Page 38 of Killing Me Softly

* * * *

But those boxes never stayed shut anymore.

They were overflowing. Bursting at the seams. And as he drove to campus on Monday morning, the fear it would all spill out at the wrong time choked him. The world outside Kenny’s windshield was hazy and disconnected and the ache in his chest from lack of sleep felt like a bruise spreading. He should have begged Aaron to come round after his shift at the campus shop. To stay with him. A night holding Aaron might’ve given him a few hours of peace.

But that would’ve been disastrous. Waking up with his limbs entwined with those of his student probably wouldn’t be the best way to start the morning that would outline the rest of his entire life. And yet, as he pulled into the staff parking lot, the thought lingered like a phantom touch.

The campus loomed, familiar yet alien. He’d roamed these grounds for decades, but today they felt diminished. Smaller.Confining. The illusion shattered. He’d glimpsed a world beyond these walls, and it hadn’t been as terrifying as he once thought. But he stepped out of his car, regardless, the bite of autumnsettling, the muffled sounds of early footsteps echoing across the winding pathways. Students shuffled by with their heads bowed to phones or conversations. To them, this place was vast, filled with possibility. To Kenny, it felt like a cage. One he’d willingly stepped into at eighteen and never quite left. He knew he was institutionalised. And felt the irony. Like all those he researched were now stuck in a box. But they were there under duress. He’d entered his little box willingly.

Sure, there’d been moments outside Ryston. A psychiatric ward placement where every corridor felt thick with ghosts, the haunted gazes of the criminally insane burning into his back. A stint in a prison, surrounded by concrete walls and razor wire, where danger pressed closer than the air. But those were detours, blips on the map of a life spent here. Researching. Writing. Consulting. Building a profile brick by painstaking brick.

Now, the countless hours, the papers, the late nights, the consultancies, the building up of his reputation as the UK’s foremost mind on understanding and predicting the behaviour of serial offenders would culminate in this meeting. A single conversation that would determine if he’d finally earned tenure. His mind whispered doubts, louder than the sound of his shoes clicking on the polished floors. The university wasn’t just his career. It was his identity.

If he didn’t achieve this, what was left?

What would his lasting legacy be for Jessica?

For his mum?

He climbed the creaking steps of the faculty building to the third floor where his office resided, along with the main open plan administration. At the end, the Dean’s office. Kenny blew out a breath, adjusting his tie. He’d opted for the full three-piece suit for this. And his glasses remained on, hair down. The academic look. As he weaved through the rows of desks, hegreeted those from the administration all watching on, catching onto his nerves. They couldn’t know his life was balancing on the edge. The submission for professorships happened in January. He’d completed all the paperwork then, gathered his evidence for it, references, two from his international work, and submitted it. The panel of peers from other faculties had met and made their decision. They’d told him in June there was a delay in finalising the outcome. Unusual, but not unheard of. Then, over the summer, an offer for him to transfer to a rival institution on full professor status had presented itself as the perfect way to twist the Dean’s arm. Which meant he was being called in now to either receive his congratulations or…commiseration.

Adjusting his laptop bag on his shoulder, he knocked on the door which the plaque nailed to the wood stated belonged to Professor Eleanor Marwood, Dean of Psychology Department.

“Come in!”

Kenny stepped into the Dean’s office, closing the door behind him. Like its occupant, the private room exuded meticulous control. Polished wood, perfectly aligned bookshelves, and a faint scent of coffee. Ellie sat behind her desk, sharp features as unreadable as ever.

“Kenny!” She rolled away her chair and stood, holding out her hand to shake his. “I have just read your email about your mother. I’m so sorry.”

Hoping for compassionate leave, Kenny had sent that before seeing the meeting notice. No such luck.

“We could have rearranged this meeting.” Ellie searched his face.

“It’s fine. I need the distraction.”

“As you wish.” She gestured to the chair beside her desk while she sat back in hers.

Kenny didn’t need the invitation. He sank into it, the load in his chest forcing him deeper into the foam chair.

Adjusting her sitting position a few times, she eventually settled for crossed legs and a poised stance. An immediate sign that this wasn’t a crack open the champagne moment. She then reached behind her where an open file had pages upon pages spilling out. It was his application. The essay he had to write. References. Links to his research and international publications.

“We’ve reviewed your application for professorship,” she said, the words heavy with the promise of disappointment. “And as we said back in June, we are all in agreement. Your contributions to forensic psychology are undeniable. Your publications, consulting work, teaching. It’s all exemplary. Not to mention your help with our more recent PR nightmares.”

“Funny way to describe the atrocities of murder committed by staff members.”

Ellie wasn’t a forensic psychologist. Nor any type of criminal behaviour specialist. Her field was in cognitive psychology and neuroscience. An expert in understanding the mechanisms of human cognition, memory, and decision-making. A much more structured and empirical field, grounded in lab-based studies and data modelling, differing from Kenny’s more narrative-driven and emotionally charged case studies.

Still, facts were facts.

“Yes. Quite.” She wiped the crumbs from her pastry off her skirt. “And HR valued your assistance in refining their recruitment processes, which I understand are now being implemented. The updated approach incorporates a greater emphasis on behavioural assessments.”

“Anything to help prevent further bad publicity.”

“Ha. Yes. Of course.” She leaned forward, clasping her hands on her lap. “Look, Kenny, I appreciate your email regarding the University of Warwick offering you the full professorship withthem, forcing us to confirm our decision for your promotion. And normally, I would bite your hand off.”

“But?”

“But there are some…concerns.”

---