Page 102 of Under the Bed

If Kaleb were here, Professor Dempsey wouldn’t dare touch me. Wouldn’t dare threaten my future here, and ask for?—

Stop it, Shiloh.

I’m overreacting. Adrenaline swarms my blood. It explains the feral reaction. The extreme scenarios in my head.

Professor Dempsey might give me a slap on the wrist and send me off.

Yeah, he might.

“Okay.” Shoulders squared. Long gait. I walk into his office, where I met him before the practice sessions started.

He was decent then. Let me leave my bag on the hanger by the door. Didn’t look at me like he wanted to eat me up.

Then again, Eddy was here.

Don’t think like that. You have your pocketknife on you and…Just don’t.

The click of the door closing echoes loudly in my ears. I keep my eyes firm on the floor-to-ceiling paned windows behind my teacher’s desk. On the dimly lit gardens up ahead.

I force myself to stop biting my bottom lip.

“What happened today was unacceptable.” He’s at my side, anyway. I turn to him and look up.

He’s too close. Again. Close enough that I smell cigar smoke and leather. That I see his blue eyes have turned wicked.

“You requested a complex case.” He leans over, inching toward me. “You said you could do it.”

“Yes.”

“Then what the fuck was that back there?”

I’m a lousy liar. A terrible one.

Anything I say might suggest that I know Kaleb. Even if my teacher doesn’t watch the news and hasn’t heard about my case, he will start looking into it once he suspects me.

A thorough internet search, paying off some people, andbam.

He could either blackmail Kaleb into being his test subject. Thefreakhe could write a thesis or a book about.

Or he could dothe right thingand call the authorities.

“I’m sorry.” If I sound honest, it’s because I am.

I’m sorry that I fucked up the chance he’d given me. Sorry that I embarrassed myself in front of the other students.

Most of all, I’m sorry that Kaleb likes me. That he risked his freedom to play mind games with me. I’m not worthy of all his pain.

Not an ounce of it.

My shoulders slump.

“Not good enough.” He lifts a hand. I shove mine into my dress pocket, locking it around the knife.

“I guess I wasn’t as prepared as I thought,” I say, changing the subject so he won’tcatch me in a lie.

When he drops his hand, I think I’ve made it. That he’ll tell me to leave and think about what I’ve done in the privacy of my own home.

“Not good enough, either.”

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