Page 139 of Cruel When He Smiles
IwaituntilIknow Nate’s across campus, settled into a lecture where he’ll be locked down for at least an hour. This can’t feel like I’m acting on impulse, and it can’t leave a single trace he’d recognize if he went looking. The work that matters never happens when your hands are shaking. It happens when your pulse is steady, your breathing is slow, and every intention you have is honed into one sharp point.
I sit at my desk, open my laptop, and start pulling threads. The target isn’t just anyone. It’s the woman who made my Pup flinch at the sound of his own last name.
Her bio is still the exact brand of polished bullshit I remember, but now I’m looking at it through different eyes.
I scroll through titles she’s authored, then the ones she’s co-authored, tracking which names and ideas she circles back to like fingerprints she doesn’t realize she’s leaving. It doesn’t take long before I see the one that matters.
Harmon-James, L.
It shows up in citation after citation. I recognize the language. The tone. The clinical detachment dressed up as compassion. The kind of work you only produce if you’re willing to treat people like lab rats and call it progress.
Before I even think about it, I’m calling the number listed on her website and her PA answers. I spin a tale that my mother would be proud of before I get put through to her.
When she answers, her voice is exactly what the interviews and bios promised—smooth, professional, and the kind of fake warmth that’s been practiced in front of a mirror.
“Dr. Carter speaking.”
“Good afternoon, Doctor,” I say, my tone as clean as a pressed shirt. “I appreciate you taking my call. My name is Liam Callahan.”
There’s a pause. Polite, but calculated. She’s running my name through her mental list of people worth caring about. I give her what she’s looking for.
“Lisa Harmon-James was my mother.”
The silence that follows isn’t hesitation, it’s attention. The kind that stops moving, just listening. The kind you can work with. When she finally breathes in, it’s almost invisible, but there’s a hunger there.
“My goodness,” she says, smooth delight laced into every syllable. “Your mother’s work has been foundational to my own. I’ve referenced her extensively in my teaching. This is… a surprise. A pleasant one.”
I let it hang for a beat longer than needed. People like her can be trained through anticipation.
“I appreciate that,” I say, keeping my tone warm enough to keep her talking but cool enough to steer the conversation. “I’m working on a research project at Blackthorne University that overlaps with your ethics portfolio—specifically in non-pharmacologic induction and conditioning language in pediatricwork. I’d value a chance to talk in person. Professionally. And, given my mother’s influence, personally.”
She’s pleased. I can hear it in the quickness of her answer. “Of course, Mr. Callahan. I’d be happy to contribute to your work and discuss your mother’s legacy. It was seminal and, frankly, misunderstood by those who came after her with less rigor and more politics.”
There’s the tell. She sees herself as my mother’s heir in the field, proud to carry forward a legacy that demands cruelty disguised as progress. She resents anyone who softened it.
“If your schedule allows, I can come to you,” I say, “or we can meet somewhere neutral.”
“Neutral is sensible,” she replies, professional to the bone. “Blackthorne, you say? What a coincidence, that’s where my son is,” A small laugh brushes the line, cultivated to sound self-aware without surrendering an inch. “I’ll be in town within the next two weeks to visit him; perhaps we can meet then.”
To visit him? Over my dead fucking body.
“That would be perfect, thank you,” I return smoothly. “I’ll bring an outline so I can be respectful of your time.”
We trade numbers. I save hers under the name she hasn’t earned. I could hang up now, but there’s one more hook I want to set.
“My mother always said the distinction between research and ritual is whether you can defend it when the lights are on,” I add in a tone my mother used for truths dressed as jokes. “I am grateful to speak with someone who understands the difference.”
There’s a pause—just enough for her to place the rhythm of it without knowing why it fits. “Your mother was right,” she says warmly. “Too many people have forgotten it.”
“I’ll see you in two weeks, Doctor,” I say, letting the call end on agreement, not victory. People like her need to believe they’re the ones closing the door.
The room doesn’t go quiet, though. Not really. The anger hums in the walls, sits in the air, settles under the floorboards. I set my phone down and stay still for a long moment. No rushing. No blurring the edges. This isn’t about speed, it’s about precision. And precision is what I do best.
The laptop screen is still open in front of me, the glow of it spilling over my hands. Every tab I’ve got up is another little window into the version of Evelyn Carter she wants the world to see—carefully arranged, perfectly curated, all the shine of professionalism hiding the rot underneath.
It’s the same playbook I’ve seen my whole life: predators concealing harm in language so clean people call it care.
I don’t have time to get pulled into memories, not when there’s work to do. I keep my focus where it belongs. I start mapping the conversation in my head, building branches I can climb onto if she mirrors me too closely or tries to make me answer why Blackthorne suddenly cares about ethics when we both know the only kind this school has ever respected are the ones you can cash in on.
