“Four?” he asks, referring to my smoky eye.

“Yes. Do you like it?”

“Not particularly.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Samuel gives a little grunt. “How’s Kane?”

“The usual. Shedding white fur on all the furniture, bringing in mice. Living his best middle-aged feline life.”

“And school?”

“Good, I have a meeting with a potential thesis advisor tomorrow.”

“Who?”

“Dr. Kaplan.”

Samuel either already knows or has been researching all of my professors in the run-up to starting my doctorate at Berkshire University. He’s read their most prestigious papers, ripping several of them to shreds for weak analytical methods or shoddy statistical findings or reaching recommendations. But he nods at Dr. Kaplan’s name.

“Time?”

“Two thirty.”

Samuel nods again. I see some flashing lights filter through the white lace curtains of the common room window and turn as an ambulance pulls up to the front doors. The EMTs unload a gurney and wheel it into the lobby, heading toward the residents’ rooms. I pivot back to Samuel slowly, one eyebrow raised in question, and he gives me a noncommittal shrug.

We finish the rest of the first game in silence, which he wins.

“Are you going to tell me about it?” he asks as we set up the second game. I smile sweetly across the board and his eyes narrow.

“Whatever do you mean, Uncle Sammy?”

His scowl darkens as I smile and take a sip of my tea. He hates when I call him Sammy. But I won’t push him too far. I might wind up with poison in my tea the next time I come around.

“Ahh, my date,” I say. “Yes.” We each roll a single die and he wins again, starting the second match. “It was fine. Short. Underwhelming.”

Samuel snorts.

“Gary called, so it was over before I had much chance to play. But I was tired, so I didn’t really mind.” A spark lights beneath Samuel’s cataracts. “Gary the Garrote.” Samuel enjoys this game of speaking in code about killing. It’s one of the very few things he truly does enjoy, aside from doing the killing himself.

“What did Gary have to say?”

“Not much. It was a pretty one-sided conversation. Katie was on the line too.”

Samuel nods his head approvingly. “Katie Ketamine.” I know better than to subdue a man like Tristan on my own, even if his only exercise was playing golf twice a week while I work out a minimum of two hours a day. Samuel taught me well about mitigating risk.

“Any flooding in the basement?” he asks after a sip of tea.

“The usual. It’ll all be just fine. I’ll give it a few days.”

We exchange a dark little smile.

“Any future dates lined up?”

I shrug, moving my pieces on the board. “Maybe. I got a new number yesterday.”

Samuel eyes me, his gaze cataloging the details of my expressionless face. When he’s done searching my skin, he zeroes in on my eyes, burrowing into my brain like a twisting blade. “Don’t spread yourself too thin. You have time. You do too much, you’ll make mistakes.”

Samuel pauses the movement of his hand over the board. This is no game, no code. And I will not let him down. “Of course, Uncle. I’ll take my time. The semester is about to start up, and if Kaplan is willing to be my advisor, I’ll ensure that I prioritize my thesis work. I promise.”

He holds his hand aloft for another breath before giving a grunt of approval, knowing I’m good for my word. After all, I am not just his protégé. I owe my life to Samuel. I am his one moment of mercy. In one hundred and seventy-two killings, I am the only person he ever saved.

The gurney squeaks behind me. I twist around to watch the EMTs rolling out a body covered with a sheet.

I turn back to Samuel and he smiles.

One hundred and seventy-three.

OceanofPDF.com

3 ELI

You know that feeling where your instinct screams that you need to be somewhere, even though you have other plans?

That’s exactly what’s happening to me right now.

The plan was to go straight to my office to get this syllabus finished and posted. Several eager students have already emailed me about it. So much for enjoying the last moments of the summer, it seems. But that gut instinct drove me to Deja Brew, the campus coffee shop. I don’t know if it’s truly instinct as much as a desire to avoid my office until the last possible moment, but here we are.

“Hey, Dr. Kaplan,” Marshall says as I approach the counter.

“Hey, Marshall. Last year?”

“Last year,” he confirms with a proud grin, tapping the portafilter against the edge of the compost bin with a deft whack. His muscled arm flexes as he refills the filter. The guy doesn’t have to work—he’s here on a full athletics scholarship—but I think he enjoys the coffee shop and I respect the work ethic. “The usual, Kap?”

“Please.”

Marshall works with efficiency, handing my Americano across the counter before we have a chance to delve into much small talk. I’m grateful for it. I like Marshall, but I’m not really in the mood for pleasantries today. As soon as I’ve paid, I find a table by the window and settle into my solitude.

I have that antsy feeling that comes with the start of a new year. Another crop of students. More faculty meetings. More politics and posturing. But beyond that, it’s the needling awareness that change is on my horizon. The upcoming break from academic life is a few short months away, and as much as it churns my guts with a swell of anxiety, there’s excitement too. I’ll be putting my skills to the hunt. All these years of studying, excelling, teaching, researching…the relentless work is finally culminating in a tangible result. Something good I can fix my name to. Something noble.

I just have to get through this semester first.

I open my laptop and join the Deja Brew Wi-Fi, then start looking through my emails. It seems like there are more students than usual who are eager to get ahead of reading assignments. I have five emails asking for reading lists, on top of the three I received earlier in the week. There’s a new message from one persistent doctoral student, Sombria Brooks, a variation of the last four emails she’s sent over the course of the summer. They’ve all been precise, direct. No ass-kissing, which I appreciate. The message from two weeks ago contained an abridged version of her dissertation proposal. Yesterday’s message from Ms. Brooks was to confirm our meeting for today at two thirty, asking if I had questions she should prepare for. The truth is, I opened the document but didn’t read any further than the summary. I already have a feeling the work will be solid, temptingly so, but there’s no point becoming invested if I can’t take her on as a student. Not if I’ll be on sabbatical in four short months.

Come on, Kaplan. Get your shit together. Read it before your meeting, at least. Don’t be a dick.

I sigh. That inner me with the tiny moral compass is right. I’m doing this student a disservice if I don’t at least read the full proposal in advance of our meeting.

I navigate my mouse to click on the document when the bell dings above the door. It fades into the background of chatter and coffee shop indie music and the hiss of the espresso machine.

But what doesn’t fade is a woman’s clear, luxurious voice. It’s like spiced liquor, full of heat and flavor.

Oh.

That voice.

My eyes shoot up and scan for the source. I look over to the cashier counter and there she is.

One glance at her traps the breath in my chest. Her face is in profile as she scrutinizes the menu above the counter. Her hair cascades over her shoulders in loose waves the color of rich melted chocolate. Dark lashes, plump lips. Through her jeans and her snug-fitting black sweater I can see how slight she is, so slim she’s waifish. I would break a woman like that in half. But the way she stands is forceful, as though her lithe form holds hidden strength.