Page 76 of Ghost
“Miss Brosnan?” she asked, looking over her shoulder. “Are you coming?”
I had no other choice—she was in an authoritative position over me. I nervously gathered my books, praying I’d get back before Miles. There was no need to worry.
Ms. Protean sat, stroking the top of Cécile's head while speaking to the animal in some made up language. Witnessing this was slightly disturbing, because the monstrous creature hardly resembled a cat; I could see why Mr. Weaver had been frightened. Cécile was a pure black Persian, and easily twice the size of a normal cat. She had pink claws that seemed way too long. And wore a silver jeweled collar that sparkled under the fluorescent lights.
But what was most disturbing about Cécile was the way she watched me. Even though Ms. Protean was giving her attention to her pet, the creature had not stopped staring at me. Her silver eyes glistened, gazing at me as if I were her next meal.
Which was insanity, because—despite her appearance—this was a normal cat.
The rest of the office was like I expected. Lace and floral everywhere, reminiscent of an elderly woman’s home. And the perfumed rose smell was the same.
Ms. Protean hadn’t spoken to me since we’d arrived.
It seemed as though it was up to me. The more quickly I figured out why she wanted me, the faster I could leave. “Ms. Protean?”
Her fingers froze, as if she had forgotten I was here, and she raised her eyes until they met mine. “Yes, dear?”
I was terrible at this sort of thing. Why was it my responsibility to break the ice anyway?
Still, I tried. “What do you teach?”
And—what I wanted to ask, but couldn’t—why hadn’t she retired yet. Did they teach crochet at colleges? Although, library science was a possibility. It was a large area of study here.
“I am the head of the criminal justice department,” she replied, her fingers moving back to her cat’s head. “And I am a professor for the more advanced criminology courses.”
I stared at her, trying to take in this unexpected revelation.
She smiled, as if she understood my shock. “Is that surprising?”
“But…” I didn’t understand. If this were the case, then why did she and Damen not get along? They’ve had to work together regularly, I was sure. In fact, he had probably even been her student. “But you and Damen…” I tried to explain. “It didn’t seem as though you liked each other.”
“The history between young Mr. Abernathy and myself is only that—ancient history. At the moment he is a valued member of this university. That could, of course, change at any moment. So I’m thinking positive thoughts. But until then, the psychology department and the criminal justice departments rarely intersect. So Mr. Abernathy and myself do not interact frequently.” Her smile had faded, and a nasty look had taken over her expression.
I bit the inside of my cheek. It was hard not to point out the obvious—it didn’t sound as though she considered their discord history at all. But who was I to question her passionate hatred?
“On to a topic that does not inspire such emotions.” Her voice had lost the gravelly edge as she continued. “I wanted to speak to you because you were asking questions about Aine Hamway’s house. I’m a bit of an expert in this field, and have lived here my whole life. I’ll save you some time and effort: you won’t discover anything more incriminating than the list of previous owners.”
I had pulled out my own notepad—having picked up one from the campus store in order to follow Damen’s influence—and readied my pen. But at her statement, I didn’t write a word. I wasn’t sure how to respond. There was no reason why she couldn’t have saidthisat the coffee shop.
“Wait,” I tapped my pen, trying to remain respectful. “You dragged me here to tell me that there’s nothing to tell me?”
“No.” She rested her chin on her linked fingers, gazing at me. The gleam in her eyes was unsettling, but her next words distracted me. “I’m saying that you need to be careful of who you talk to. You don’t want the wrong people to learn that you’re looking into it. It was odd that Aine acquired the property at all, the original owner wanted it abandoned. Nobody should be living there. Nobody should have cause to look into it.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been working on this particular case for years,” she continued. “And I’ve survived because I’ve stayed out of the way. You lack stealth. You’re lucky you haven’t ended up like Caleb Weaver yet.”
“Wait,” I interrupted. There was one thing I did recall in Norman’s long speech, and it was that Mr. Weaver’s name hadn’t been made public. “You know what happened to Mr. Weaver? How did you know—”
“I have my sources.” Ms. Protean waved a weathered hand in the air. “He’s not nearly as sneaky as he believes. I personally heard him asking about the house in the senior center. He refused to speak to me, even though I tried to warn him. But Gregory and Caleb are stubborn and idealistic. But the fact is, the Cole family is untouchable.”
The Cole family. Mr. Weaver had mentioned their history briefly. I was taking notes, and didn’t even glance up. “What about the Cole family?”
“They purchased the land and built that house themselves,” Ms. Protean responded. “Since the property was abandoned, Edward Cole tried to bury ownership records. But there is simply too much history, and their presence too prominent, to hide everything. I’m not the first to suspect foul play, but once anyone makes a connection between the Coles and anything nefarious, disaster strikes the investigators. Suicide, natural accidents, and other manner of death. I’ve been on this case for years. If I haven’t gotten anywhere, you don’t have much hope either.”
I frowned, still writing furiously. “Is there a particular reason why you are looking into the Cole family? What do you suspect?”
There wasn’t a response, and I glanced up, hoping that I hadn’t hurt her feelings. Ms. Protean was actually being helpful, and alienating her was the last thing I wanted.
