Page 58 of An Academy for Liars

The man nodded, firmly, and trudged back to the bar, none the wiser, and resumed his discussion about whether or not the middle schoolers involved in the shooting were, in actuality, adult actors paid by the government that were justpretendingto be children. Lennon shook her head, disgusted.

“Creative,” said Dante. As soon as she was finished eating, heslipped two twenty-dollar bills from his wallet, put them down on the table, and got up. “Let’s go.”

The man’s car was a black pickup truck hiked on tires that were large enough to be attached to an eighteen-wheeler. Lennon quite literally had to climb up into the passenger seat. The interior was surprisingly clean. The floors looked freshly vacuumed. Lennon offered to drive but Dante, stubborn as ever, waved her off.

It was a three-hour drive to Benedict’s house in Ogden. To Lennon’s immense surprise, the man they’d stolen the truck from had an extensive collection of audiobooks, and they were able to listen to the better part of a romance novel titledPrince Charmerby the time they pulled into Benedict’s driveway.

Lennon got out of the truck and rang the doorbell. No answer. She rang it again and knocked several times. Nothing. “Maybe he’s out?”

Dante tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. The door swung slowly open. He stepped past it, into the foyer, and Lennon wiped her boots clean on the welcome mat and hesitantly followed after him. The first thing she registered upon entering was the smell of gasoline. The second was that the elevator door was just ajar, the cabin slightly raised, so that it was stuck between the first floor and the second.

“Ben?” Lennon called out into the dark. “Are you here?”

Silence.

Dante started down the hall and Lennon followed him into the kitchen, where the stove burner was on, scorching the bottom of an empty kettle. Lennon switched it off.

And that was when she caught it. A horrible smell, saccharine and decayed and so pungent Lennon stifled a gag, pushing the sleeve of her shirt to her nostrils to block it.

“Go wait in the car,” said Dante, but it was too late. Lennon had already crossed into the study, where she found Benedict, dead behind his desk. He was sitting slumped in his chair, which was pushed firmly to the edge of the desk, his head lolled against his shoulder, his mouth and eyes wide open, wrists cut, palms up. On the far corner of the desk was a brass letter opener grimy with dried blood.

Lennon, not fully processing the scene before her, rushed to Benedict’s side and clasped a hand over his open arm. His blood was cold and black and thickly congealed. The smell was so horrible her eyes watered. She felt the primal urge to flee but remained there, with her hand clasped to his arm as if there were still a chance she could staunch a bleed that had long stopped.

Dante came to stand behind Benedict. Braced his hands on the back of his chair and hunched over him slightly, hanging his head. He closed his eyes. “Get to the elevator,” he said.

“What? No, we can’t just leave him here—”

“The elevator, Lennon. Go.”

When Lennon still didn’t move, Dante forced her, pulling her back and away from Benedict. She took two lurching steps and caught herself on the wall of the corridor before Dante cut her loose from the tether of his will, but he stayed close behind her, as if there were someone else in the house when Lennon knew for certain it was empty. It was a clear suicide. And even if there was foul play involved, what killer stayed at the scene of the crime for days?

“Go straight to Eileen’s office,” said Dante. “Tell her what’s happened.” He reached into the elevator and pressed the glowing8button on the control panel, then drew the grate shut.

The cabin lurched violently. “Dante, wait—”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

The elevator ascendedfor some time before it came to a stop at Drayton, behind a pair of golden double doors. Lennon staggered through the lobby to the secretary’s desk. The woman’s eyes went wide at the sight of her, and it was only then that Lennon registered the fact that she was covered in Benedict’s blood. Both of her hands were sticky with it, and her shirt was stained too. “I need to speak with Eileen. Can you show me the way to her office?”

“I—I’m afraid the vice-chancellor doesn’t receive guests without a formal appointment. Perhaps you could speak to your advisor?”

“My advisor is tending to the dead body of one of my professors. Benedict Barton, who we found dead at his own desk.”

“Professor Barton is dead?” The woman’s gaze tracked down to Lennon’s bloodied hands and shirt. “That’s not his…is it?”

“I need to talk to Eileen,” said Lennon again.

Upon reaching the doors of Eileen’s office, Lennon was commanded to wait outside. The secretary went in ahead of her, and shewas gone for what felt like a long while. When the door finally opened again Lennon was surprised to see Eileen behind it. “Come in.”

Her office was wide but long, a bit like a bowling alley, complete with a run of windows and an expansive view of the Twenty-Fifth Square. There was a large desk that looked more like a banquet table on the far wall of the room. On it, a few personal effects—framed photos and an ornate pen stand—but what caught Lennon’s attention was the bust of a little boy—wide-eyed and young, cast in brass—which acted as a paperweight. The child looked somehow familiar to Lennon, something about the set of his mouth.

“What happened?” Eileen demanded. “Tell me all of it.”

Lennon, in a shaking voice, recounted the details of what had happened in Amsterdam, the thing—less than human, or maybe more—that had appeared in the club and attacked them. Eileen’s face grew drawn and very pale, but she asked no questions, so Lennon kept on talking, telling her about the elevator she’d summoned in the street to escape, and their arrival in Idaho. She told her too about the motel, and the trip down to Benedict’s house in Utah. Here, she began to stumble over her words—stuttering in her haste to get them out—her throat swelling with tears, feeling like it might seal shut if she didn’t stop fighting them and allow herself to cry.

Eileen digested all of this with her arms folded over her chest, leaning against her desk, legs crossed at the ankles, staring at some fixed point on the floor. When Lennon’s story was finished, she said, without expression: “Where is Professor Lowe?”

“He stayed behind. I don’t know why. I didn’t want to leave without him but he made me.”

---