Page 13 of What Happened on Roslyn Street? (Strode University #1)

“It’s not the most expensive blend,” he says, pouring us each a glass, “but it’s light, and I enjoy it. These are my only wine glasses, so be sure not to break them.”

“I will do my best.” I take the glass from him, lifting it to my lips. “You pulled out all the stops for me. Why?”

“Because,” he says, “I found you interesting when we first met, and you become more intriguing by the day. I like you. I want to know you. Have I not made that clear enough?”

If it wasn’t clear before, it would be now—except it’s all lies. My body reacts to the words as if they’re true. Warmth pools in the pit of my belly.

“It’s… very clear now,” I say, laughing nervously. “This will be a nice break from the horrors.”

He sighs, swirling the wine in his glass. “The horrors are not an acceptable topic for our first date.”

“Then what is?”

“Things you like rather than things you fear,” he says. “That’s why I brought the books.”

“Your idea of an icebreaker is Dracula? Vampires are running rampant, killing students, and you brought Dracula.”

He pauses, scrutinizing me. “How do you know it’s vampires doing the killing?”

It’s the first time I’ve had to ask myself the question… and I realize I have no reason. None at all. When Poppy died, vampires were on my mind. Margaux’s secret was still fresh.

The question is simple, but it feels heavy. My stomach drops. Every time I feel closer to solving Poppy’s death, something pushes me back into the dark.

I inhale slowly, trying to collect myself. What I want is to scream, but Caldwell can’t know how much the small question rattles me.

“Who else could it be?” I pause to take a sip of wine.

“Anyone else, and anything else.”

“There’s no cause of death for some of these cases. It must be someone who can kill in an… obscure way. It can’t be the merpeople drowning or the werewolves tearing them to shreds.”

“Astute observations,” he says. “But what of the witches? The demons? They have their ways. Undetectable poisons, and soul-sucking…”

I shudder at the thought of a demon sucking out Poppy’s soul. He’s given me something to think about, but I refuse to seem interested.

“I’m afraid I don’t know enough about all that,” I say. “But, as you said, this is not a romantic topic.”

He wants to continue the conversation—I can tell by the way he watches me with parted lips and an intense stare.

“It isn’t,” he says. In a fluid motion, he swallows the contents of his glass. “However, I would like to hear about your interests as well… and if that happens to be discussions of murder...” He lifts a brow.

The way he looks at me is infuriating. I want to scream in his face, to tell him I don’t like talking about murder; I have to ! It’s a necessary evil. How he looks at me, nearly accusatory, makes my blood boil. I’m the only one trying to stop this, and I’m continuously accused by other people.

“Murder isn’t one of my hobbies,” I say smoothly. “And it’s bold of you to come on a date thinking it is.”

Oh, the irony.

“I am a bold man.” He holds a piece of cheese between his fingers and pops it into his mouth, his eyes sparkling.

I drain my wine glass, finally, and hold it out to him. “Then you’ll think I’m boring. My hobbies consist of sitting at home with a book… and my cat when I can.”

“Your cat?” His lips twitch as he pours. “The werecat is a cat person?”

Do I have a little black cat at home that inspired my supposed cat form? Yes. It’s embarrassing to admit, but at least he seems to buy my werecat story .

I roll my eyes. “Is that more or less cliche than a witch with a cat?”

“Oh, more.” He chuckles. “Far more.”

“Excellent.” I take the glass from him. “Not only am I an anomaly in the area, but I’m also a cliché.”

“Neither of those is a bad thing.”

“It’s not the most complimentary thing you’ve said to me.” I pick a strawberry from the charcuterie board, lifting it to my lips. I bite, and it bursts into my mouth, perfectly ripe and sweet.

His eyes are on me, likely because the red of the strawberry reminds him of blood. I can think of no other reason for him to stare at me like I’m something to eat—his eyes dark, lips parted softly.

“If you’d like more compliments,” he says, “all you have to do is ask.”

“Oh, that will”—I pause to lick my lips, hoping to rid them of berry juice—“not be necessary.”

“Then I will keep my thoughts to myself, for now. We will see how our second date goes.”

“Second date?” I laugh, momentarily forgetting I’m supposed to seem interested . “We couldn’t get through our first without bickering—and talking about murder! What makes you think we’ll have a second?”

“Optimism.” He smiles subtly. “At the very least, have I earned your number now?”

I hesitate—but if this were a real date, he would have earned my number. Realistically, I would have given it to him before.

I extend my hand. “Give me your phone.”

His eyes light up—likely excited for another way to annoy me—and he hands me his phone.

There’s a sour look on my face as I add myself to his contacts. “I saved myself as ‘Bane of my Existence.’”

I hold the phone out, and he takes it, setting it down.

“That is not how I would describe you, but… it certainly is memorable.”

I fish the book from my bag—Frankenstein—flipping through the pages. It’s one I’ve read before, time and time again, words seared into my skull.

“What do you like about Frankenstein’s monster?” I ask, trying to pry anything from him.

“Well…” He sighs. “I fear it’s a bit obvious, but I think there’s something poetic about the lengths we go to avoid loneliness. It isn’t always a pretty reality, but the story weaves a beautiful and horrifying tale.”

I hold onto his every word, leaning in as he speaks. He’s not only answering the question of Frankenstein’s monster, he is giving me a look into his mind. I have to find glimmers in his words, hints that I’m heading down the right path.

Caldwell may have answers, after all, if his view of the book is anything to go by.

“That was your takeaway?” I give him a saccharine smile. “I’ve always seen it as a story of responsibility for one’s actions.”

And whoever killed Poppy should be ready to take responsibility for theirs. Justice is coming for them.

“It can be both,” he says—either unaware of the intention behind my words, or very good at pretending.

He reaches to take the book from me, tenderly brushing his fingers against mine, and opening to a page.

It’s a well-loved section, the words underlined in pen.

‘Satan had his companions,” he reads, “fellow devils, to admire and encourage him; but I am solitary and abhorred.’”

Our eyes meet. He looks to me, begging for understanding. Instead of giving it, I turn my attention to the food in front of me. Picking up a piece of cheddar, I contemplate the topics of isolation and loneliness.

How can they relate to the murders on campus? Each tale I come up with is more morbid than the next. Souls, to follow the murderer? Souls to wait for them in hell? I press my lips together.

There is probably no connection at all.

“Which loneliness do you relate to?” My gaze lifts to meet his. “The monster or the man?”

He smiles sadly. “To me, they are the same.”

“Ah…”

He admits he relates to the monster. It’s something I would have more sympathy with under different circumstances.

“Am I scaring you away so soon?” he asks.

“No!” I jump, worried I’ve pushed too far. Nervous laughter comes out as a choked sound. It tears through my lips. “I’m just not used to all this. I’ve never had a first date quite like this one.” That can be complimentary, right?

He presses his lips together, scrutiny reflecting in his eyes. “One more glass of wine,” he says. “I’ll walk you to your room.”

There’s a chance I’ve messed this up. He’s already offering to take me home—no trying to make out under the stars and no suggestion of going to his dormitory.

I’m relieved and worried this was all for nothing. I didn’t get anything from him. Not really. The watch is still my biggest clue.

“I can agree to that.” My hand trembles as I hold out my glass, waiting for him to fill it. “Margaux will be jealous of such a feast. Wine is her favorite.”

A reminder of my scary vampire roommate can’t hurt.

He hums thoughtfully. “You’re close with your roommate already?”

“We bonded quickly,” I say as an explanation. It’s a lie, but he doesn’t need to know our history.

“How lucky she is.”

I roll my eyes. “You think you’re quite the smooth talker, don’t you?”

“I don’t.” He chuckles. “How can you hear me relate to Frankenstein’s monster and accuse me of being… smooth?”

“That’s a good point, but some people find monsters…” I trail off, glancing away.

“What? They find them attractive?”

“Well, yes.”

He lifts a brow. “And? Are you one of them?”

My heart races. I am in a school surrounded by monsters, technically—demons, vampires, even merpeople.

His pressing is a reminder that I am outnumbered, that no matter how attractive, intelligent, and charming they are…

they’re monsters. Every one of them—including Margaux, the only one I can expect to save me.

One of them killed Poppy. Who?

“I have to go,” I say, scrambling to my feet.

“Your wine?—”

I shake my head, already backing away. “This was… lovely. We’ll see each other again! But Margaux will be worried, so I have to go...”

“You shouldn’t walk alone!” He fixes me with a look of concern. It almost seems genuine.

“I’ll be fine!” It’s the last thing I say before I bolt.