The cold linoleum of the university president's office was a stark contrast to the damp, chilling morning I’d just endured. Jace guided me inside where two police officers and a composed woman in her forties waited quietly. The air was thick with unspoken questions and a lingering tension that pressed against my chest.
"Officer Sawyer, Officer Ellis," I greeted, trying to steady my voice.
Officer Sawyer returned nothing but a hard stare, his fingers, yellowed with age, combing through his salt-and-pepper hair with habitual frustration. Meanwhile, Officer Ellis offered a gentle smile that softened the room’s harsh edges. Her eyes flicked briefly to my oversized tracksuit before settling back into their warm expression.
I glanced down at the black and red jacket enveloping me, its sleeves swallowing my wrists, the fabric loose and unfamiliar. Jace must have lent it to me after my clothes were soaked through—his presence a small comfort amid the uncertainty.
"Miss Starling," croaked the university president, his voice rusty but deliberate. "These officers are here to update you on the investigation and discuss your part in it."
"Am I in trouble? Arrested?" My words came out sharper than intended, betraying my nerves.
Officer Sawyer grunted, "Not yet." Officer Ellis immediately shot him a warning glance and turned back to me. "No, not at this stage. We’ve received new information since the autopsy, but we’re waiting on blood test results. Progress is slow, unfortunately." "Divers are combing through every inch of the river," Sawyer added, his voice low but edged with a warning. "If there are more bodies, we'll find them." I shivered under his words, the threat lingering like a shadow. I struggled for a response, but Jace stepped in before I had to.
"Please search the entire river thoroughly," he said firmly, his gaze steady and serious. "If there are more victims, we need to find them. Every clue counts." His determination was palpable, the burden of unspoken loss behind it. Maybe he, too, was hunting for someone lost—his fierce protectiveness suddenly made more sense.
"We'll do everything we can," Officer Ellis assured him. "But the main reason for our visit is to introduce you to Doctor Whitlock." She gestured toward a poised woman waiting quietly nearby.
"Hello," the woman greeted, her voice calm and clear. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lucy." She extended a manicured hand, her nails a glossy shade of deep red. Her hair was styled in a perfect bob, each strand seemingly in place.
"Nice to meet you, too," I replied, shaking her hand. Her grip was steady and reassuring.
"I'm a campus psychologist," she explained. "While I'm here completing research on criminal psychology, I'll be working closely with the university." I fidgeted, picking at my nails as I noticed an old clock on the wall behind the president’s desk, its ticking intrusive against the quiet backdrop.
Officer Ellis cleared her throat softly. "As part of the investigation, you'll need to attend sessions with Doctor Whitlock twice a week. Are there any days that fit your schedule?"
My mind raced through the week’s commitments like a flight information board. "Mondays and Fridays just after lunch would work," I said cautiously.
"Excellent," the doctor smiled warmly. "Shall we begin tomorrow?" "Of course," I answered, relief washing through me.
"I look forward to working with you, Lucy," Doctor Whitlock said, shaking my hand once more.
With the formalities complete, I was politely excused. Jace remained behind for further discussions with the president.
"Thank you for everything," I said as he turned to leave, his reassuring hand briefly squeezing my arm.
"It’s no trouble at all. I’d do it for any student here. You can return the tracksuit whenever," he said with a small smile as the door closed behind him.
The rest of the day passed with a strange smoothness. After Jace’s firm warning earlier, no one dared approach me with suspicion or accusation. I finished my classes, worked through an uneventful shift at the library, then finally returned home.
The quiet hum of the kitchen filled the space as I focused on preparing dinner. Suddenly, a shadow fell over me, stretching long across the tiled floor.
A shiver crept up my spine involuntarily. When the blue bow anchoring my hair slipped loose, I turned around to find George standing there. His messy dark hair hung over his eyes, casting shadows that deepened their usual intensity. One hand was buried in his sweatpants pocket, the other idly twisting the ribbon.
"I heard about what happened at the cafeteria today," he said softly, voice barely rising above the murmur of the TV in the living room.
My cheeks flushed crimson. I had hoped the incident would fade away, unnoticed and unspoken.
"It was just an accident," I murmured, turning back to the oven as I pulled out the lasagna.
The layers of pasta sagged slightly, the cheese melting unevenly, making me think of skin stretched thin over something fragile, something broken. The memory of Charlie’s face flashed unbidden, and I looked away quickly.
"Dinner's ready," I called, trying to keep my voice steady.
I slipped into my room afterward, changing into a yellow shirt for my convenience store shift. As I headed toward the door, I heard footsteps behind me. George followed quietly, his broad frame filling the doorway.
I blinked up at him, uncertain what he wanted.
"Is something wrong with dinner?" I asked hesitantly.
His gaze was unreadable, like a still lake at dawn. "Who was it?"
"I don’t know," I admitted, voice low.
"What did he look like?"
"I have to go, George," I said, offering a shaky smile and a gentle pat on his arm. Our relationship was quiet, filled with unspoken care but little warmth, and I wasn’t sure how to bridge the distance between us. "Thank you for caring. It means everything."
Without pressing further, George stepped back, letting me leave.
Friday morning dawned with an eerie quiet that settled over campus like a fog. Not a single person looked my way; I felt like a ghost drifting through the halls.
After my Human Anatomy and Physiology class ended, I stared down at my phone, fingers hovering uncertainly over the screen. Bianca hadn’t replied to any of my messages, though I could see the "read" receipt glaring back at me. I knew she needed space, especially with all the rumors swirling, but I couldn’t stop the worry twisting in my gut.
I typed out another message, hesitant and awkward, when I accidentally collided with someone stepping out of the building.
"Sorry! Sorry!" I blurted, looking up quickly.