The Protégé, page 25
I plan to sit down with a notebook in the silence of my clean, orderly home and think this through. I’ve been a consultant on countless homicide cases. According to my bio, I’m “internationally renowned” when it comes to catching devious criminals and finding just the right evidence to put them away. The trick is to approach this case like any other, with objectivity and logic. It may or may not be a homicide case; I have no way of knowing if the death of Laila Tikka is connected to the bizarre series of events robbing me of my sanity. Either way, the stakes couldn’t be higher. I need to know who this is. Deep down, I know I’ve got all the clues I need to unearth the truth. The sick sludge in my gut tells me I’m not going to like the answer, but I’ve got to find it just the same.
After a quick meal of soup and rice, I make a fire and plant myself in the leather club chair closest to the hearth. Fire always makes me think of my father. The fireside was his domain, the place where he would sip whiskey and get reflective. He’s first-generation Irish, with a working knowledge of Gaelic. Throughout my childhood, he liked to utter Gaelic sayings from the depths of his tobacco-colored armchair. One of his favorites was “Dá fhada an lá tagann an tráthnóna” [No matter how long the day, the evening comes].
Well, it’s been a hell of a long day, but evening is here. It’s time to buckle down and figure out who’s trying to destroy my life. I grab a pad of paper and begin to scribble names, struggling to find the clear-eyed objectivity I’ll need to discover real answers.
I’m startled when my phone vibrates beside me. Picking it up, I see it’s Cameron. Only a handful of the grad students have my cell number, since I don’t like being too reachable. It’s essential to keep a barrier up between work and home. Otherwise, I’d be at their beck and call twenty-four hours a day.
After a moment, my curiosity wins out over my irritation, and I hit the green button. “Hey, Cameron. Everything okay?”
“I’m sorry to call your cell,” he says, sounding a little breathless.
“What’s going on?” Normally, if a student calls me, it’s because they’re panicking about a paper they haven’t finished or an exam they slept through. With everything that’s happened in the last couple days, though, my pulse rate spikes automatically, bracing myself for bad news, the kind that has nothing to do with tests or deadlines.
“I don’t know how to say this, but I’m worried about Winter.”
There’s a pause. Static crackles on the line.
“Worried, how?” I ask.
“She’s been weird lately. Distant. You know Laila, the girl who—”
“Yes,” I say. “Laila Tikka. What about her?”
“Winter says she barely knew her, but I saw them together.” He hesitates, then adds, “At Misty Cove.”
“Isn’t that where—” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“Yeah, that’s where they found Laila. But this was earlier—like a week ago, maybe.” He sighs, and I can almost see him shoving a hand through his hair, his eyebrows scrunched together in worry. “I know Winter’s keeping secrets, and maybe it has nothing to do with everything that’s happened to you—all this stuff with the protesters and that stupid article—but I’m starting to think it might be connected.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t. My body’s gone cold, and my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth.
“Doctor Bryers?” Cameron’s voice is distant in my ear, like a faint cry from the end of a long tunnel.
“I’m here.” The two words come out half croak, half whisper.
“It might be nothing, but I had to tell you.”
“Anything else?” Again, I sound throaty and hoarse. I swallow hard and manage to get my voice back to something like normal. “Think hard, Cameron. Is there anything else about Winter’s behavior I should know?”
After a long moment, he says, “She left here just now. I didn’t want her to go, but she insisted. I have a bad feeling. I can’t explain it.”
“Thank you for calling me.” I lean closer to the fire, trying to get warm. “I appreciate it.”
Long after I’ve put the phone down, I stare into the flames, searching the past for answers.
CHAPTER
25
Winter
IT’S ALMOST EIGHT o’clock when I knock on her door. I can see her through the window. She’s sitting by the fire. A curl of smoke spirals from her chimney, drifting toward the canopy of stars. She’s bent over a notebook, legs folded in her red leather chair, focused intently on her work. I have to knock a second time before she looks up, startled.
When Bryers opens the door, I can see the worry in her face, etched into the sharp grooves between her brows. “Winter. Hi. What are you—”
“Hey. I know it’s kind of late, but I heard about the sheriff asking you questions, and I thought”—I hold up the bottle of wine in my hand—“maybe you could use this?”
She sighs, rubbing her forehead. Her surprise turns to something else—wariness? Indecision?
“I hope I’m not being invasive. I can go, if you want.” I look down at my feet, then back up at her, going for the right blend of compassion and vulnerability. “We’re just really worried about you—Cam and me. We wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
She frowns, glancing over my shoulder at my car in the drive. “Is he here?”
“No. I thought it might be easier to talk, just you and me. Woman to woman.” The phrase feels stiff and awkward on my lips. I backpedal again, knowing she responds better to tentative overtures. “You know what? I can see I shouldn’t have come. I’ll just hand this over and—”
“Don’t be silly.” She opens the door wider, ushering me in.
I take off my coat and hang it by the door. My eyes scan the room with an appreciative sweep as I remember to pretend I’m seeing it for the first time. “What a beautiful place.”
“Oh, thank you. It’s home.”
This next part is crucial. I have to play it just right. “Such a cozy fire. Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll pour us some wine.”
Bryers starts to protest, but I head toward the kitchen. With the open floor plan, it’s right there. I’m already pulling the corkscrew from my purse. “Brought my own. Didn’t know if you’re a wine drinker.” I open cabinets until I find one with glasses. “You sit down. I don’t want you to feel like you have to entertain.”
To my enormous relief, she settles back into her chair by the fire. Opening the wine, I turn my back to her so she can’t see what I’m doing. I pluck the packet of ground sleeping pills from my shirt pocket and empty them into her glass. Should be enough to kill a man twice Bryers’s size. I googled it—not from my computer; that would be too risky. I used hers. My hands are shaking just a little as I pour us both generous portions of pinot. I’m so intent on my work that a sound behind me makes me jump. I spin around, almost knocking over one of the glasses.
“Didn’t mean to startle you.” Bryers gives me a quizzical look. “Thought I’d grab us some snacks.”
As she crosses to the fridge and yanks it open, I’m furious with myself for being jumpy. It’s okay, I remind myself. You’re at your professor’s house for the first time. You idolize her. She’ll assume you’re overwhelmed by this new and unfamiliar intimacy. I take a deep breath and will myself to calm down. All I need to do is get her to drink the damn wine. After that, nature will take over.
“You don’t get skittish out here all alone?” I ask.
“Not really.” She’s got a melon and a hunk of cheese on a cutting board. She takes a large knife and starts slicing.
“I would. Isolation creeps me out.”
“I like having my space,” she says, arranging the melon and cheese slices on a plate. Then she rustles around in the cabinets until she finds some crackers.
I walk with our glasses to the fireside, taking a seat on the couch. For half a second, my heart freezes. Which glass did I put the drugs in? My knees go a little weak with relief when I remember. I push her glass along the smooth wood surface of the coffee table, close to her chair.
I’m way too edgy. I need to get a grip. I’m so close, I can feel my body throbbing in anticipation. I drink half my wine in the first gulp, then realize I’m swigging. The alcohol gushes through my food-deprived system, bringing with it warmth and ease. I press the back of my hand to my mouth, wiping my damp lips. My pulse charges forward, giddy. I don’t know if it’s fear or elation that has my heart thundering.
Bryers carries the plate of cheese, crackers, and sliced melon into the living room. She sets it down on the table, then sits in her chair, raises her glass to her lips. I watch, mesmerized. When she pauses, I force my gaze from her mouth to her eyes. She’s watching me, a thoughtful expression on her face.
“You should try the cantaloupe,” she says, her voice light.
I take a slice of melon obediently and nibble. I’m too nervous to eat much, but I nod in approval. “Mmm. That’s really good.”
“It’s not in season, but I thought this one smelled just right.”
“Delicious,” I murmur, taking another bite before putting the rind down on the edge of the plate.
“What do you make of all this, Winter?”
I sip again, buying time. Drink the goddamn wine, Bryers.
“All of what?”
She gestures with the wineglass, realizes she’s about to spill it, and sets it down. I curse her.
“This accusation that I’ve put students in danger.” She picks up her glass again and leans back in her chair. It’s almost to her lips when she hesitates, adding, “And the one that I botched the investigation.”
“It’s all so stupid.” I shake my head, rueful. “I can’t believe you’d even ask me that.”
She cradles the glass to her like it’s something delicate she has to protect. I force my gaze to stay on her face, though the glass of wine at the edge of my vision taunts me. Stay strong, I tell myself. You’re winning. This is it. Your moment of justice.
“The sheriff even thinks I killed this girl. What’s her name?”
I blink at her. “Laila?”
“Laila.” She searches my face. “What do you think of that?”
“It’s ridiculous,” I scoff. “You wouldn’t kill anyone. Are they saying you had a motive?”
“Sure.” She gives me a skeptical look, like she doesn’t quite buy I could be this clueless. “Her article cost me my job.”
I gasp. “Wait, what?”
She nods. “I’ll finish the semester, but after that my career at MRU is over.”
“Oh my God.” I arrange my face into the appropriate expression of heartbreak. “That’s terrible. They can’t do that.”
She puts her wine down on the coffee table and rubs her hands over her face, massaging her temples. For a second, I think she’s going to cry. Normally, I hate it when people cry, but in these circumstances it’s the sweetest sound I could hear. After a moment, though, she lets her hands drop again, and she heaves a sigh.
“They can, and they have.” Her eyes are sad. “I don’t have tenure.”
“But we can protest—your students—we can—”
“That’s kind of you, Winter, but I’m afraid it’s already done.” She waves a hand, dismissive. “Anyway, the point is, the cops think I killed Laila because her article ruined my life. And then there’s the letter I allegedly wrote, threatening her.”
“If you were going to kill someone, would you really write a letter publicly threatening them?”
“Exactly.” She shakes her head in disgust. “It’s insulting. If you’re going to accuse me of committing a crime, at least give me credit for doing it with some degree of finesse.”
The glass rises. At last she presses her lips to the rim, tips the ruby red liquid back. Oh, thank God. The rush of relief leaves me light-headed again.
A high-pitched beep starts up in the kitchen.
“Oh, that’s the oven,” she says.
“Do you want me to—” Bryers has barely taken a sip. I don’t want her to lose focus.
She gets up, taking her wine with her, swiping my half-eaten melon slice as she goes. “No, it’s fine. I’ll be right back.”
I hear her bustling around in the kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers. When she comes back, she settles into her chair and takes a healthy swig. It’s half gone now. There we go. That’s more like it. It takes all my self-control not to punch the air in victory.
She looks at her glass. For a terrifying second I’m afraid she’s noticed the taste of the sleeping pills. She swirls the wine, raising it to examine it in the light. I hold my breath, wondering if the powder left a visible sediment. She pulls it close again and dips her nose into the glass, sniffing. My heart races.
Her smile catches me off guard. “This is really good.” She takes another drink.
“Oh. Yeah.” I pray the intense relief doesn’t show on my face. “The guy at the co-op suggested it. I don’t know much about wine.”
“Very plummy. I like it.”
“It’s organic.”
“So sweet of you to come here, Winter.” Her eyes shine with gratitude. “I’m really touched.”
I shrug, feigning nonchalance as I watch Bryers drain her glass.
It’s done. Mission accomplished. Inside me, a symphony starts up, a great swell of triumphant music. I can hear the string section, the wind instruments, the timpani mallets pounding so hard they’re vibrating in my chest.
Abruptly, the music goes silent. I see Ella standing there before me. I see the look she gave me right before she confessed. The sad, bittersweet half smile, her pleading eyes, as if I was the one who needed to grant forgiveness.
“Do you want some more?” I nod at her empty glass.
She shakes her head, puts the glass down. With one hand, she pulls her phone from the pocket of her sweatshirt, checks something, then tucks it away. She leans back in her chair, relaxed. “No, thanks. I’m so tired, another sip will probably knock me out.”
Inappropriate giggles rise up in me like bubbles in champagne. I disguise them with a cough.
“Anyway, that’s enough about my tale of woe.” Bryers stands, grabs a poker from beside the hearth, stabs at the fire. Sparks rise like fairies chasing one another up the flu. With one hand, she picks up a small log and places it atop the glowing embers, watching as the flames lick and catch.
The distant whir of wind raking through the trees sounds ghostly. I watch the fire, mesmerized by the blue of the flames, the flickering orange fingers reaching out. I can feel Ella in the room with us; she’s here, as palpable and real as the wine in my glass.
When she’s satisfied with the fire, Bryers sits back down and hugs her knees, getting comfortable. “This has probably been the worst day of my life.”
“What did the sheriff—”
She cuts me off with an outstretched palm. “I need a break. Distract me.”
And so I do. Prompted by her questions, I babble about little things: life in the dorms, places I’d like to travel, research I’m interested in conducting. I try to keep it light and amusing, a buffet of bite-sized morsels chosen just for her. I’m careful to stay away from my childhood; a fictional past is too easy to screw up. One contradiction and the whole thing unravels. Bryers is sharp. She’s compromised, of course, and if all goes well she won’t be able to pass on my secrets even if I spill them, but still. I’ve got to play it safe, at least until I’m sure the drugs are doing their work. With calculated casualness, I perform the role of a self-obsessed twenty-three-year-old, the girl she thinks I am. My bright, meaningless chatter reinforces her assumptions, painting a picture of the ambitious grad student caught somewhere between girly daydreams and serious plans.
As we talk, I watch her body growing more and more relaxed. She sprawls in her chair, head lolling back, eyes blinking more and more slowly. I can almost see Bryers melting into the red leather like a blob of taffy left out in the sun.
After about half an hour, she rubs her eyes, shakes her head. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m so tired all of a sudden. What time is it?”
I look at my phone. It’s a little after nine.
“It’s getting late,” I say, keeping it vague. I don’t want to alert her to anything odd about her exhaustion. “Do you want me to go?”
“No, no, I’m fine. Stay.” She musters a smile with effort. “I like hearing you talk. It’s soothing.”
I breathe out a little self-deprecating laugh. “My stories could put anyone to sleep.”
“Not at all.” She lets her eyes close, hands limp on the armrests.
“You’ve been through a lot.”
She sighs. “That’s for sure.”
Her breathing becomes more and more steady. She’s asleep. It’s done.
I start to stand, shifting my weight with painful slowness, watching Bryers the whole time. All I need to do now is tiptoe into her office so I can—
“What about you?”
I’ve just taken my first steps away from the couch. Spinning around, I see her eyes have opened to slits, and they’re aimed in my direction.
I know, whatever I do, she’s probably too far gone to reach for the phone, but there’s no point in getting sloppy now—not when I’ve come this far. Something in her tone intrigues me. The air feels charged suddenly, the cozy living room dense with tension.
I take a breath, willing my voice not to shake. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been through a lot too, haven’t you?” She’s slurring her words, struggling to open her eyes. The lids flutter, then close again.
I sit, moving with cautious slowness, watching her. “Sorry, I don’t know what you—”
