Chapter 3 Kieran
Kieran
“Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled.” Edgar Allan Poe
The last of my winter mini-session students file out of the lecture hall, murmuring to each other as they gather their books and laptops.
The weight of finals in the next week is hanging over them like a storm cloud.
Only a few overachievers enrolled in this accelerated literature course, the students who either wanted to get ahead or had no interest in going home for the holidays.
Someone had to teach it. Sheridan made sure it was me. I have my own suspicions as to why he asked me to teach. Either he was trying to distract me from my grief, or he was keeping a close eye on me.
I rake a hand through my hair, exhaling loudly as I lean against the podium.
A stack of ungraded assignments sits in front of me, but I can’t bring myself to lift a pen.
Before class even started, I decided to pull a dick move and have them write a five-page essay over the weekend.
Why not torture my students while I am internally dying?
My mind has been everywhere but literature since that night.
From the moment I found Deirdre’s broken body crumpled at the bottom of the stairwell, her blood pooling around her like ink spilled on marble.
Since I dropped to my knees, cradling her lifeless form, my hands pressing against wounds I couldn’t fix. Since I begged her to wake up.
Since she didn’t.
I rub my hands together absently. They’ve been scrubbed raw, but the feeling lingers.
My eyes flicker up to the empty rows of seats, landing on the one that belonged to her last semester.
It’s absurd to think of it that way. My students don’t have assigned seats in my class, but Deirdre always sat there, front row, and center.
Just close enough to challenge me, yet far enough to pretend she wasn’t affected by me.
But I saw her. Every day, I saw her. The way she’d tilt her head when she disagreed with my interpretation, the spark in her eyes when she debated me, the way she chewed on the end of her pen when she was deep in thought.
How she would scribble in that old, ragged journal of hers until I gave her the new one.
My eyes catch the journal out of the corner of my eye. The days after the attack were a blur, but somehow, between the journal and the renovations at the club, those were the two things keeping me either occupied or hopeful. I couldn’t discern which one.
The room is suffocating, thick with memories.
And then there was her laughter.
The sound haunts me, echoing in the recesses of my mind like a ghost refusing to leave.
The way it used to fill this very room, sometimes it was light and breathy when she was amused, rich and bold when she was pushing me.
I can still hear it if I let myself. I can still see the way she’d glance over her shoulder at me when she knew she was getting under my skin.
A deep ache blooms behind my ribs, heavier than I can bear. I drop my head into my hands, my fingers digging into my scalp.
It should’ve been me.
But then the memories shift. They become something passionate, something forbidden.
I see her here, but not as she was in the safety of my classroom.
I see her sprawled across my desk, her breath hot against my neck, my name a whispered plea on her lips.
I hear the way she moaned for me that day in the empty auditorium, the way her body fit against mine as if she was made for me.
I feel the way she trembled, the way she gasped, the way she came apart in my arms.
I can still feel her. Taste her.
With renewed anger, I shove the papers off my desk in one violent motion, sending them scattering to the floor.
This is wrong.
She should be here. She should be sitting in that goddamn chair, rolling her eyes at me when I push too hard, biting back her sass when she knows she’s won an argument. Instead, she’s in a hospital bed, her body fighting to recover from the trauma someone inflicted on her.
And I wasn’t there to stop it.
I should have been there. I should have protected her. I should have killed the bastard who dared to put his hands on her.
I will kill him.
She told me about him. I knew she had a tortured past. I just didn’t think her past had followed her here, across the fucking country.
And then, as if to mock me, that night comes rushing back.
The way she looked at the bottom of the stairs.
Her body limp, her face battered, her blood soaking into my shirt.
I remember the EMTs kneeling beside her, their hands pressing, searching, trying to restart what had stopped.
I hear the crackle of the radio, the efficient commands, the sound of my own breath coming too fast, too sharp.
I grip the edges of my podium, my knuckles white with the pressure.
The rational part of me, the one Vincent keeps trying to appeal to, knows this isn’t my fault.
That I couldn’t have predicted this. But the other part of me, the part that has been twisted into something dark and ruthless, refuses to accept that.
A tremor runs through me, my hands curling into fists. I exhale through my nose, forcing the rage back down. I know where it needs to go.
Trevor did this. He hurt her. And I’m going to make him pay.
I push up away from the podium abruptly, so forcefully that it scrapes against the floor.
I need to move. I need to do something. I gather up the papers and shove them haphazardly into my briefcase.
I need a change of scenery. I can’t bring myself to go to Salvation, not with memories of her in every corner.
So, I make my way to my office, where my computer sits with screen after screen of pictures from the crime scene, information on Trevor, and any little detail that may lead me to him.
I’ve been combing through every scrap of information I can find, hitting dead end after dead end.
But someone out there knows something. Someone saw something.
And I will find them.
Because I swear to God, on everything I am, the man who did this to her will not breathe much longer.