The Professor

by Alexandria Clarke

  “I just wanted to see how you were holding up,” I said, unsure of how to broach the subject of O’Connor’s disappearance. “You know, since everything happened…”

  “You mean since my husband vanished into thin air?”

  I hesitated then nodded slightly.

  “I…” she began. She looked down at her hands, spinning her wedding band around her third finger. “I’m not quite sure how to feel, really. I miss George terribly, and I truly don’t understand how this could’ve happened.”

  “You haven’t heard anything from the police?” I ventured, taking a sip of coffee now that it had cooled enough.

  Eileen shook her head. “I suspect George’s prolonged absence doesn’t precisely take precedence at the station. They only visited here once, asked me a few questions, and took their leave.”

  “Er, what sort of things did they ask?”

  “When I had seen him last, what he had been wearing, et cetera,” said Eileen, waving a hand dismissively. “The usual.”

  “Did they ask to see any of O’Connor’s things?”

  “No, which I found quite strange,” admitted Eileen. “They searched his office at Waverly, as you are probably already aware, but the investigation barely extended to our home. They went through his things very briefly here, but that was all.”

  I contemplated this. It was no surprise to me that the local officers hadn’t taken more interest in O’Connor’s disappearance. The Black Raptor Society had at least two members, if not more, working for the force, one of which had been Wes’s boss. It was why so many of the society’s misdeeds had been overlooked. Covering up a murder was simple when you had the cops eating out of the palm of your hand.

  “I was wondering when I would see you, Nicole,” said Eileen.

  “I’m so sorry that I didn’t check in sooner. It was terrible of me—”

  “No, no. I’m not trying to guilt trip you, honey,” said Eileen sweetly. “I’m not sure if you noticed, but George became quite… distracted before he disappeared.”

  My stomach tightened. Of course, O’Connor had been distracted. Being hunted down by a murderous group of Waverly students and alumni had that effect on a person.

  “He talked about you often though,” continued Eileen. She rotated her wedding ring again as if searching for flaws in the smooth gold. “More and more as time went on. You were his best student—that I knew already—but he seemed to take so much more of an interest in you than any of his previous teaching assistants.”

  An uncomfortable feeling grew in my gut. I wasn’t sure where Eileen was heading with this information, but it sure didn’t sound good. “Eileen, Professor O’Connor was my mentor. Nothing more.”

  “Oh, I know, dear,” said Eileen, easing the strain in my body. “I just can’t help but wonder why he cared so deeply for you, like a daughter almost.”

  That was news to me. As much as I’d appreciated O’Connor’s teaching abilities, our relationship had never expanded beyond bickering over theories of societal collapse or whose turn it was to grade the midterms. While our banter wasn’t exactly professional, we kept each other on our toes. Working with O’Connor was enjoyable, but I hadn’t considered our repartee reminiscent of a familial bond. Then again, with no father-daughter relationship of my own to compare it to, maybe I simply hadn’t recognized the signs.

  “Eileen, I have to tell you something,” I said. I set down my coffee cup, ignoring the vanilla scone. I was far too queasy to eat anything. “Ever since O’Connor—George, I mean—disappeared, I’ve been trying to figure out what happened to him.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Eileen solemnly.

  “What?”

  “You’re deep in this too, aren’t you?”

  Confused, I asked, “Pardon?”

  Eileen sighed, breaking off a piece of my untouched vanilla scone and helping herself to it. “I suspected as much. George tried to keep you out of it for as long as possible, but I do believe he knew you were bound to get involved eventually.”

  My mouth dropped open. “How much do you know?”

  “Nothing at all, really. Are you going to try this scone or not? I made them from scratch.”

  “I’m not very hungry. Eileen, this is important. What did O’Connor tell you?”

  She took her time commandeering my dessert, daintily biting off the end. “I told you, Nicole. He kept me in the dark. It was for my own safety, according to him. I used to ask questions. I tried to get him to let me in. George is a very private person. He deflected well, but as time wore on, he became more and more agitated with me. I stopped asking questions after a while. We’ve been married for over thirty years. I assumed that once he was ready to share with me, he would do so. It wouldn’t be the first time he needed to process something on his own before letting me in on it. Now, I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what’s going on?”

  I bit my tongue. Eileen assumed correctly. Her safety was at stake. Not to mention, I didn’t have the heart, or the courage maybe, to deliver the news of her husband’s untimely demise. Eileen deserved more than the tragedy that had befallen her family, but I wasn’t ready to pop her bubble of blissful ignorance quite yet.

  “It’s safer if you don’t know,” I said finally.

  Eileen hummed in acceptance. “I figured.”

  “Listen, Eileen,” I said, leaning over the TV table to place my hand on top of hers. “I’m trying to figure all of this out, and as soon as I do, you’ll be the first one to know. I promise. But in order for me to do that, I need more information. Did O’Connor have a laptop or a desktop computer that he used to work from home?”

  “He was a teacher. Of course he did.”

  “Can I have it?”

  “Certainly, if it will help you.”

  The lack of argument on her part and the fact that she trusted me completely with her husband’s personal property took me aback. “R-really?”

  Eileen nodded, rising from the sofa. She collected the scone plate. “I’ll go and get it for you. Sit tight.”

  I settled into the armchair, listening to Eileen’s slow footsteps ascend the staircase to the second floor of the home. For a minute or so, I watched the tabby cat chase the shadow of his tail across the living-room floor, ignoring the voice in the back of my head that told me obtaining O’Connor’s computer was too easy. Thankfully, Eileen returned, carrying a laptop case, before I could run away with my thoughts.

  “Here you are, dear,” she said, handing over the case. “He worked frantically on this thing. There were days I barely ever saw him because of it. I’m afraid I don’t know the password though.”

  “That’s okay,” I said as I stood up to accept the laptop from her. Cracking O’Connor’s password would be a piece of cake for Lauren. “I need to head out, Eileen. I appreciate this though, and I promise to keep you updated. In the meantime, just… lay low, okay?”

  “You worry too much, Nicole.” She walked me to the door, patiently waiting as I pulled my winter coat on again, but as I made to let myself out, Eileen took me by the hand. “If you need anything at all, don’t you hesitate to come find me. I don’t care what mischief it may bring to my door. George has faith in you, Nicole, as do I. When you need a safe place to land, you bring yourself right to my doorstep.”

  My throat tightened, and I felt the familiar burn in my eyes that happened right before I was about to burst into tears. “Thanks,” I said in the clearest voice I could muster. Then I let myself out into the cold once again.

  14

  Back in the basement of Floorboard Lit, I dumped O’Connor’s computer into Lauren’s lap. “Here,” I said, dropping onto the nearby couch. I closed my eyes for a minute, savoring the soothing darkness of the basement, and listened to Lauren boot up O’Connor’s machine. “It’s password protected.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” responded Lauren.

  “I assumed as much.”

  “What did the wife say?”

  I massaged
my temples with the tips of my fingers. “She doesn’t know anything past the fact that O’Connor was hiding something.”

  “Did you tell her—?”

  “That he’s dead? No. That’s not exactly something you can easily slip into conversation over coffee and scones.”

  The tapping of Lauren’s fingers across the keyboard of O’Connor’s laptop resonated throughout the room. “She’s going to find out eventually. I mean, we are searching for his body after all.”

  “Mm.”

  “Not to mention, you should probably be the one to break the bad news,” Lauren went on. “You’re the only person who knows about O’Connor that actually cares about his wife. It’s the decent thing to do—”

  “Lauren,” I interrupted, my eyes snapping open. “Nix the lecture. I’ll worry about Eileen later. For now, she’s safe, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Fine. Have it your way. By the way, all of O’Connor’s files on this computer are encrypted. It’s going to be a bitch to access them.”

  I sat up. “You got past his password already?”

  She picked up the laptop and brought it over, plunking down next to me on the couch and curling her feet up beneath her like a cat. “That was child’s play. This stuff, though? O’Connor really knew what he was doing. I don’t think I gave him enough credit before.”

  “Can you still get to the files?” I asked, peeking at the screen. My computer capabilities didn’t extend beyond the basics. Without Lauren’s expertise, I would’ve been at a loss.

  “I think so, but it’s going to take me a while.” She closed the laptop and reached into her back pocket. “Here, take this.”

  It was a New York driver’s license with my face and someone else’s name on it. I wrinkled my nose. “Who’s Elizabeth Ramy?”

  “Your new identity,” explained Lauren. “Temporarily, at least. Your interview with Paulson Media is at four o’clock. Don’t blow it.”

  “The reach of your forgery capabilities is truly stunning.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Lauren. “Also, since you can’t walk into an office looking like that, I ran back to my dorm and grabbed you a more appropriate outfit. I figure we’re about the same size.”

  “Looking like what, exactly?”

  “Like you haven’t showered or changed your clothes in several days,” said Lauren, eyeballing my greasy hair. “I have dry shampoo too.”

  It took Lauren a good half hour to make me over for my fake job interview. I squeezed into the borrowed pencil skirt and button-up blouse and even let Lauren sweep my dirty hair up into some resemblance of a bun, but I drew the line at Lauren’s winged-eyeliner suggestion. I would have enough to worry about walking into enemy territory without the threat of smudging my makeup.

  “How do we know that some BRS member isn’t going to recognize me the second I walk into the office?” I asked Lauren.

  “None of the active BRS members work at Paulson,” explained Lauren. “Besides, I checked in at BRS while I was on campus. They aren’t monitoring this office, which probably means they think they’ve hidden the body well enough not to worry about it.”

  “What makes you think I can find it then?”

  “Sheer determination,” replied Lauren, adjusting a bobby pin at the top of my head to tame a wayward strand of hair. “Besides, you were the one who managed to break in to BRS headquarters all on your own. That’s only happened once before, and from what I know, the Raptors silenced that person very quickly.”

  “You’ve mentioned that before. Who was it?”

  Lauren shrugged. “We don’t talk about it. The Raptors are too proud. We hate admitting our weak spots.”

  “Go figure,” I muttered.

  “Just see what you can dig up at Paulson,” said Lauren as she stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Who knows? It might be a complete bust. But if it’s not, we could be one step closer to finding Wes and taking down the society.”

  It wasn’t a long drive to Paulson Media. I arrived fifteen minutes early for my interview, which gave me plenty of time to panic. We had no plan in place to discover whatever BRS had planted at Paulson, and it seemed unlikely that Lauren’s suggestion to simply have a look around would yield any concrete results. The office was located on the twelfth floor of one of the larger buildings downtown, and I rode up the elevator in anxious silence, tugging down the hem of my skirt. When the doors pinged open, spilling me out into the lobby of Paulson Media, I took a deep breath and walked over to the receptionist’s desk.

  “Hi, I’m Ni—Elizabeth Ramy,” I corrected quickly. Covert ops weren’t my specialty. “I have an interview at four.”

  The receptionist, a rotund woman with bright pink cheeks and horn-rimmed glasses whose name block read Carly Jenkins, glanced at her computer monitor. “Ramy, was it? Ah, yes, here you are. Right this way.”

  I followed the receptionist down a long hallway, doing the best I could to convincingly answer the series of questions she aimed at me.

  “Are you a Waverly graduate?”

  “I sure am.”

  “Paulson favors Waverly alumni,” she said, beaming. “You’re in good hands. Have you always had an interest in working with a media company?”

  I cleared my throat. “Yes, but attending a university with close ties to such a huge corporation really piqued my interest.”

  “Lockwood Inc., you mean?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “They provide graduates with so many excellent opportunities. Coffee?”

  We paused at the door to the office break room, where a couple of Paulson employees milled around a stale pot of coffee warming in the machine. I shook my head. Carly led me onward.

  “Were you able to participate in Orson Lockwood’s shadowing program?” she asked as we turned down yet another hallway. Paulson Media’s office was more labyrinthine than I would’ve hoped.

  “Uh, no,” I said, trying to come up with a crafty lie. “Unfortunately, my work and academic schedules didn’t accommodate the shadowing program.”

  “What a shame,” said Carly. “I’m sure that won’t affect your interview process though. Paulson values hard work and dedication too. Here we are!”

  We had finally arrived at a sleek, modern waiting room. Immediately, my eye was drawn to a painting hung on the far wall. I had seen it before. The Raptors were notorious for illegally obtaining rare or expensive artwork, which they stored in their underground headquarters.

  “Beautiful painting,” I remarked casually, strolling over to it to examine it.

  “Isn’t it, though?” agreed Carly. “Maintenance hung that up just last week. It really livens up the room, don’t you think?”

  The colors were rather drab, all browns and dark reds, but it was the recent installation of the painting that interested me more. A BRS relic mysteriously appears at Paulson Media just days after O’Connor’s body vanishes from the Raptors’ cellar? It was too much of a coincidence to overlook.

  “Take a seat,” said Carly, oblivious to my overeager interest in the painting. “You’re our last interview for the day. The hiring manager will call you in shortly.”

  Carly excused herself, but I was too nervous to sit down. I paced back and forth in front of the painting. Part of me wanted to yank it right off the wall, but a camera winked at me from the corner of the room, limiting my art-theft options. I took the burner phone out of my pocket and texted Lauren.

  Can you access Paulson’s security cameras from your computer?

  She replied quickly. Not without some kind of link to their network. Why?

  I might’ve found something, but I can’t check if I’m right or not with a camera pointing at me.

  Can you get to the security office?

  Unlikely. This place is a damn labyrinth. I’m in the waiting room outside the hiring manager’s office.

  For a minute or two, Lauren didn’t text back, leaving me impatient and aggravated. Finally, she replied. Found a
map of the building online. You’re in luck. The security office is just around the corner from you, a few doors down from the break room. You probably passed it on your way in.

  You’re a genius.

  I know. You don’t have to disable the cameras, by the way. Distract the guard. Get him out of there any way you can. Then do what you have to do and get the hell out of there.

  Before I could text back, the door to the waiting room opened once more. The hiring manager, a tall, spindly man in an ill-fitted suit jacket, poked his head inside.

  “Miss Ramy?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Come on in.”

  “I—”

  This was a waste of time. There was no point in faking my way through an interview. I was already inside the building, and the clock was ticking. I needed an exit strategy.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, clutching my stomach. “I hate to run out on you, but I tried that new sushi restaurant downtown for lunch today, and I’m afraid it was a mistake.”

  I made a retching noise and covered my mouth. The hiring manager looked horrified, retreating into his office, and I took the opportunity to flee from the waiting room. Once out of sight, I couldn’t help but laugh at the disgusted look on the hiring manager’s face. Who knew all it took to conquer a man was a good dose of fake nausea?

  Distracting the security guard was a whole different challenge. I passed the break room, which was now empty, and paused outside the door to the security office. I peeked inside. There was only one guard, his feet propped up on the desk as he leisurely sipped a steaming beverage from a thermos. Above him, an array of monitors presented the different angles filtering in from the office cameras. The display at the top right focused on the waiting room. It was vacant now, and the BRS painting taunted me through the black-and-white footage.

  A Paulson employee appeared at the end of the hallway. Quickly, I turned away from the security window, pretending that I’d been on my way to the break room, and flashed the random woman a smile as we crossed paths. She politely smiled back and continued on her way. In the break room, I considered my options. If Lauren were here, she would’ve had no problem figuring out a way to distract a guard. Knowing her, she would’ve lured him out of the office with a wink and a hair flip, but I had never been good at using my womanly wiles to get what I wanted. I needed a different strategy.