: Chapter 17

Yoga with Cynthia last night was two hours of life I’ll never get back.

First, we had a group discussion that involved an introduction, or rather indoctrination, to some of the Legio Agni terminology. A lot of it makes sense on the surface, if you think you know about science but actually don’t. Cynthia talks about the vibration of elements within foods and supplements to promote healing and well-being, slowing cellular breakdown to homeostasis. She weaves in trauma and religion and the need to align ourselves to our higher purpose. She talks about the “clinical trials” on the Lamb Health website, which I’ve already read at home and which caused me to roll my eyes so many times that I might have caught a glimpse of my orbital sockets. Altogether, it sounds ridiculous, but I’ll hand it to Cynthia; she was masterful at drip-feeding the information to keep it from overwhelming us.

After talking as a group about this bullshit for about forty-five minutes, I started the yoga class, but there was no way I could put a tracker on Cynthia, not with her bodyguard lurking. It’s a woman this time, the same one I saw leaving the Praetorian building, and her cutting gaze missed nothing. I couldn’t take the risk. So I played the role of Melancholy Moneyed Lamb Chop and seethed internally instead.

I’ve now progressed through my morning routine, spending time on a meticulous braided updo—as the random picker has declared it’s hair day—with the hope that the focus required to execute the precise design will take my mind off last night’s irritation. It does not. As I leave my house for the campus, I realize what might actually help is to let off some steam, and there’s only one thing as effective as killing for that.

Dr. Kaplan.

Though it’s not the most original idea I’ve had, after a short and unproductive session of literature review at my desk, I decide to head to Kaplan’s office and perhaps seduce him into a repeat of our last encounter there. Sure, I’m a little curious about what other toys he might have in his locked drawer. I’ve considered breaking in to see for myself, but that would ruin the surprise of what he might come up with, and I can’t help but try to find out.

I descend the stairs to the third floor, passing a few students as I round the corners toward his office, the sounds of friendly chatter filling the corridors as several pupils take advantage of open office hours with faculty. Kaplan’s door is ajar down the hall and I stride toward it, stopping silently at the threshold. He’s working at his laptop and looks up as I knock, surprise and desire flashing across his face. Wariness too. And then a faint, wicked smile as I fold my arms across my chest and glare at him.

“You fixed it,” I say.

“Actually,” Kaplan replies as he twists his arm to display a new suede patch sewn onto the elbow of his formerly ruined tweed jacket, “I improved it.”

A long beat of silence passes between us during which his smile only grows. “Sure. Let’s call it that. What about those?” I ask as he removes a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. They’re sexy and they suit him and I hate them. I want to grind them into the floor with my heel.

“These?”

“Those. Do you actually have a prescription or is this purely for professor hipster aesthetic purposes?”

“Does it matter? Or will you lie and say you despise them regardless?”

“I’m not—”

“Ah, there she is.”

My mouth snaps shut around my words as a familiar voice interrupts from down the hall.

I execute a slow turn on my heel to look at Samuel, dressed in an impeccable suit, with a mahogany cane and his free hand looped on Dr. Takahashi’s arm. “My beloved niece, Bria,” he says.

“Uncle.” I try to keep the wariness beneath a smooth veneer as I step into the hall, the two men slowing to a halt before me. My surprise is etched into a smile that feels wooden and fake as I kiss each of Samuel’s cheeks in our customary greeting. “What are you doing here?”

A devilish gleam shines in his eyes. I hear Dr. Kaplan’s chair scrape across the floor and then his footsteps as he approaches. Samuel doesn’t take his eyes from mine, but I know it’s not me he’s watching. “I’ve come to take you for lunch.”

“Did we have plans I forgot about? I’m not supposed to pick you up until four o’clock. Does Cedar Ridge know you’re here?”

Samuel chuckles as though he’s the sweetest, gentlest old man to ever walk the earth. “My darling, Cedar Ridge is not a prison. Can an old man not take his favorite niece for a birthday lunch?”

We eye one another, me with suspicion and Samuel with devious amusement.

“Dr. Kaplan,” Dr. Takahashi says, oblivious to the silent exchange between us as Kaplan stops just behind me. “I’d like to introduce Professor Emeritus, Samuel Brooks. Professor Brooks was dean of the College of Engineering. He retired a year before you joined us. Professor Brooks, this is Dr. Elijah Kaplan, one of our faculty members specializing in Forensic Psychology.”

Kaplan’s surprise seems to vibrate in the space between us. “Professor Brooks, it’s such a pleasure to meet you. Your illustrious reputation precedes you. I didn’t realize you and Bria were related,” Kaplan says as he shakes Samuel’s hand.

“Yes. Don’t let that tarnish your opinion of my dear Bria,” Samuel replies with a smile as Dr. Takahashi laughs warmly beside him.

“I believe you were noted as being harsh but fair,” Takahashi says as he pats Samuel’s arm.

“That depends on who you ask.”

Dr. Takahashi laughs again, his attention on my uncle as I give Samuel an admonishing lift of my brow. “I must go, I have a meeting,” Dr. Takahashi says. “It’s been a treat to catch up, Professor Brooks. Thank you again for contributing to Edward’s party, he had a wonderful time.”

“My pleasure.”

With a nod to each of us, Dr. Takahashi continues down the hall, leaving me caught between a snake and its prey.

“Uncle.”

“Bria.”

“Shall we?”

Samuel’s grin widens. “No need to rush, Bria. I’ve hardly gotten a chance to know Dr. Kaplan.” Samuel shifts to face the man next to me with a thud of his cane on the floor. “In fact, why don’t you join us for lunch, Dr. Kaplan?”

“I couldn’t possibly intrude.”

“Dr. Kaplan’s very busy, Uncle. He has students to see,” I say, taking Samuel’s free arm as I send Kaplan a death glare.

It does not have the intended effect.

“Actually, you know what? I do have a few hours free, if you’re sure it wouldn’t be an imposition.”

Samuel beams, ignoring the daggers I imagine driving into his brain. I’m starting to think it’s not Kaplan who’s the prey for the old serpent, but me. “Not at all,” Samuel says, his voice so sweet there’s not even a hint of venom in its depths.

“Don’t you have classes to teach?” I ask as Kaplan’s dimple flashes in his dark stubble. “Or jackets to sew?”

Kaplan pulls his glasses from the interior pocket and inspects one of the new suede patches as I roll my eyes. “Seems to be holding up well, from what I can see.”

I bite my lip to keep from smiling as Kaplan gives me a rakish grin. When he sees me trying to subdue it, his face lights up in the most irritating, spellbinding way. He enjoys getting under my skin just as much as I enjoy burrowing under his. Though I want to loathe him for it, it seems as though there are moments when it’s becoming harder to try.

I sigh, letting my gaze fall across the fabric with disdain. “I apologize in advance if something accidentally stains it irreparably.”

“I’m sure you would feel horrible.”

“So horrible. I’d never forgive myself.”

“If you collect fine tweed, Dr. Kaplan, one of our residents who recently passed away at Cedar Ridge had some jackets that might fit you,” Samuel says as we make our way to the elevator. I give Kaplan a piercing look and he smiles as though this is the best news he’s ever received. “Richard was smaller than you but wore clothes that were too big. Likely overcompensating, you understand.”

“No—” I say at the same time as Kaplan emphatically says yes.

The two men make arrangements for Kaplan’s possible acquisition of Dick Piston’s wardrobe, and before long we’re on our way to a farm-to-table restaurant in the Buena Vista neighborhood where there’s a mixture of expensive condos and upscale restaurants and designer shops. Blue Stone Kitchen is not the usual kind of place Samuel would take me, with its rough limestone walls and original beams holding up a low ceiling from which greenery sways in the air conditioning. It’s got too much character and warmth for his taste, but he seems pleased as the hostess leads us to a worn plank table and sets up an extra place for Dr. Kaplan.

I give Samuel a quizzical look. His only reply is a dark gleam in his eyes.

Samuel gestures for me to take the seat that gives me the best view of the entrance and the seating area, while he claims the spot to my left where he’ll have a similar view, and Kaplan the seat to my right. We order a bottle of wine and appetizers to share and the conversation flows easily. Samuel is charming and funny, regaling us with tales of Berkshire’s faculty and gossip from Cedar Ridge, of which there’s plenty. He tells stories of residents that can reel a person in, and before long you care about what happened to Rachel Kennedy’s false teeth or how Clyde Masterson the former studio musician, and Eliza Mancini the retired opera singer have struck up a passionate romance. Through another lens, this moment could tell its own sweet fairy tale. An elderly uncle, putting his niece at ease by charming the man at her side.

But that’s not what this is.

Movement at the door catches my eye as a powerfully built man walks in, removing a pair of sunglasses as he scans the room. I avert my gaze to Samuel before the man’s eye can catch mine.

Praetorian.

I recognize him as one of the men I saw leaving the building, but not the same man who escorted Cynthia to the nail salon. The hostess directs him to a table for two at the window. She removes a place setting.

Kaplan is talking about a conference he went to with Dr. Wells and the server is placing our appetizers on the table, but Samuel and I are having a silent conversation in the glances between us.

Watch the server.

Check the time.

13:08.

Did you see that?

You’re a sneaky old man. Possibly a wizard.

Just you wait.

Samuel distracts Kaplan with conversation while I get a better look at the interaction between the server and the bodyguard. There’s affection. Familiarity. But some kind of barrier. They’re not together, but they want to be. He’s here to eat by himself so he can talk to her. He’s wearing a suit. His pants look freshly pressed. His tie is neatly knotted.

He’s coming up on a shift change.

I take a breath and close my eyes. There’s so much distraction with the music and conversation. Even the scent of the food makes it harder to focus, and I need to see the details clearly. I placed the most important appointments of Cynthia’s schedule this week on a series of missing person posters on the fence surrounding my memory palace. I’m looking for an appointment at two o’clock, but there are gaps in her calendar.

There are gaps…

Holy shit.

She’s at home. This bodyguard is going to complete the shift change at her home.

I take a sharp breath and meet Samuel’s eyes, catching the spark of death beneath his cataracts as he watches me come to this conclusion. Happy birthday, his little smile says.

A warm hand on my elbow pulls my attention away.

“Are you okay?” Kaplan asks, bending his head to catch my eyes. “Headache?”

“Just for a second,” I lie, bringing my hand to my temple as I realize how it must have appeared as I shut myself off from the world. “Gone now.”

Kaplan removes his hand but keeps his gaze on me, even after I give what I hope is a reassuring smile. I glance at Samuel to gauge his reaction but he’s watching the server as a bell sounds from the kitchen and she heads in that direction. “Excuse me,” he says, rising from the table and steadying himself with his cane. He shuffles away in the direction of the bodyguard and I watch his slow yet expertly timed progression until my chair slides to the right with a lurch.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask as Kaplan tugs again, drawing me to the corner of the table and almost to his side. He looks deep into my eyes, undeterred by the lethal glare I try to give him.

“Checking.”

“For?”

“Damage,” he replies. He reaches up, his thumb grazing my cheekbone where the bruise has now faded into a faint yellow smudge. My breath hitches. A tingle of warmth hums down my spine with his gentle caress.

“Damage,” I repeat and he nods. “What kind of damage?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t have a chance to thoroughly check you over recently.”

I snort a laugh and he smiles. “I think you checked enough,” I say.

“No. I definitely did not.”

Heat erupts in Kaplan’s eyes and is answered by a coiling ache deep in my belly. I want to press my cheek into the warmth of his hand as his fingers trace the curve of my face. I want to leave and go somewhere, anywhere, where we can be alone, where I can rip this jacket off his shoulders and crush his lips to mine.

But I tear my eyes away and they stop at Samuel. He’s arrived next to the bodyguard’s table where the server has just delivered his food. The server motions toward the bathroom with a warm smile. Samuel shifts the hooked handle of his cane to his forearm as the bodyguard and server are distracted by something he says. He lets a handkerchief fall from his hand. As the bodyguard bends to pick it up, Samuel pulls something from his interior pocket. And when the man hands Samuel the handkerchief, Samuel pats his wrist in a grandfatherly gesture, right at the buttons.

He’s deposited a GPS tracker.

“Come out with me tonight,” Kaplan says, pulling my attention back to our table as Samuel heads in the direction of the bathrooms. “I didn’t realize it was your birthday. I’ll make you dinner.”

“I thought you were trying not to break the rules, Dr. Kaplan.”

“I think I’ve already broken those ones. No harm breaking them again,” he says. I give him a dark, skeptical look, but he’s undeterred. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll cook something you hate, and I’ll be the worst company.”

“You already are.”

“Good, then I’m halfway there.” Kaplan lays his hand next to mine, his palm facing upward in an invitation. I trace the creases in his skin, wondering what a palmist would claim they mean and which line I would fit on, if any. “Come have a terrible time with me.”

I smile, and truthfully, as much as I’m excited to edge closer to Cynthia Nordstrom’s private life, I’m a little disappointed to decline. “I can’t, I’m sorry. Samuel and I have a birthday tradition. I’ll be away for the weekend.”

Kaplan’s fingers curl around mine. “It’s okay. Another time. It’ll give me the opportunity to prepare something truly awful.”

As though it’s the easiest thing in the world, Kaplan leans forward and kisses my cheek, and then slides my chair back into place just before Samuel rejoins the table. The old man says nothing, shows nothing. But I know he sees it all, even what I try to hide.

When our meal is done, Kaplan takes us all back to the university in time for his afternoon classes. I drive Samuel to the house and we pack, then pick up his bag from Cedar Ridge on the way to his lakefront cabin at Lake McDonald where our usual birthday rituals play out across the weekend. A swim in the cold water, in which he times me against the distance buoys he placed in the lake years ago. A present, always a weapon, this time a custom compound bow with a package of targets that I set up on the pebbled beach near the dock. And stalking prey, both of us hovering over our laptops as we work out where Cynthia Nordstrom lives. The signal from the GPS drops repeatedly at 656 Toyah Avenue, the address where there just happens to be a luxury condo high-rise.

And though I stay focused on every task, never wavering in my commitment to my exercise or work or mapping Cynthia’s movements, I feel Samuel’s scrutinous eye on me, always. But he only gives one warning, just before bed on Sunday night. Be careful, Bria. We are not like everyone else. We don’t feel what they feel, and it is deadly to try.

I make my promise in reply, the one I always keep. I will not fail. And yet, for the first time, I wonder what l really mean before I shove that thought aside.

Monday morning, I arrive at the Psychology building before David and Tida, when the halls are still quiet and the campus holds on to a sacred kind of solitude. The music on my headphones muffles the echo of my footsteps as I climb the weathered stairs to the fourth floor. The automatic lights snap to life when I step into the corridor and unlock my office door. I stop dead when I flick on the overhead light and it illuminates a box on my desk, covered in wrapping paper of a familiar pattern. Tweed.

It takes me a moment to realize I’m smiling.

I set my bag down on my chair and my keys and coffee on my shelves, then I turn to the box, lifting a sealed card from the top.

There’s no signature to accompany the clean, unfussy penmanship, but of course it doesn’t need one. I set the card aside and lift the lid of the box.

I pull out a bonsai cherry tree in full bloom, the delicate pink flowers a beautiful contrast to the dark wood of the miniature trunk and the carefully trimmed branches. A strong scent of cherries infuses the air around me as I set the ceramic pot on my desk and run my fingers across the feathery blooms. I lean closer to smell them but the scent of the flowers is faint. But the box? That’s strong. I flip over the lid to smell the fragrance, and find there’s a note written on the interior.

My smile grows sore within my cheeks as I set up my laptop and open my Outlook.

I press send and run my finger over the mottled trunk and silken petals.

Warmth blossoms in my chest. At first, it seems just as delicate as one of those little pink flowers. I could pick it apart, or starve it of light. But I don’t. I just let it be.

And to my surprise, as the day unfurls, through classes and meetings, through my solitary dinner with Kane at my feet, all the way to when I close my eyes, it stays rooted behind my bones.