Chapter 1 #2
I nod back. That’s enough for now.
The lecturer arrives in a sweep of tweed and self-importance. He’s old-school, white-haired, with reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. Professor Gallagher. Looks mild-mannered, could cut with his words and leave you bleeding out while he steps over you.
I have already formed an opinion on him just from the grapevine. Hopefully, he lives up to his rep. “Good afternoon,” he says, and the room falls silent. Not gradually—instantly. Like someone hit mute. That’s power.
He launches into a lecture on the foundations of criminal liability, and within five minutes, I understand the reputation.
Gallagher doesn’t teach—he dismantles. He takes apart legal precedent like a mechanic stripping an engine, holds up each component for inspection, then puts it back together in a way that makes you feel stupid for not seeing how it worked in the first place.
I’m scribbling notes faster than I have in years, and I love it.
Learning isn’t why I’m here. I don’t care about a career.
I have what my dad left me and the burning desire to seek revenge. After that, who cares?
Gallagher wraps up with a question that silences the room. “If intent is the cornerstone of criminal liability, then what happens when the act is morally justified but legally indefensible?”
No one moves. I feel the words rising in my throat before I can stop them. “Then you’d better make sure you don’t get caught.”
A ripple goes through the theatre. Gallagher’s gaze finds me, and for a moment, those mild blue eyes are anything but mild. They’re razor-sharp, dissecting me with the precision of a surgeon. Then his mouth twitches. “Ms...?”
“Callaghan.”
Gallagher doesn’t react to the name. Not a flicker. Which means he either doesn’t care, or he’s better at hiding things than Whitmore. But that’s not hard.
“Interesting perspective, Ms Callaghan. Pragmatic, if ethically bankrupt. The apple doesn’t fall far, I see.”
I curve my lips into a grin, the corners of my mouth trembling slightly with the effort as something sharp and hot flares behind my eyes, making me blink twice in quick succession.
“Fell,” I state, my insides withering as I wait for his reaction.
Gallagher holds my gaze. The lecture theatre is so quiet I can hear someone’s pen rolling across a desk somewhere behind me.
Then he inclines his head—not an apology, not quite an acknowledgement.
He turns back to the whiteboard and picks up a marker.
“Right. For next week, I want a two-thousand-word analysis of R v Dudley and Stephens. Focus on the tension between necessity and moral culpability. And try to be less glib than our new classmate.” He glances at me sideways. “Though I suspect that’s a high bar.”
A few nervous laughs scatter through the room.
I don’t laugh. I write down the assignment and underline it twice, then cap my pen and sit back, my pulse jackhammering against my windpipe, each violent throb a reminder that I’m one wrong word away from detonating everything I came here to accomplish.
The girl in the wine jumper catches my eye again as people start packing up. This time, she speaks. “Bold opening move.” Her accent is Dublin southside, polished but not pretentious. “Most people spend the first week trying to be invisible.”
“Most people are pussies.”
She snorts and holds out her hand. “Roisin Brennan.”
I take it. Her grip is firm, no-nonsense. “Dervla.”
“I know.” She pulls her bag onto the desk and starts stacking her notes. “Your arrival has been the talk of campus since you threw Troy and his buddies out of your townhouse.”
“Yeah, well. I needed somewhere to stay.”
“I’m not judging. It’s your place. Do what you want with it. Have you been assigned yet?”
“Assigned to what?”
Her lips press together in an almost smile. “I’ll take that as a no. Come and find me after your initiation. We can compare notes.”
“Initiation?” I snap. “That sounds an awful lot like hazing.”
She giggles. “No. Hazing is for kids. The initiation is Board-controlled.”
“To do what exactly?”
“Assign you a place in the hierarchy.”
Interesting. I’ve never heard about this.
Dad never once mentioned anything about an initiation, although hierarchy was thrown about often enough.
I assumed it was social, not given. It’s just another secret that St. Augustine’s is hiding.
Fair enough. By the time I’m done here, I’ll have ripped it all to shreds and danced on the ashes.
Roisin is still staring at me, so I smile.
“I’ll come and find you. Assuming I’m not assigned as some peasant that isn’t allowed to interact with the higher-ups. ”
Roisin snorts loudly, drawing attention. “You couldn’t be a peasant if you tried. Your dad was one of the richest men in Ireland, and an alum and a Board member. That doesn’t go unnoticed, and it does matter.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see,” I mutter as Roisin waves and strides off, leaving me feeling a bit cold.
I dislike bullies, and despite what Roisin says, this smacks of a hazing to me.
If anyone decides to come at me with that bullshit, they will find themselves impaled on the end of Henrietta.
I pat the stiletto blade tucked into the back of my jeans, under my oversized tee.
My faithful companion is thirsty, and I won’t disappoint if the opportunity arises.