Page 90 of Suspicions on the Stage
“Nothing like advance notice.”
“They don’tknowthe prince is coming along,” I retort. “So the underworld contact from beyond the Veil who is snitching can’t be respectful of your time,Highness.”
That comment is almost worth giving a whack on the head, but I decide against it.
supermassive black hole
MORGANA
As the day wanes, I drift off more often—never a good sign. When my mind returns to the present, I have two tabs open on my screen. One is a statement of condolence from the ‘Office of the Dean’ drafted in the stilted cadences favored by upper crust mother-monsters and the other is a grainy screenshot of the campus message board where there are threads with titles like ‘Heir to the Boards—DEAD?!’ and ‘Cover-Up at the University: Silence from Leadership on Second Murder’.
Our journalism department is stronger than I realized—but that’s for another day.
I toggle between the two, reading and re-reading as I consider which one is most important. There is nothing I can say to discourage the latter that isn’t an outright lie, but the Board has issued strict guidance to use the phrase ‘tragic accident’ rather than homicide. If I look at the word ‘accident’ for one second longer, I’ll laugh, and the sound will unspool something in me that probably shouldn’t be in a professional setting, even this late in the afternoon.
There’s a knock—not the staccato tap-tap of underlings terrified I’ll sack them but the single, considerate thump of someone who’s used to opening my door for necessary purposes.
I don’t glance up from the screen, just call, “You don’t have to knock—that is, unless you’renotChanning and you’re here to kill me. In which case, please try to make it quick.”
My assistant enters like a hummingbird buzzing around a feeder, not a five-foot-five blonde in a University-issue cardigan. She slides a stack of manila folders onto the guest chair without sitting and then glares, regarding the state of my office. Her gaze flicks to the crumpled, barely eaten sandwich wrapper in the trash, the half-empty bourbon bottle, and finally, to my hair, which I have let completely off the leash. Dez is agitated, poking out occasionally as I deal with the stress of today, and Channing blinks hard before addressing me.
“I’m calling it, Morgana. You need to eat, rest, and shed this nonsense. But mostly, decompress so you don’t look like you’re going to fall over on the desk.”
My voice is rougher than intended. “I’ve got two more condolence letters to punch up, and the Board just emailed a list of ‘acceptable campus death terminology’ to be used in the future. Want to hear the top three?”
“I want you to go home.” She does not raise her voice, but something in her tone brooks no argument. “Even the trustees don’t want a pissy gorgon running their school—not this week. Take care of yourself so you’re able to handle this mess; if not for you or the damn school, but for your mates. They need you functioning at full capacity to work with Jax on the cops.”
I look at her, lips quirking up a bit. Channing has grown so much more confident in the past few months since I plucked her from obscurity in the PR department. I’m proud, though I don’t want to embarrass her by saying it out loud. She’s become my friend, and the only woman at State U who can tell me to my face that I am failing at self-care and not get turned to gravel for her trouble.
“I’ll go if you let me finish one email,” I bargain.
Channing hesitates, then shrugs and perches on the edge of the guest chair, folding herself into a knot that makes her look even smaller. “Fine, but you’re finishing that email, and then I’m walking you out.”
With a hiss—more from the knots in my spine than my snake—I lean back and stretch until vertebrae crackle. “Give me the board’s list.” I tap the desk, and Channing slides a printout across the wood grain. I read it upside-down.
“Ridiculous euphemisms for murder. We have to get this under control, before I have to actually use any of this tripe,” I say.
“Maybe that’s the point of sending the list to you,” Channing suggests. “They know you won’t want to keep lying and then having to apologize when the truth is revealed. It’s motivating you to stop the bloodshed.”
As if students being killed isn’t enough, right?
“I’m not doing this again if another body appears. I’m done with the bullshit.” I return to my computer and rattle off the rest of the email. I try to conjure the right level of gravitas, but the tragedy already feels like it belongs to someone else, like a story I’m editing for a former professor. I should feel something more than this; however, after today, the only thing I feel is tired.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Channing asks so quietly I almost miss it.
She means the worry about Lucas and Slade; I know.
“No.”
“What about your call with the supposed dragon-lady?”
“Regina didn’t even pause.” I rub my temples as I sigh. “Said she would expect a full accounting by the morning, then hung up. I bet she’s already arranged the press release.”
“Are you scared of her?”
I consider this, then shake my head. “She’s powerful, but I think we have plenty of people in our corner at or above her level of influence. It might not be pretty, but she’s going to be more of an annoyance than something to fear.”
Channing leans forward, elbows to knees, and something about the earnestness of the gesture almost cracks the shell around my heart. “Do you think this will happen again before we can find the person responsible?”
