Chapter 34
Damien
Play - Magdalena by A Perfect Circle
The unsaid boundary
She was quiet in the car. Absent, like her mind was going over memories that were long forgotten. I glanced at her briefly, noticing how her gaze stayed on the streets as we drove, tracking corners, passing lights, anything that existed there, like every turn meant something to her.
I didn’t ask why, simply because I didn’t know how to.
Whatever she was seeing out there didn't seem new, it was familiar. My student always looks sad and different when there is no one to perform for. And she hasn’t checked her phone once. Thirty minutes have passed and she’s done nothing but watch the city move behind the window.
I can’t help but wonder what this island holds for her.
I’ve seen that look before in victims who hadn’t realized they were victims yet. Victims who survived and lived to tell everyone how they did.
Mireya Vitelli might be brilliant, but she seems troubled.
I watch her closely and wait until she’s inside the building before getting out of the car myself. That’s when I see him. Spencer Porter, the headmaster, is standing near the entrance, hands folded behind his back with a relaxed posture.
He watches her disappear down the hall before turning to me. “Agent Caldwell,” he says, stepping into my path.
I grimace at the way he just called me, but don’t correct him. “Director,” I reply coldly.
“I trust,” he continues calmly, “that your work here hasn’t… extended beyond its intended scope.” I say nothing as his eyes flick briefly toward the building. “I’d hate to think you were involving one of my students in something she shouldn’t be part of.”
Something in my chest tightens.
“My student,” I say, before I can stop myself.
He raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not a professor,” I continued evenly. “You don’t teach them. You don’t train them. Your name is carved into a golden plaque that sits on top of your desk which is gathered in dust. You oversee a facility. That’s not the same thing.”
He smiles, but it’s a fake expression and it shows. “She belongs to this institution,” he replies. “Which makes her my responsibility.”
“No,” I say quietly. “It makes her a candidate. And if you understood the difference, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“I hope,” he says carefully, “you’re not blurring lines, Caldwell. Faculty–student relationships should remain strictly professional. Especially when undercover work is involved.”
There it is. The stupid idea that there’s a boundary drawn where he thinks it belongs.
“Mister Porter, I think you misunderstood the situation here. You don’t get to define my parameters,” I answer. “And you don’t get to tell the police how I run an investigation.”
“This academy has protected itself for decades,” he says. “I suggest you don’t jeopardize that by getting attached.”
I step closer, returning his fucking stupid smile.
“And I suggest you remember,” I say, “that outside these walls, I outrank you by several levels. If there’s an investigation, you don’t manage it, you don’t redirect it. And you certainly don’t intimidate my assets.”
His smile finally drops. “I’m merely keeping an eye on my students,” he says.
“Then keep it there,” I reply. “Your students. Not mine.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. Then he inclines his head, politely with an insincere look. “Of course,” he says. “I value transparency.”
“So do I, Mister Porter,” I answer.
I walk past him without looking back.