An unexpected assignment
A Mortal Attachment
If his free time was going to be otherwise preoccupied in the future, on top of his full course schedule and a host of students to look after, he might as well savor his last moments of solitude in the planetarium.
It was a melodramatic thought, and he was painfully aware of that, but right now Dane wanted to indulge in a good pout in private. Get it out of his system before he had to dust off whatever charm he possessed to make friends with someone he had originally intended to never interact with.
He kept the lights in his office at the back of the planetarium dim. The original overhead fluorescents were hideous. Whichever predecessor before him that put those in deserved to be drawn and quartered. He had them removed years ago in favor of lamps that emitted a warmer, more inviting glow.
His current journal sat neatly on top of last year’s pile, where he hand wrote his curriculums and lesson plans before transferring them into his laptop. It was a habit he never grew out of, and one that gave him a great deal of comfort. Seeing the progression of his thoughts was satisfying, even when he backtracked or scrapped something entirely.
So. “The journalist,” he murmured as he wrote the title on a fresh, blank page. He brainstormed ideas for how to make this work in a way that didn’t constantly aggravate him, like a burr lodged underneath his clothing, digging its little spines into his skin whenever he moved. He could keep it simple. Knock on her door, introduce himself as her neighbor, play the role of helpful professor. He’d have to learn her schedule so he knew when to be around. He could get that from Kenneth.
Dane jotted each idea down, and he was so focused on the task that he did not realize someone had entered his planetarium until he could smell them.
The scent drifted quietly into his office. Subtle. Honey and blooming orchids. Dane set down the journal and followed the smell down the hall. The pleasant mixture of sweetness and wild orchids grew stronger until he saw the wearer.
A woman walked the path of light strips along the flooring of the planetarium, which created a circle of pale golden light around the rows of seats facing the small auditorium area. She completely missed his arrival. She leaned against one of the seats and took in the room, head tipped back to look at the darkened dome.
This was her, wasn’t it?
What other unrecognizable woman would waltz into his planetarium so soon after he heard the journalist move in? She could be a student—she looked young enough—but students rarely poked around the classroom buildings as soon as they moved in.
Unbelievable. Less than two hours after he received his task, she planted herself right in front of him as if Shraddha personally sent her over.
He observed her longer, just to see what she would do. Her gaze couldn’t rest on any one thing—it bounced around, took in a piece of the room, then another, then returned for a second, longer look, as if the whole room were a jigsaw puzzle. After locking two pieces together, she had to double check to make sure she’d placed the right piece. She wore one of those faint smiles people had when they didn’t realize they were smiling.
He appreciated her admiration for the planetarium, but it was late and he was not ready to deal with her. “You’re a bit early for the weekly programming,” he said.
The woman jerked upright as if someone yanked on a marionette string tied to her head. She touched her throat, and he tracked the movement as she collected herself. A quick, bright flame of attraction flared within him. Wide and aware golden brown eyes. Soft, delicate features paired with a sharp, intelligent gaze. Long, wavy hair of a deep auburn—he guessed it would catch more red in better light. Heavens above, she was lovely, but he doused that flame immediately. He recognized beauty when he saw it; that did not mean he needed to pursue it. Especially when it came in the form of the journalist.
“I suppose I am,” she said. Her tone was light and teasing. He didn’t miss the mutual spark of interest in the quirk of her brow. “What’s the weekly programming?”
Dane shifted, ready to end this conversation. His reaction to her made him uncomfortable, and the urge to wash his hands of it was strong. “We have two shows a semester that alternate weeks. This fall will feature a program on dark matter at ten pm on Tuesdays, and the moons of the solar system at ten pm on Thursdays.”
“I’ll be there. Do you mind if I stay a little longer? I’ll keep out of your way.”
No, you may not. “The planetarium will be open once the semester begins.”
Instead of looking crestfallen and leaving, she gave a little “Oh!” and smiled. “I’m not a student. I’m a journalist collaborating with Gwendolyn on a video series. They were gracious enough to let me stay here while I put it together. I was out walking around and as soon as I saw the planetarium, I had to check it out.”
He felt a frown coming on and reeled it back at the last minute. Be nice. Be cordial.
Dane straightened to his full height. “I see. Welcome.” Now shake her hand, like a normal person would do. He extended his hand out, too late—she absolutely sensed that he was reluctant, based on the suppressed smile. She gave him a firm handshake.
“Thank you. I’m gathering that journalists are regarded with a healthy amount of suspicion around here,” she said. “Which is completely understandable.”
He did not succeed in being “cordial,” then. And since she opened that door, he might as well walk right through it. “You would be correct,” he said coolly. “We had to close our gates to visitors due to the amount of press and the morbidly curious that tried to gain access. People infiltrating lecture halls, pretending to be students. Finding out where the victims’ friends lived, showing up at their homes.”
The woman’s expression sobered. “That wasn’t fair to them,” she said, “or ethical. I’m sorry you’ve all had to go through that.”
“And your solution is to dig up their trauma once again?” he challenged. Shraddha would be horrified at his first conversation with his charge, but he couldn’t help himself. He needed to know if it was going to be more of the same—if she’d come here to pry open their coffins with a crowbar and sift through the remains, heedless of the pain it caused. “Speculate on why he selected them, analyze the significance of the day and method he chose?”
Indignation sparked a fire in her eyes. “I am not a criminal investigator,” she said, keeping a valiant hold on her sense of decorum, even though he had insulted her. “It would be ridiculous for me to draw any conclusions about his motives or methods.”
Dane crossed his arms, his shoulders dropping a fraction. “In that, we both agree.”
He wasn’t being kind. He hardly cared. She was the intruder here, entering Gwendolyn grounds and assuming she had something to say that the national media had not already voiced.
“I have no interest in rehashing last year’s coverage. That’s not what my channel does.” Her voice walked a narrow plank, teetering on the edge of civility and strain.
“What, then, is there left to say?” he asked. “You know as much as we do about Professor Martin. You’ll not find anything more about his history here.” Not anything that we would disclose to you, he finished internally.
“I’m not interested in his history,” she countered. “Olivier Martin indoctrinated five college students over the span of an entire year, and no one noticed.” There it was. Since he was not a safe target if she wanted her project to go smoothly, she lobbed her anger toward the list of failed checks that gave Martin carte blanche to murder five students. “I want to know how that happened so other college students, especially young women, can learn to spot similar tactics. Letting this tragedy be just another in a long list of tragedies does everyone a disservice.”
Dane studied her in the tense silence that followed. If nothing else, she believed what she was telling him. Whether her coverage would stay on target, however, was another matter.
And this is where you and Kenneth come in, he thought, replaying his conversation with Shraddha in his head. If she was being truthful about the angle for this series, then perhaps she wouldn’t be as big of a problem as they feared.
He needed to read through the series proposal that Shraddha sent. And look up her channel. He didn’t get his news from social media, so he had never heard of her. “Thank you for explaining,” he said stiffly.
She nodded curtly. “I didn’t come here to drag Gwendolyn’s name in the mud because they “let” this happen. I came here to show that this kind of recruitment and predatory behavior can happen anywhere, and one of the ways we can honor the May Day Five is by trying to prevent it from happening again.”
The sincerity that rang in her voice cooled his anger. He still didn’t like it. Her very presence here was a danger to the university, and she could say the right words in the correct order all she wanted—that was still a reality he had to contend with.
He should probably tell her that she was going to see more of him in the future, given that Shraddha tasked him as her handler, but she preempted him with, “I won’t take up anymore of your time. I’ll only be here a few more minutes to take photos.”
Dane’s eyes narrowed. “I hardly think the planetarium would be featured in your series.”
She let out a slow breath. “It’s not for the series. It’s for my mother. She likes astronomy.”
Ordinarily, he appreciated it when others appreciated what planetariums were for—what they represented. A way to bring a slice of the universe into the room with you, to capture some of its wonder in a bottle and marvel at its perfect symmetry. But not tonight. “The planetarium is closed.”
“The website said it’s open until eleven.”
“Not tonight it isn’t.”
She crossed her arms, the polite mask slipping to reveal an irritation that rivaled his own. “There are special hours for the planetarium, tonight specifically?”
Dane ground his molars together so hard they should have cracked. “When I am lesson planning for the semester, which starts Monday, there are.”
They engaged in a silent stare down. Dane’s irritation swelled to a crescendo. At any other time, he would have admired her utter commitment to bending him to her will so she could take a few photos for her mother. It was a sweet gesture. She could do it tomorrow, when he was not here, because he was not bending tonight. Task be damned, he wasn’t prepared for her to waltz in immediately after being told he was responsible for her for the next ten weeks.
A small burst of victory relaxed his posture when she smiled with her teeth and said, “I’ll come back tomorrow, then. Nice to meet you.”
“A pleasure.”
He didn’t budge until she left the room, then took his time walking back through the theatre to his office. As he sat down, it occurred to him that he hadn’t heard a door close.
Bollocks.
Dane sighed. He didn’t have to peek around the door to know that the woman was still in there, poking around when he asked her to leave. The air still smelled like honey and orchids.
She was going to be difficult.