Chapter 7
DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE
Clover
Isit there for a minute after Maverick leaves my office, trying to understand what his motive could be.
It almost seems like he wants me to report him.
That doesn’t make a lot of sense—not from what I understand about his potential career trajectory.
While I’ve tried my hardest not to pay attention to him—other than being annoyed when he shows up for class late or checks his phone messages while I’m teaching—I am aware, based on what I’ve read in the school paper, that he shows real promise, along with a few of the other students on the school hockey team.
I’m also aware that for every student who thinks they’re going to get called up to a professional sports team, there are another dozen whose dreams are going to be crushed. I don’t know enough about the sport to be able to say which category Maverick fits into. Not that it should matter.
I pick up the key and flip it between my fingers. It could be any key. The only way I’ll know if he’s lying or not is if I take it to the athletic facility and see if it works. And there’s no way to know whether he’s made copies.
The question remains: Where did he find it, and how long has he had it? How many offices or changing rooms has he snuck into? Would it give him access to personal files? His own? His teammates’? As soon as I think it, I brush the thought aside. He seemed so contrite.
I remind myself that my feelings about this could be skewed. Particularly since I’m still dealing with the man I married and his attempts to pull me back into a relationship I don’t want to be in. It makes sense that I don’t have a lot of faith in the authenticity of the opposite sex.
I put the key in my purse, so it’s out of sight. I’ll take it with me the next time I go to the athletic facility and find out how honest Maverick was.
My phone buzzes on my desk, startling me.
MOM flashes across the screen. Normally, I would message back right away, but this morning is throwing me for a loop, so I leave it for now and turn my attention to the revised paper sitting on my desk.
I leaf through it. The font hasn’t been enlarged to make it seem as though it fits the word count, and the spacing doesn’t look off, but it seems awfully convenient that he’s handed in a paper copy.
I log into my computer to check for an emailed version.
I notice a message from Maverick received about ten minutes before he showed up at my office door.
I read through the first few pages of the paper, aware that I need to pass it over to my TA for a revised grade, but it doesn’t hurt to have a look.
Students were supposed to write the story of a childhood memory from the point of view of someone other than themselves. As I read through the first few pages, my stomach rolls and sinks, because the story is about a little girl who goes missing at a carnival.
I perform a search with Waters + carnival + abduction, and a slew of headlines appear.
Most of the articles chronicle the brief abduction of a little girl at a local carnival more than a decade ago. They don’t name her, but they do name the family. The case seems to have been high profile mostly because the girl’s father is hockey legend Alex Waters.
Maverick’s father.
And the pieces start to fall in place.
Based on the dates, Maverick would have been seven or eight years old when his sister was abducted.
According to the articles, she was only missing for an hour, and the man who took her suffered from mental health issues.
He’d lost his own daughter in a tragic accident he caused not long before the abduction, and he’d suffered a psychotic break.
Understandably, there’s little information detailing what happened to the girl while she was missing. And although they found her relatively quickly, the trauma was clearly real. Based on the story Maverick decided to write for this assignment, it’s something that still affects him deeply.
I have to pause my research when a few students stop in to discuss assignments. But when my office hours end, I close my door and fall down a rabbit hole of information related to the abduction of Lavender Waters.
It forces me to see Maverick in a different light. And makes me believe he was sincere when he came in here this morning and said he would corroborate my story if I chose to report him.
It isn’t until the alarm goes off on my phone that I realize I’ve been scouring articles for hours, and I have a class in less than twenty minutes. I turn off my computer, gather my things, and rush off to teach my class.
I don’t have my gym clothes with me, and I feel extraordinarily conspicuous as I make a stop at the athletic facility before I head home for the night. It’s a few minutes out of the way, but I need to know whether this key does what Maverick said it would.
When I reach the women’s locker room, I peek inside. There are a couple of women at the mirrors, but no one is paying attention to the door. I slip the key in the lock and turn. The deadbolt appears. I quickly reverse the motion, sliding the key free.
My hands are shaking, and a fine sheen of sweat covers the back of my neck as I move down the hall toward a darkened corridor—the one that leads to the physical therapy offices, which are currently closed.
The door to get into the hallway is locked, giving me an opportunity to test the key a second time. And once again, it turns in the lock.
“He was telling the truth.” I close my fingers around the warm metal, feeling the bite of the teeth against my palm.
“Ma’am? Can I help you?”
I startle and spin around. “Oh!”
A man wearing a blue Facilities Services shirt, pushing a rolling bucket and mop, stands about ten feet away. He takes a cautious step back. “I didn’t mean to startle you. The PT clinic closes at seven on Wednesdays.”
“Oh, it’s fine.” I wave a hand in the air and clutch my purse. “I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going and got turned around. I, uh, a student turned in a key today. It might be an important one. Maybe I could pass it over to you?”
His eyes flare. “Oh yeah, you can give it to me. I’ll pass it to my boss. Did the student say where they found it?”
I shake my head. “No, he seemed like he didn’t know what to do with it.” I drop it in his hands.
“Right. Okay. And you’re a professor here?” He flips the key over in his palm, and his eyebrows lift.
“I am. Visiting. Anyway, thank you. We wouldn’t want it in the wrong hands.”
“You’re right about that.” He slips the key into his pocket.
“Have a good night.” I start down the hallway, but he stops me.
“Uh, ma’am, you wouldn’t happen to know which student passed over the key?”
I force a polite smile and shake my head. “Some of my lectures have a few hundred students in them. He might play for one of the school teams, though?”
“Okay. Thanks. Have a nice evening.”
I rush down the hallway toward the main entrance, not entirely comfortable with my lie. I push through the front door and step out into the cool evening air. It’s dark already, the sidewalks lit by overhead lamps.
As I drive home, I pull up my mom’s contact.
I should have called her earlier. She has a tendency to worry, in part because of the situation with Gabriel.
At first, she and my dad couldn’t understand why I didn’t want him to know where I was.
Because they’d moved down to Florida, they only met him a handful of times.
So they hadn’t seen the other, less-polished side of him.
But eventually, they understood my perspective, and for that, I could not be more grateful.
“Hi, Mom. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. It was a busy day,” I say when she answers the phone.
“It’s okay. I just wanted to check in and see how things are going.”
Mom tells me about the various friends they have dinner plans with this week before she asks the question that comes up at some point in every conversation lately. “Have you made any progress with Gabriel?”
I grip the steering wheel tighter. The mere mention of him makes my throat feel tight. “No, Mom. No progress. He has the papers; he just needs to sign them now.”
She makes a sound. “I’m sorry this isn’t easier for you, honey.”
“Thanks.”
I shift the subject away from Gabriel, and we chat for a few more minutes before I let her go with a promise to call again later in the week.
I pass a row of student houses in one of the nicer neighborhoods.
I live about three blocks over from here, far enough away that I don’t have to put up with the noise or the parties, but close enough to the pub district that sometimes drunk and disorderly students stumble down my street in the wee hours of the morning, hooting and hollering.
I pull into the driveway beside Sophia’s Beetle.
We have dinner together most nights of the week, except Tuesdays, when I have my night class, and Thursdays, when she counsels students until nine.
I’m half an hour later than usual, but I sent her a message saying I was running behind, so I’m unsurprised to find her in my apartment, dinner already started, when I walk through the door.
I drop my purse on the side table and round the corner, stepping into the kitchen. She’s standing in front of a pot on the stove.
“Everyone should have a best friend like you,” I tell her. I cross to where she’s standing and peek over her shoulder. “What smells so good?”
“I’m trying a new recipe for mushroom risotto,” she tells me. “But it might be my first and last time. The stirring component to this is a lot more work than I anticipated.”
“Want me to take over?”
“Please. I’m halfway to carpal tunnel.”
We switch spots.
“Whatever you do, don’t stop stirring.” She goes to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of wine, uncorking it on her way to the cabinets.
“Wine on a Wednesday?” I arch a brow.