Chapter 7 Raelynn
SEVEN
RAELYNN
By the time I cut across the long, brick-lined green in front of Koffler, the sun is already a fist on the back of my neck.
Morning heat rises off the pavement in soft mirage-waves.
It’s not even nine yet, and I’m already regretting my choice to wear all black.
The steps up to Koffler are crowded—the slivers of shade feel rationed—and the soundtrack is first-week chaos: iced coffees clacking ice, syllabus complaints, “what’s your major” micro-introductions.
As soon as I step into the lecture hall, a blast of ice-cold air hits me, and I welcome it.
The cool air immediately chills my flushed skin, causing goosebumps to bloom.
I let out a sigh of relief as I make my way to my chosen seat, halfway up the tiered rows, and slide in beside my friends.
Khloe has toned down her school spirit and decided that chaotic comfort was the choice attire for this lovely morning.
She’s in an oversized graphic tee with a worn-for-wear skull printed on the front, the collar of the shirt hanging off her right shoulder, a pair of black leggings with little tears in the knees, and her tan Ugg boots.
Her hair’s loose and wavy, like she rolled out of bed and let the breeze style it.
Marlena, on the other hand, looks like she stepped out of an Instagram ad for fairy grunge.
She’s rocking a pale blue knee-length dress with soft lace detailing, paired with heavy black combat boots.
Her blonde curls are arranged in perfect ringlets that bounce every time she laughs during her conversation with Austin.
Compared to them, I look like a half-assed horror movie reject.
My favorite Scream tee, faded black leggings, and my scuffed combat boots.
I tossed my hair into a high ponytail and didn’t bother with makeup.
I just didn’t have it in me this morning—not the time, not the energy, and definitely not the fucks.
After quick greetings, I settle into my seat and slide my laptop out of my book bag.
Henley stands at the front of the room, arms folded, radiating that unreadable calm of his.
He’s dressed in dark gray slacks, held up by a pair of matching suspenders.
His white shirt is crisp with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing his tattoos that decorate his forearms. His jaw is freshly shaved, and his hair is tousled just enough to look deliberate without being try-hard.
There’s something effortlessly sharp about him, like he walked out of a noir detective film and into our class.
As soon as the clock reads nine, Henley doesn’t wait. He dives right into the lecture.
“Today, we start at the roots—where modern criminology first took shape,” Henley begins, flipping to the first slide of his PowerPoint. A black-and-white portrait of an old man with wild hair and sunken eyes flashes on the screen.
“If you are going to remember any name this week, make sure it’s this one: Cesare Lombroso.
The so-called father of criminology,” Henley says, his voice smooth and commanding.
“Lombroso believed criminals weren’t made, they were born.
He believed that one could identify a criminal by studying their physical characteristics, such as sloping foreheads, facial asymmetry, long arms, and large ears.
Basically, if someone looked ‘off,’ he assumed they were dangerous. He called them ‘born criminals.’”
He clicks through slides: old anatomical sketches, diagrams of skulls, unsettling mugshots.
“He spent years cataloguing cadavers, measuring skulls, searching for the biological blueprint of evil,” Henley continues, his voice even but intense.
“It was pseudoscience, obviously. But at the time, it was revolutionary. Lombroso was the first to suggest that criminal behavior had observable, measurable causes. That crime wasn’t just a result of sin or poor choices—it could be studied. Predicted, even.”
The lecture completely enthralls me, and by the end of it, my Google Doc is filled with bullet points, quickly hashed-out notes, underlined phrases, and several question marks and stars on points I have more questions about and what I thought was important to remember.
At the end of the lecture, Henley goes over the assignment—a short reading, and then a one-page essay in response—then dismisses us with a curt nod.
“Raelynn, can you stay for a moment?” he calls as soon as I rise, my laptop tucked under my arm as I pick my bag up off the floor and set it into my seat.
A few heads swivel my way, and heat floods my cheeks.
Of course, Khloe shoots me a look that screams mischief.
Her smirk says it all—her brain is already busy spinning some fantasy about a scandalous affair between me and the professor.
I’m convinced at this point the woman lives in the damn gutter.
Sex is always on her mind. It does not matter who the subject matter is.
“Not a fucking word, Khloe,” I mutter, holding in a nervous laugh as I shove my laptop into its designated slot and sling my bag over my shoulder.
I make the walk down the steep rows toward him, each step echoing against the tiered floor. Henley leans against the edge of the desk, his arms folded across his chest.
“Hello, Professor,” I say, my voice coming out steadier than I feel as I try not to stare too obviously at every bit of this man has to offer.
Up close, he is definitely more striking than expected (I do have a minimal view from my seat after all).
His eyes are nearly the same shade as mine, though a little duller—like the color had been drained by time or weariness.
Faint crow’s feet sit at the corners, subtle but present, hints of a life lived with more than just books and lectures.
Barely breaching the collar of his white shirt is the inked head of a snake, its forked tongue stretched toward the delicate skin at his pulse point.
It’s a detail I never would have pictured on someone so meticulously polished.
And there’s a faint scar along the underside of his jaw, usually hidden by a beard, but now bare and exposed thanks to a fresh shave.
For a man with the pristine reputation of a respected professor, he carries a surprising roughness. A sharp edge beneath the veneer of academia. It makes me wonder what kind of life he lived before this one.
“I wanted to follow up before I finalize the list of paper topics,” he says, pushing off the desk and rising to his full height. His presence feels larger up close. He’s easily taller than Perez—6'5" if I had to guess.
“You’ve proposed focusing your term paper on The Butcher case.” It isn’t posed as a question. His tone suggests he already knows the answer, but he waits anyway, giving me room to speak.
“Yes, sir,” I say. My grip tightens on the strap of my bag. “It fascinates me. It’s… important to me.”
A flicker crosses his expression—too quick to name. “Important,” he repeats, like he’s testing the weight of the word. His eyes sharpen, pinning me in place. “You’re certain it’s the right choice? Cases like this carry… baggage.”
The word hangs between us, heavier than it should. My chest tightens. “I can handle it.”
Henley tilts his head slightly, as though studying me under a microscope. “I have no doubt you’re capable. But I also know that objectivity is harder to maintain when the subject matter strikes close.”
My stomach knots. “How did you…?” My question dies on my tongue. Of course, he knows, anyone with a brain can connect the dots.
“I’ve spent years studying the case,” he answers smoothly. “Patterns, timelines, victimology. Connections are easier to see when you’ve read every detail.” He pauses, letting the silence stretch, his eyes never leaving mine. “Your last name isn’t one easily overlooked in that context.”
The air leaves my lungs in a sharp exhale. My shoulders stiffen, gaze dropping slightly to the side.
“I appreciate your concern, sir,” I say carefully, willing my voice not to waver. “But it doesn’t change my decision.”
Henley regards me for a long moment, unreadable. Then, finally, he inclines his head. “Very well. If you find it becomes… more than you anticipated, my door is open.” A faint smile curves at his lips, one that doesn’t touch his eyes. “I’d rather you asked for help than carried the weight alone.”
“Thank you, sir.” The words scrape out of me, eager to be free of his gaze.
I turn sharply, striding for the exit. Even as I push through the side door into the hall, I feel it—the weight of his attention lingering, following like a shadow that doesn’t want to be shaken.
Outside, Khloe and Marlena are waiting. Khloe’s grin is feral the moment she spots me. “Sooo…” she drawls, leaning in. “What did Professor Tall-Dark-and-Tattooed want?” she asks, following it with a giggle.
Rolling my eyes, I drop my bag on the ground. “He just wanted to make sure I was okay doing my paper on The Butcher. Y’know… because of my connection.”
Marlena’s lips part with a small gasp. “He knows?”
“It wasn’t hard for him to put two and two together,” I sigh, lowering myself onto the cement bench bolted to the wall.
Khloe leans in, refusing to let it drop. “So… what did you say?”
“That I appreciate his concern, but I’m still doing it.” I shrug, settling back against the bench.
Khloe smirks knowingly. “Of course you did. No one could ever talk you out of anything. You’re stubborn as fuck.”
I laugh under my breath. “Yeah, that’s true.”
Pulling my phone from my bag, I double-tap the screen to check the time.
I still have half an hour before my least favorite class, and I’m seriously debating whether to show up or not.
I was not mentally prepared for it. Just thinking about sitting through seventy-five minutes of that monotone torture makes me want to rip my hair out.
“Hey, I’m gonna go get a coffee, anyone wanna come with? It’s on me,” I say after a beat.