Page 37 of Switching Graves

Jerking his chin toward Devlin, he grimaces. “You’ve had enough. Head back to your dorm now.”

I don’t waste any time arguing. Instead, I back away from him even further, keeping my head turned and my eyes pinned to his until I reach the keypad beside the door and have to enter my passcode. The man doesn’t move from his spot, and I can’t decide if it’s creepier that he’s just standing there, still as a statue, or if it would be worse for him to continue jogging toward me.

Once I have my code entered and the lock clicks open, I chance one last look behind me to see what direction he heads off into. I would assume that, even if he isn’t a professor, there’s a good chance he lives in the faculty building beside mine. Why else would he be jogging on this side of campus in the middle of the night? But when I slide my gaze across the entire courtyard, I don’t see any trace of him. It’s as if in the few seconds I took my eyes off him, he’s completely disappeared.

I don’t waste any more time outside. Instead of the stairs, I take my chances of waking someone up with the elevator, and then sprint down the hallway toward my dorm. Sleep evades me for another couple of hours as I replay the odd interaction in my head over and over.

Isomehow scheduled myself for Clinical Psychology first thing on Monday mornings. It’s with none other than the famed Dr. Whitlock. As a lower-level, more general class, it’s held in a large lecture to accommodate a bigger class size. I was positive I could slip into the back row and disappear, but by the time I get there with over ten minutes to spare, nearly every seat is taken. The only vacancies are a few in the front row, directly across from the empty lecture podium.

I think my conversation with Ava and Beatrix about the professor spooked me more than I’d like to admit, because the prospect of sitting this close to him has my palms sweating. As I take my seat and rummage through my backpack for a notebook and pen, I try to remind myself that this is a man who runs an entire department. Adoctor. He shapes young minds each and every day. A highly esteemed university like Ravenshurst surely vets their staff and protects their students from serial killers or unhinged psychopaths.

Although as a psychology professional, he would be the most likely candidate to manipulate his way into a position of power so he could carry out his sadistic desires . . .

No. I can’t think like that.

The low rumble of students chatting and gathering their class materials ceases all at once. I lift my head from my backpackjust in time to see that there’s now a tall figure standing at the podium—staring directly at me.

And because luck doesn’t seem to want anything to do with me, I recognize him immediately.

He’s the jogger from last night. The one who caught me outside after curfew. Today, he’s dressed in much more formal clothing that manages to cover all the tattoos I saw last night that made me assume the worst.

So, definitely not a janitor.

Once I pull my hands from my bag and set it on the floor, he finally speaks.

“Welcome to Clinical Psychology. I’m Doctor Whitlock,” he greets the room, his near-black eyes falling back onto me once more and my cheeks heat as I interpret his odd stare.

It’s one that bores deep, as if he knows exactly who I am. Not Poppy, but Sonny. All my secrets feel laid bare in front of him with that single, knowing look.

After a breath, I’m freed from his imprisoning gaze as he lifts it back to his audience and remains there. Did anyone else notice our silent exchange, or am I going absolutely insane?

“The class syllabus has been posted in our online portal for a week now. I’m going to trust that you’ve already reviewed the assignment calendar and taken note of our exam dates. If not, I’d suggest you do that right away. I won’t be wasting valuable lecture time reading it to you.”

Dropping my chin into my chest so he doesn’t see my shame, I realize I haven’t even logged into our online portal.

“Lectures will be led by me most days. My assistant, Hayes, will stick around to answer any questions you have and hand out your assignments.” Nodding toward a tall, blond guy sitting a few seats away in the front row who doesn’t appear old enough to even be in this class, he lifts his hand in a silent command for him to stand.

He does, lifting his arm in an awkward wave to the class before promptly falling back into his seat. Then, Dr. Whitlock hits a button, and the projector rumbles to life, reflecting his lecture notes on the whiteboard.

“If there aren’t any questions, we’ll dive right into chapter one.”

19

Sonny

Ireceived an email to my student inbox as I was walking out of my last Monday class from Miss Gracer, my guidance counselor. She’s set up a meeting with the head of the Valeria Bloodline department first thing this morning to discuss my schedule going forward, and I apparently have no choice but to attend.

Catie Calyrose’s office is in one of the auxiliary buildings set on a part of the campus I have not explored yet. She greets me as soon as I walk through the doorway, then leads me through a maze of filing cabinets toward a corner where her desk has been shoved like an afterthought. The filing cabinets cast shadows from the singular fluorescent light overhead, but there’s a small lamp sitting beside her working overtime to help us see.

“Excuse the mess,” she says remorsefully. “I don’t spend a ton of time here anymore. I really don’t stay in one spot for too long, now that they’ve made me head of the department.” A large, beaming smile breaks across her face, begging for recognition.

“It’s no problem at all.”

She bends over to rifle through a leather suitcase sitting on the floor and silence falls over us for a few long moments before she pulls out a small handful of papers. Holding the messy stack up, she bangs the bottom edges against the desk to straighten them, and the sound echoes off all the metal surrounding us.

“By the way, thank you for meeting with me this morning on short notice. We felt it was imperative to get this mess sorted out as soon as possible.”

“I’d like to get it sorted, too.”

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