by Dori Lavelle
“Nothing. I went to see Paulette because, I don’t know, I thought she might know what to do. This is bigger than us, I think.”
Chelsea draws her knees to her chest and hugs them. “What did she say?”
“Turns out she used to be Jennifer’s counselor too. She told me what happened between her and Devereux.”
“The whole sordid story?”
“Pretty much.”
In a few words, I relay everything Paulette told me.
“Holy shit. That’s something straight out of a movie. Funny no one around here talks about it. Maybe the scandal sort of died down during the summer holidays? Every scandal has an expiration date, I guess. Neil told me bits and pieces yesterday, but he doesn’t know many details. He’s useless at gossip.”
“I’m sure the university wants to forget the scandal, pretend it never happened.”
“What else did Paulette say?”
“She said the professor and Jennifer’s relationship was unhealthy, and that he’s obsessed with her. She also said I shouldn’t worry about the threats in the letter. That it’s not my responsibility to save him.”
“I think she’s right. You never know what he might be capable of, even from behind bars.” She gazes up at the ceiling. “Such a shame. He must have been a catch for a student to fall for him. A student-professor affair… how hot is that?”
“I wonder what he looks like. I mean—”
“I don’t care how he looks. His surname says he’s French.” Chelsea sighs. “French is one of those languages with the power to blind women. An ugly guy only has to roll a few sexy French words off his tongue and he’ll turn gorgeous.”
“You’re silly. But I won’t argue with you on that one.”
Chelsea’s and Paulette’s words swirl around my head until I fall asleep. I want to heed their warnings, but I can’t shake the feeling that I need to do something more than sit back and let it all unfold. I want to let go, as Paulette suggested, but something inside me won’t allow it. Somewhere between midnight and dawn, I make a decision that might get me into trouble.
In the morning, as soon as Chelsea leaves for her yoga class, I pull out a sheet of paper from my drawer, where I’d hastily scribbled the return address I’d found on the last letter. I’m pretty sure the address doesn’t belong to a prison. Maybe someone else picks up the mail and delivers the letters to Professor Devereux in person?
After a moment’s hesitation, I start writing.
Dear Professor Devereux,
My name is Ivy. I came across the letter you wrote to Jennifer. She no longer lives in this dorm room.
You don’t know who I am, but I’m begging you to reconsider committing suicide. You might think life is not worth living, and I have no idea what you’re going through, but I thought I’d write and ask you not to do it. I’m sure there’s something in your life you might want to live for. Isn’t there anything at all? Please think about it.
I wish you well.
Ivy
6
As my laptop screen lights up, my chest feels as if it’s about to burst. I might regret what I’m about to do, but after a week of indecision, I’ve reached a point where I’m unable to stop myself.
It’s been a week since I sent off the letter I hope will change his mind. A week with no response. What if he doesn’t listen to me? What if my letter had the opposite effect on him? I’m a stranger, and I pretty much told him the girl he loves has moved on without letting him know. What if that was the final nail on his coffin?
As my fingers fly over the keyboard, acting of their own volition, my mind screams warnings that make my ears ring. I’m typing Judson Devereux’s name into the search bar.
A few social media accounts belonging to different Judson Devereuxs pop up. I have no idea which one is his. I don’t even know what he looks like.
Unable to determine which of the many faces is his, I think about quitting, but I don’t. The murder he committed has to have been in the press at some point. No way would the news of a professor killing a student go unnoticed by the local press.
Next I type “Oaklow University Professor Judson Devereux.” The screen explodes with links leading to the story.
Professor Judson Devereux: Monster of Oaklow University
Art history professor murders star student out of jealousy. Find out more…
Murder taints the sleepy town of Oaklow, Florida
Professor-Student Romance Turns Deadly
I run my damp palms over my jeans, wiping away the clamminess. I refrain from clicking on the links. The only reason I searched for his name was to find out whether he’d committed suicide.
A little voice inside my head nags at me to click on one of the stories. Relenting, I click on the first one. My stomach lurches when I read that Oliver Banes, the murdered student, died from stab wounds and bleeding out after being castrated.
I’m conflicted at this point. What Professor Devereux might have done is gruesome, but I also can’t help feeling that the rapist deserved to be punished for what he did, if the claims are true. Though that doesn’t justify murder, of course. Devereux should have allowed the cops to handle it.
I click on a few more links. As soon as I see him, air rushes into my lungs, forcing my spine against the back of my chair. My eyes focus on his mugshot. I don’t normally like it when people call men “beautiful,” but Professor Devereux is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. And I have come across many handsome men in my day. He has a chiseled jaw, close-cropped dark hair that is slightly gray at the temples, and intense emerald eyes. Classic handsome features. The prison jumpsuit somehow enhances his good looks. Gazing into his eyes, I’m hypnotized. No wonder Jennifer couldn’t resist him.
I can’t pull my eyes away. Professor Devereux is not looking into the camera; he’s staring at me, into my soul, shifting things I don’t want moved. So this is the man behind the words that affect me so deeply. I don’t know what I expected. A small part of me had hoped he wouldn’t be my type—that he’d be much older, that I’d feel nothing at the sight of his face. But now, with my eyes transfixed on the screen, my temperature rises. The words he wrote to Jennifer float in my body, clouding my mind, tickling sensitive nerve endings.
His hypnotic eyes stay with me, even when I leave the image to search for an article that reveals his age. Now that I know how handsome he is, and that he’s only thirty-five, I can no longer call him Professor Devereux. From now on, he’s Judson to me.
7
Judson’s response arrives after ten long days. It finds me in bed with a splitting headache that seems determined to stick around no matter what I do. It’s Friday and I’ve skipped my lectures.
At eleven, the doorbell rings. I wince as the harsh sound bounces off the walls of my already tortured head. It’s the pizza delivery guy. Instead of letting him in downstairs and allowing him to come up to my room, I throw one of Chelsea’s trench coats over my pajamas, stuff money into the pockets, and drag myself to the elevator instead of the stairs—my only daily exercise. I keep my fingertips pressed to my temples on the ride down.
I open the front door and accept the warm pizza box. The aromas of dough, onion, and pepperoni make my mouth water. “Thanks.”
The delivery boy’s china-blue eyes—he’s only fourteen or fifteen—glint when our eyes meet. He pushes back the strawberry blond hair hanging over his forehead and stares at me without blinking.
Even though he doesn’t say a word, I know he recognizes me. I ignore the unspoken questions in his eyes.
“How much do I owe you?” I ask him, as he seems to have lost the ability to speak.
He shakes his head and mutters the amount with a slight lisp.
I press the cash into his hand. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks, ma’am.” He stumbles off, glancing behind him every few steps, until he reaches his blue bike. He rides off with a quick, unsure wave.
Inside the front hall, I check our mailbox. I’m su
rprised to find a single letter addressed to me.
The headache melts away and my heart starts to gallop. I wrote Judson three weeks ago, and I’ve been worried sick that he ignored my pleas. I’ve been unable to forget him, the words he wrote to Jennifer, the image of his emerald eyes from spinning through my mind. I slam the door of the mailbox shut and lock it with my key.
Back inside the room, my heart lodges itself at the base of my throat, making it hard to breathe. I place the greasy pizza box on the coffee table, forgetting about it as anxiety and anticipation move in to replace my appetite. I rip open the envelope. It’s not an actual letter, not really… more of a note.
Dear Ivy,
Who are you and what gives you the right to read someone else’s personal letters?
Judson Devereux
The words hammer in my already pounding head. The same words also bring along a fury that’s bitter at the back of my throat. I can’t let him talk to me like that. He doesn’t even deserve a new sheet of paper. Since he wrote in blue, I pick up a black ballpoint pen from my pen cup, and below his note, I write mine.
Those so-called personal letters were left in MY personal space. If you are looking to be mad at someone, be mad at the person who left them behind. My only mistake was telling you not to commit suicide. Sorry about that.
Goodbye.
Ivy
I fold up the paper, get dressed, and storm out of the room. I send off the letter before I change my mind.
My anger only lasts as long as my headache. As soon as I can think again without agony, I feel horrible. I sent an angry letter to a man who is struggling with not only a failed relationship, but enough pain to consider the escape that is suicide.
He’s lashing out at me because Jennifer isn’t there. And he’s right. Much as I thought I was doing the right thing, I shouldn’t have meddled. It was none of my business in the first place. I should have swallowed my anger and ignored his arrogant note.
When my eyes drift shut for the night, I pray my words haven’t added another layer of darkness to his heart.
Three days later, Judson surprises me with a response. His words are scribbled on the back of the same sheet of paper as our previous correspondence.
Dear Ivy,
My behavior was uncalled for. I’m disgusted with myself. You’re right, I directed my rage at the wrong person. Consider this my apology. Please accept it. If I may ask, do you know where Jennifer is? I really need to talk to her.
Judson
P.S. Keep your response on the same page. Great way to save the trees.
Relieved to get proof of life, and seeing no reason as to why I shouldn’t accept his apology, I write back.
Judson,
Jennifer left Oaklow University a while ago. She might have transferred to another university. Sorry, I can’t give you more information on her whereabouts. I have no idea where she is.
Take care.
Ivy
8
I exit the elevator, my gym bag slung over my shoulder.
Chelsea has finally talked me into trying yoga, and I’ve been attending an evening class with her once a week. Given our busy schedules, and Chelsea’s hot and heavy relationship, we don’t get to see each other so often anymore. The milkshakes we share at Milky Lake after yoga give us a chance to catch up on each other’s lives.
She doesn’t know I’ve been in touch with Judson, but I have no intention of telling her or anyone else. There’s nothing to tell, anyway. Our correspondence seems to have died.
Two weeks have gone by with no more letters. Not that I expected him to ever write to me again. I answered his question, and the answer probably bruised his already broken heart.
Two hours later, Chelsea and I have finished our milkshakes, and she’s leaving for dinner with Neil while I return to the dorms. As I walk past the mailboxes, I hesitate, then open the damn box. My heart leaps when I find a letter addressed to me. It’s his handwriting. I know I’m crazy, but skip to my room with a grin on my face.
I wait until I’ve had a shower before opening the letter, which calls for me on the other side of the bathroom wall. When I finally open the envelope, I’m sitting on the couch, eating Chinese takeout and washing it down with apple cider. Again, it’s far from a real letter, and it’s still on the same page we’ve been using all this time.
Get over yourself, I muse. It doesn’t mean anything that he’s kept it.
Ivy, quick question. Are you by any chance Ivy Hollifield, the model? Feel free not to answer. I couldn’t help myself. I had to ask. Judson
I smile as I write back.
No, I’m not Ivy Hollifield, the model. I’m Ivy Hollifield, the ex-model. I’m no longer in the business.
His response lands in my mailbox a week later, written on the same now worn-out correspondence page.
That’s a shame. You are stunning. I’m sure you left a dent in the modeling industry. Ivy, I have to thank you for saving my life.
I shake my head as I respond.
You saved your own life. The final decision to live could only come from you alone. I only reminded you that death is not the answer.
His next response, a few days later, leaves me breathless.
Words straight from the lips of an angel. I never believed in angels. Until you.
Before I can decide whether or not to write back, Chelsea struts into the room. Luckily, I have time to throw the letter into my open purse before she sees it.
She eyes me suspiciously. “Are you up to something? You have a strange look on your face.”
I shake my head and stand up from the couch. “Nope. I’m just surprised to see you back today. It’s Friday. I thought you were staying over at Neil’s apartment.”
“I am. We’re here for movie night.” She opens one of her drawers. “And I need a clean pair of underwear.”
Dunkin Hall has a small projection room, where a movie night takes place one Friday a month. I’ve never been to one before. I’ve heard they usually watch comedies. Call me cliché, but I’m more of a drama and thriller kind of girl. I prefer the heavy stuff that stirs my emotions and leaves me feeling just a little ruffled.
I throw back my bed sheet. “Great. What are you guys watching?”
“No idea.”
I climb onto my bed. “Have fun. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chelsea turns to face me. “Not so quick. You’re coming with.”
“I don’t think so. I had a brutal day. I need to conserve my energy.”
“I’m not leaving without you. Ivy, you came here to have a life.” Chelsea places her hands on her hips. Today she has ditched her jeans and t-shirt for a beige romper that shows off her curves and long legs perfectly. “I’m here to help you do that. Now stop fighting me on this.”
I know she won’t take no for an answer, so I shrug and climb out of bed. Five minutes later, I’m wearing a pair of jeans and an oversized t-shirt. “You win. Let’s go.”
9
The Dunkin Hall projection room, situated next to one of the shared dorm kitchens, has a wine burgundy carpet and resembles a miniature movie theater. There are at least twenty padded seats the same color as the carpet, round overhead lights, and a large popcorn machine. The only difference is that there’s no elevated seating, and instead of a white screen, a massive state-of-the-art flat screen TV covers most of the wall, framed on both sides by a red velvet curtain, which has been drawn back in preparation for the evening’s entertainment.
As I walk past other students sprawled on chairs—some from Oaklow University, and a few strangers—spilled popcorn crunches under my ballerinas.
“Hi,” someone says as I walk by. It’s Milton, sitting with legs wide open and a popcorn box tucked between them.
“Hi,” I say, and push past him. I feel his eyes on me as Chelsea leads me to a seat at the end of the row. I avoid looking back.
A minute or two later, the lights dim and the screen turns on. I take a sip from the bottle of water I
brought with me. On the way down I promised Chelsea I’d try to have a good time, and for the next hour and a half I keep my promise. I force myself not to think about Judson’s letter back in our room.
The comedy is about four rich guys who take a break after high school to tour Europe. Their misadventures are hilarious, but even though I laugh at the right places, and feign shock at the characters’ outrageous behavior, my heart isn’t in it. At least Chelsea can’t say I didn’t try.
I give a silent sigh when the movie finally comes to an end, and one of the students, Jacob Ramey, who studies journalism, stands up to go fiddle with the DVD player.
For a second the screen goes blank, only to light up again with a local news channel. A brunette news reporter with extremely long eyelashes and ruby lips says something, but I don’t hear; my eyes are fixed on a small photo in the upper right corner of the screen.
The whole room goes quiet, and Chelsea grabs my hand so tight I think she’s going to break my bones. “That’s him. That’s Professor Judson Devereux,” she whispers. “The monster is delicious.”
“Yeah.” I give a small nod. She doesn’t need to tell me that. His name scrolls by at the bottom of the screen.
As I listen to the words of the pretty newscaster, hands clasped in my lap, my body tenses up. No one knows I’ve been in touch with him, but I feel as though they know every word I’ve written. My heart is slamming so hard against my chest, the sound vibrates in my ears. I’m barely listening to what the woman is saying, but the words that do hit my ears leave me trembling within. There’s nothing new—the same information I came across online. But somehow everything seems more real on the big screen.
“On Monday, May 7th, 2012, the murder of Oliver Banes, a student at Oaklow University, shook the town of Oaklow, Florida. Judson Devereux, a former art history professor at the same university, is currently behind bars as he awaits trial for the murder. Although Devereux maintains his innocence, several witnesses have come forward to dispute these claims. Devereux was rumored to have had an affair with Banes’s girlfriend, Jennifer Hanson, one of his students. Oliver Banes was found naked and stabbed to death inside one of the university lecture halls. The autopsy report states the cause of death as blood loss due to castration. After months of waiting, the trial date has finally been set for Thursday, December 12th.”
