouring in through a window. It's a beautiful photo only an artistic mind like hers would think to capture. But she has no clue how true her blurb really is. How it so aptly fits her situation and the ways in which I'm helping her.

If only you knew all the things I'm doing for you.

Someday… you will.

Someday… you'll thank me.

I carry on toward my BMW in the parking lot.

It's been two days since I last stopped by Nyssa's apartment. I'm a man looking to sate my appetite.

One quick visit can't hurt. One fleeting moment to explore her private space again, taking in the scents, sights, and other sensory details.

According to the AirTag, Nyssa's out shopping with the likes of Heather Driscoll for the afternoon.

Peaches slinks around my ankle when I enter. I scratch behind her pointed ears just where she likes and pull out the salmon flavored cat treat I've brought her.

Yet another way I'm bettering Nyssa's life—I'm pampering her precious kitty without her even knowing I'm doing so.

Over the next hour, I study the latest developments on Nyssa's sculptures. She's started on yet another new piece, this one another recreation of the human form.

It's a female torso that has the delicate and svelte curve only someone as talented as Nyssa could pull off. But for all its beauty, there's a morbid element too.

While the right side of the torso is smooth and whole, the left side has a hole carved out as if depicting a wound of some kind.

A gaping hole where the heart should be .

My head slants to the side as I study the piece and imagine the meaning.

At the turn of the hour, I decide I've been greedy enough and should get going if I'm to avoid her. According to her AirTag, she and Heather have left the downtown area where their favorite boutiques are located.

On my way out, I notice a collection of old school newspapers dating back twenty years. I stop in my tracks and pick up the top paper to read the headline. Predictably, it's about Valentine.

Assistant Dean Roger Fairchild Found Slain in His Office

"Hmmm," I say aloud to no one, "why would you have these, Miss Oliver? Doing some research on Valentine, are you? Is that why you've been at the library so often?"

I make it out of her apartment and stride toward my car once I'm on the ground floor. Mere footsteps away, a familiar voice calls out to me.

Not Nyssa. Not even Theo.

"Theron, surprised to see you here," says Veronica. "Visiting a student?"

Tension cinches my spine, making me stop mid stride. I cast her a cold look. "My sister. She does manage the building. I could ask you the same question, Veronica. Make a habit of hanging around college apartments?"

The woman I'd once been foolishly engaged to sniffles as she crosses her arms, her dark locks framing her pale face. "Have you forgotten my family owns this building? I can come by any time I want."

"But you can't come by my home any time you want. If I ever catch you near me again—or my BMW that you keyed—you'll regret it."

Her eyes narrow. "You are unbelievable."

"No, Veronica, the only unbelievable thing is that I was ever fooled by you. That won't happen again."

I turn my back on her and finish my walk down the front path. The alarm on my BMW beeps as I approach the door and get in.

Veronica watches me in bitter silence for so long, I assume she's going to let me go with no more protests. It's as the engine starts that she calls out her own version of a farewell.

"Ever think it's not me, Theron?" she says. "Ever think the problem is you?"

I slam my foot on the gas and drive off, leaving her in the past where she belongs.