Page 66 of Under the Bed

“As his favorite person”—emphasis on thefavorite—“I know him. He’s a good person. But to your question, no, I’m not hiding him. You don’t have to be worried about anything. You should, however, check your attitude. You’re disrespecting this school and our profession when you talk like that.”

“R-right.”

“Good.” The word is barely out before Eddy flies out of his chair.

“Eddy, where are you going?” Professor Dempsey calls after him.

“Stomach bug!” he shouts from the hall, his shoes thumping as he hurries out into the hallway.

“Is he okay?” My teacher looks at me for explanations. Just him, since the student who talked to him is already gone.

“No idea.” I sling my bag over my shoulder and get up.

“I’ll check on him later.” He shrugs on his leather jacket and heads out.

The feeling of being watched is ever-present. My skin burns with it. Except this isn’t the time to look for Kaleb. It’s time to help us both.

Using my most confident voice, I hurry toward the front of the class. “Professor Dempsey, may I speak with you for a moment?”

“Sure.” Oddly enough, he doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t mention that Eddy’s gone or that we should talk tomorrow.

Well, it isn’t that odd. It would be rude to blow me off, right?

Right.

When I get close to him, I stop within arm’s reach. Never closer. Ever.

“What’s up?” He tips his head, staring at me. He’s shorter than Kaleb, but still well over six feet tall.

I waitfor him to repeat Eddy’s words, or worse.

Your infamous psycho brother is on the run. You being here is a risk. I’m sorry, but you’re out.

One beat. Two beats. Three.

My hopes rise, rise, and rise. There are those people who don’t watch the news. Professor Dempsey might be one of them. Plus, he isn’t from around here. He moved to Seattle from New York two years ago, according to his resume.

With the way my dad rushed to kill the news reports, it’s possible that he’s never heard of Kaleb.

Four. Five. Six.

Exceptfor a brief glance at my lips, Professor Dempsey gives me nothing.

My stomach dips, unease creeping up my spine.

He’s tired.His eyes are droopy because it’s the end of the day.

Instead of freaking out, I focus on the task at hand. “I think I’m ready to start my supervised clinical practice. I know I have two more years before I can start, but I would really appreciate it if you would consider my request.

“Hmm.” He isn’t taken aback by my direct request, nodding almost to himself. His eyes are back on mine. “You think you’re ready?”

“I know I am.” Pressure builds in my temples. It’s the urgency, the need to get it started. That, and the pressure cooker my life has been for the last two days. “I think—No, I’m confident that I’m ready. Please. Let me sit in on the next one. Let me prove myself.”

His hand raises. I think he’s going to cut through the air. Tell me no.

He doesn’t. He steps closer. Runs his knuckles on my shoulder, then my arm.

Touching me.

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