Page 25

Kai

The faint crash of waves filters through the phone speaker, layered with the muffled clink of glasses and the low hum of conversation.

Someone’s playing a guitar in slow, wandering notes, and the occasional gust of wind cuts through it all.

Manny finally had his operation a week ago and went to recover at a beachside resort.

I can picture his lanky frame stretched out under the sun, coconut water in hand, enjoying the rare quiet. And for a moment, I’m glad. He deserves this.

“Has Halloran said anything about me?” His tone is dry, like he’s already anticipating the worst.

“No,” I say, shifting my weight against the counter. “He just wanted his book back.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, a sharp bark of laughter. “What book?”

I glance at the hallway as I speak, hearing the faint shuffle of movement upstairs. Lana is up earlier than usual.

“Some business textbook. He said you lent it to him last semester.”

Manny snorts. “Kai.”

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t borrow anything from him.”

My fingers drum once against the marble countertop. “Really? He sounded pretty sure.”

“What, you think I had my memory removed along with my prostate?”

My jaw tightens. So Halloran lied. “Why would he make up the excuse?”

A slow exhale on the other end. “I told you, he wants me out! Maybe he just wanted to get into my office to find some incriminating evidence—or plant it. He’ll do anything to get to me. He hates me.”

I roll my shoulders. “Or maybe he just wanted to bully the new kid on the block.”

“Or that,” Manny allows. A pause. Then, too casually, “Speaking of, you were asking for it, staying back that long. He likes to be the last to leave the premises. What were you doing in the office that late, anyway?”

I could lie, although Manny has a sixth sense for bullshit and will probably see through it.

“Grading . . . papers,” I say.

Silence. Then a short, unimpressed laugh. “For fuck’s sake, Kai.”

“What?”

“I knew it!”

“Knew what?” I snap.

“Look, it’s not a bad thing,” Manny muses. “Actually, it’s a relief. If only you weren’t so blatantly disregarding the rules. . .”

I tune him out. He guessed it, the superstitious old crone. It would be more than mildly unsettling if I wasn’t already used to his erratic bursts of psychic energy.

I scrape a hand through my hair and straighten just as Lana strides into the kitchen—fully dressed in matching pantsuit, hair swept into an artful bun.

She blows me a kiss, then walks straight to the counter and plucks a plate of French toast from where I left it for her.

“Is that Uncle Manny?” She says around a bite, pointing to the phone on the counter. At my nod, she yells. “Uncle Manny!”

Manny breaks off his tirade with a low chuckle. “Morning, little one.”

She takes the phone off speaker, balancing it between her ear and shoulder as she takes her plate and walks out.

I gladly let her take him off my hands, then check my watch.

Nicole should be awake by now. And hopefully, now walking again. She hadn’t been able to by the time I was done with her last night, well, in the early hours of this morning. I smirk, reaching for my phone—then realize Lana still has it.

Quicker than I expect, she’s back in the kitchen, handing me my phone with a knowing smile and humming a jaunty tune as she heads to the coffeemaker.

After a long, deliberate sip. Lana levels me with an amused look.

“So. Nic Abbott.”

“What about her?” I grunt, wondering what Manny said to her.

Lana steps closer, her voice dipping into something more conspiratorial. “That woman just keeps popping up everywhere.”

I shrug, keeping my tone as even as possible. “How so?”

She starts counting on her fingers. “She has open access to all Withers events—granted, I gave her that. She lives in Valencia. She’s rent David’s studio, and all he does is rave about her.”

“Okay. Is that bad?”

She holds up a finger, the mischief in her eyes sharpening. “I haven’t finished. She also takes a marketing course at Aldridge. The same one you happen to teach.”

“Is that so?”

Lana laughs, setting her mug down, then comes to jab me hard in the chest. “You secretive oaf! You’re all over that woman!”

A laugh rumbles from me. “Actually, that’s putting it very mildly.”

Lana’s expression shifts, the humor bleeding away as something sharper takes its place. Concern. Alarm.

“Kai,” she whispers, “Does she know?”

“Know what?”

She gestures to her scars—those faint, silvery trails winding down her neck and disappearing beneath her collarbone. “Sara. Cass. Elena”

“She doesn’t need to know,” I say after a long pause.

Lana exhales slowly. “So, it’s not serious, then.” The relief in her tone doesn’t quite match the tension in her eyes.

Lana starts to leave, and I want to leave it at that. I should leave it at that. Yet my mouth moves without permission and I say to her retreating back. “I can’t remember ever wanting anything more, Lana.”

She goes still, then turns and searches my face for a long moment, her eyes filled with an emotion I can’t quite decipher. “Then she needs to know, Kai.”

She walks out of the kitchen, her words hang heavy in the air.

This shit just got real.

An hour later, I’m standing in the faculty common room, waiting as the coffee machine hisses, then spits out another round of burnt regret.

I take a sip anyway, rolling the bitterness over my tongue.

I’d prefer to skip these faculty meetings, but Manny would have my head.

“Mr. Mitchell.”

Halloran.

“Dean Halloran.”

He steps closer. Not too close—just enough to observe, to measure. His smile is pleasant, but empty. “I wanted to apologize.”

I lift a brow. “For what?”

He grunts, as if considering. “I’m not sure. When I stopped by your office last night . . .” A deliberate pause. “I got the feeling I’d . . . walked in on something.”

“If you had,” I say coolly, “I’m sure you’d remember.”

Halloran chuckles. “Still, my apologies, then.”

“No need. You needed a book.”

“Ah, yes. The book.” His lips twitch like this amuses him. He starts to leave—then stops, hesitating, like he can’t quite let it go.

“It’s just—well . . .” He tilts his head. “I couldn’t help but notice a rather . . . unusual reaction from you.” A pause. “You seemed . . . overwhelmed.”

Ah. There it is.

I take another slow sip of my coffee, letting the bitterness coat my tongue. “If I’d known you were so interested in my moods, I would’ve invited you out for a drink sooner.”

A flicker of something crosses his face—irritation, maybe—but it’s gone before it settles.

“Academic life places such demands on our time,” he replies smoothly. Then, with clear emphasis, adds “and our reputation.”

I tip my head, voice dry. “Indeed.”

His smile sharpens. “You’ve made quite the impression on your students.” A beat. “Unconventional teaching skills, I hear.”

“I wouldn’t know, Halloran. I don’t deal with gossip.”

He colors slightly but keeps his expression neutral. “Of course.”

He’s waiting for something. Denial. Panic. A stumble he can tuck away for leverage. I don’t give him any.

Instead, I glance at the room steadily filling with staff, then back at him. “Shouldn’t you start the meeting? I, for one, would like to get back to my rather . . . eager students.”

He forces a chuckle despite his now almost purple complexion, and leaves.

The fucker thinks he’s holding the cards, but he doesn’t even know how close he is to packing up his things in a box.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, snapping me out of my thoughts. An unexpected warmth coursing through me when I see who it is.

Nicole: Just saying . . . hi. Hope your day is going well?

Finding myself a table in the back, I type as Halloran begins the meeting.

Me: Better now.

Nicole: Your sister sent me a cryptic text this morning, which makes me wonder if she knows about us.

Damn. Lana works fast.

Me: Yes, she knows.

Nicole: Omg, I hope she doesn’t think we’re a thing? Cos we’re not.

I bite back a grin and keep my answer deliberately noncommittal.

Me: K.

There’s a pause, and I can imagine hear her chewing on her bottom lip.

Nicole: It’s just . . . look, you’re my professor. Your sister is my boss of sorts. Your friend is my landlord. I just don’t want her thinking I’m targeting your family or something.

Me: Ofc.

Her reply takes a second longer this time.

Nicole: Okay, now that we cleared that up, I really want to sit on your face.

Heat rushes straight to my cock. Fuck. This woman is going to ruin me.

I shift, forcing my focus back to the room.

Me: Done.

Nicole: WTF with the monosyllables?

Me: Sorry.

Nicole: ?? [angry emoji] Where are you right now?

Me: Faculty meeting.

There’s a beat of silence. Then:

Nicole: Oh shit. I’m going.

A low chuckle escapes me before I can stop it. The woman next to me gives me a curious glance, but I ignore her.

Me: Stay. No one can see you. Now, tell me what else you want me to do to me.

The dots flicker.

Nicole: No. You’re a dirty old man, and I’m leaving.

I smirk, discreetly adjusting my erection under the table, and start typing my response—

A scream slices through the room.

All heads snap left.

Professor Lively shoves back from the table, her chair screeching against the polished floor.

Her face is sheet-white, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she stumbles away, pointing a trembling finger beneath her table.

“Oh my God,” she stammers. “It was by my leg the whole time. What the hell is that?”

Someone leans over, peers under the table. “It’s a dead bird!”

More chairs scrape. I push mine back, rising to get a look.

And my stomach plummets.

It’s not a bird.

It’s a clump of black feathers—bound tightly with twine, matted together with something thick. I know what it is before I even see the deep red staining the edges.

Ink. Red ink.

Lively shudders.

Someone mutters, “Jesus Christ.”

Then—laughter.

“You’re all acting like it’s a severed head,” one of the older professors scoffs. “It’s just a prank.”

“Exactly. Get a grip, guys,” a stocky professor chuckles, nudging the skinny guy next to him. “We had a dead snake last semester, remember?”

“The students have way too much time on their hands.” Skinny guy doesn’t share his humor.

Someone gripes about tighter security, earning a murmur of agreement.

Then—just as the murmurs start to settle—a voice from the back, low and wry, cuts through the room:

“How do we even know it was a student who did it?”

A beat of silence, then the room erupts into shudders and speculations again, but it’s all just static in my ears.

Because I know exactly what this is.

My hands curl into fists.

Fifteen years ago, a single crow feather dipped in red ink arrived in the mail. I ignored it. Three weeks later, Sara was face down in my pool.

Eight years ago, I got the exact same thing on my doorstep. Again, I dismissed it as a prank.

Exactly three weeks later, David found Cass floating in my pool.

Five years ago. I was ready for the fucker, but I got no feathers.

Only Elena swerving too hard and ending up in the L.A. river.

And now. . . I stare at the bundle of feathers, seeing nothing but a fucking countdown on the woman I’ve fallen for.

Lana is right.

It’s time to tell Nicole.