Page 38 of Wicked Little Secret

Coat buttoned up and scarf snug around my throat, I brave the chilly October night. The air is crisp and cool, the lampposts like miniature spotlights every few feet down the sidewalk. Across the street, a group of college students erupt in wild cheers as they hang around outside a sports bar.

For all I know, Samson might be joining them soon. He failed his last year of undergrad for a reason.

I hover on the sidewalk unable to shake the odd feeling I’m not alone. I’m being watched even if I can’t tell by who. Phone in the palm of my hand, I study the blinking green dot that’s my Uber car. He better not leave. If he does, I swear I’ll…

Before I can even complete the vengeful thought, I realize I really am being followed. A navy blue SUV coasts alongside me from the street, slowed down to my walking pace. I glance over as alarm rings through me, and for the second time tonight, I’m scanning my head for everything I learned in women’s self-defense.

But then I make out the person behind the wheel and I can’t hide the surprise that drops my mouth open.

“Professor Adler?!”

He presses the palm of his hand on the steering wheel, the horn giving a weak bleat in answer. “Miss Oliver, do you need a ride home?”

“I… I… what are you doing here?” I’ve taken several steps toward him until I’m on the edge of the sidewalk and he’s idled in the middle of the one-way street.

“I was working late at the school, grading some papers. I was just on my way home when I saw you walking down the street.”

My head tilts to the side. “But wouldn’t it be easier to take Manchester home? Do you always take a side street like Monarch?”

His expression’s difficult to read in the second it takes him to answer. Shadows veil half of his face, the other half all angles emphasizing his strong profile. “I cut through Monarch because I sometimes stop at the Vietnamese spot at the end of the block. They have the best pho in the city.”

“Oh,” I murmur, hovering uncertainly. My phone dings with an impatient message from my Uber driver.

“But,” Professor Adler continues, “if you don’t want, or need, a ride home, then I will be on my way. Have a good evening, Miss Oliver.”

In the split second it takes me to make my decision, I’m caught between two very different choices. A hostile Uber driver that’s already copped an attitude with me for making him wait and my criminal law professor who I’ve tried so hard to impress only to wind up with a bruised ego.

He hates me. Why would I accept a ride from him?

I nibble on my bottom lip at the question. It’s promptly followed by a counterargument from my other half.

Professor Adler might hate you, but so does this Uber driver.Andhe’s charging you three bucks per mile…

“Wait,” I blurt out. “I… I do need a ride. If you don’t mind. I live on the other side of the city.”

“That should be fine.Get in.”

His tone’s matter of fact, lacking any hint of emotion at all.

He’s doing me a favor. He’s resigned himself into doing so not because he wants to, but because he feels obligated.

I let out a sigh as I shuffle over to the passenger side of his car and slide in. It’s no surprise the interior is immaculate—the seats look and feel like new, no signs of wear or tear at all. No crumbs or dirt to be found anywhere, not even on the car mat beneath my leather booties.

Professor Adler waits in patient silence for me to click my seatbelt and settle my bookbag on my lap before he changes gear into drive.

Monarch Street slips into the background. Samson’s apartment disappears from view.

We ride in silence, listening to the quiet, subtle sounds his BMW makes. It’s fitting that Professor Adler wouldn’t listen to music when he drives. He seems much more like the podcast or NPR type.

I fold my hands in my lap as if on my best behavior and busy myself by staring out the car window.

“I’ll need your address,” he says as we brake for our first streetlight.

“Oh. Right. I live near Elm and Horton. It’s the apartment complex near the?—”

“I know where that is,” he says. Then, as if sensing he needs to clarify, he adds, “There’s a great Indian restaurant across the street.”

“Saffron.”

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