Page 10 of Hunted By Valentine

“I mean, does it really matter?” Someone laughs from somewhere in the room.

Another student laughs as well. “Personally, I’d rather someone like Dahmer open the door for me than lobotomize me. But hey, to each their own.”

“God, can you imagine?” A girl giggles. “Please no, Mr. Serial Killer. Don’t hold the door for me.”

Jesus, what was I thinking? They’re right to ridicule me. There’s no power in opening the door, and such ideas aren’t going to keep me in Criminology 101. I really don’t belong in this class, with these people who are probably used to engaging their minds for more than just nodding at the right time.

All Valentine has to do for the room to quiet down is clear his throat. The second he does it, all other sounds vanish. “Criminology isn’t merely the study of serial killers, Mr. Malone. It’s crime and deviant behavior, and the relationship between crime and society,” he says.

“But still,” someone insists. “I’d rather have my door opened than being beaten.”

The look on Valentine’s face morphs from polite to… well, it’s still polite, but there’s also a coldness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “And what about domestic abuse, Miss Calder? Do all such relationships start with a, how did you put it so eloquently…” he makes air quotes with his fingers. “… a beating? Or do you think the abuser is smarter and starts by seeking control in areas that are harder to monitor?”

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I turn around to see who Miss Calder is. It doesn’t take me long to find her, she’s the nervous-looking girl who’s shrinking back in her seat. “I suppose,” she relents.

Turning back to Valentine, I watch him as he swallows, my eyes tracing the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple. “So, if someone wanted to gain complete control over you, how do you think they would go about it?” When no one answers, he sighs. “Anybody?”

“My aunt had an abusive husband,” a voice says. “But he never actually laid a finger on her. He played mind games and isolated her from everyone. He did it slowly, so no one suspected anything.”

Valentine nods. “And do you think your aunt would notice him taking control by opening the door?”

“No, Professor Grant. She told me that all the signs were there, but she never noticed them because they started small.”

“Exactly.” Valentine turns to the whiteboard, picking up the black marker and begins to write. When he’s done, he reads the words out loud. “Sociology, psychology, anthropology, biology, economics, psychiatry, and statistics. Those are all words that are relevant in a multidisciplinary field such as criminology.”

I don’t speak for the remainder of our double lecture. I’m content with listening and analyzing what the hell just happened. It’s clear some of the students tried to make fun of me, but did… did Valentine save me?

The lecture draws to a close, and I get up, leaving with everyone else.

“Mrs. Simmons,” he calls out just as I reach the door, my heart stumbling over itself in response. “A moment, please?”

I turn to face him. “Yes, Professor?”

“Your insights today were provocative,” he says, closing the distance between us with measured steps. “I was impressed.”

My eyebrows shoot high up my forehead. “You were?”

He nods. “Absolutely. It was a very astute comparison.”

My heart does its traitorous dance.Thump. Thump.Too loud in the quiet. I want to look away, but my mind won’t let me. It’s like he’s magnetic, and I’m nothing but iron filings drawn to him by some unseen force.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

“In fact,” he says, striding toward me. “There’s this book I want you to read. I think you’ll find it very interesting.”

Glancing down at my watch, I go to pull my phone out of my coat pocket. But when I notice Valentine frowning, I leave the device alone. So what if I’m a couple of minutes late? I know my driver will tell Michael, but I’m not doing anything I shouldn’t. Besides, I’m not heading straight home, so it’ll probably be okay.

“Yeah, okay,” I agree.

Valentine leads me to his office, but instead of holding the door open for me, he closes it—almost completely. For a split second I consider following him inside, but then I talk myself out of it. If he wanted me in there,he would have left the door open, right? The more I think about it, the more I fret, worried I’m overthinking this, or failing some kind of test I’m not aware has started.

Only a few moments later, he reappears, holding a book in his hand. “Here you go,” he says.

Maybe it’s just my imagination running wild, but he appears disappointed, or annoyed. I don’t know him well enough to know which one. “T-thank you,” I stammer, hating that I’ve done something wrong.

I read the text on the front cover.

Anatomy of Control: The Psychology of Crime and Power by Valentine Grant.

---