Page 9 of Into The Darkness

“At least let me call the elevator for you.” He stepped over to the elevator door and pressed the button.

“Uh, thanks,” I murmured, my gaze fixed ahead, hoping for the doors to open and rescue me from this increasingly awkward situation.

“No problem . . . neighbor.” He walked past me and toward the bank of cars. My heart raced once again. Doubts began to cloud my mind; perhaps this whole apartment building thing wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe the dorms were safer than being out here on my own or rather Carlo should have watched over me. This dang garage seemed as creepy as the common areas of the apartment, if not more so.

I puzzled over his remark, and my attention snapped to him as he pressed a button on his keys. Time seemed to slow as the blacked-out Jeep next to my car lit up.

Embarrassment threatened to engulf me when I realized he must have heard my frustrated comment about his parking job. His use of the term “neighbor” was likely a sarcastic response to my muttered curse. He chuckled softly, clearly amused by my reaction, before climbing into the driver’s seat.

That jerk knew I was criticizing his car, and now he was getting a kick out of my discomfort. How infuriating. Any semblance of attraction I had felt earlier had dissipated; he was nothing more than an annoying presence. My earlier assessment of his sexiness was quickly reevaluated. It seemed I was stuck with him as a car neighbor for the foreseeable future.

As he revved the engine and reversed, he sped past me, and I couldn’t resist raising my middle finger in his direction. His laughter was audible from within the car when I lost my grip on the books and they crashed back onto the unforgiving cement.

“Asshole,” I muttered, shaking my head and bending down once more to retrieve my scattered books. “I should have known today was too good to be true,” I grumbled.

I would have experienced none of this if I was still at home. If you had told my six-months-ago self I would have an encounter with this mysteriously annoying male specimen, I would have laughed in your face. I was known as the girl who would run in the opposite direction if a guy even gave me the slightest bit of attention.

But that was what this whole year was about. I wanted to branch out, even the tiniest bit, because I wanted to experience the world. I guess I was right, I wasn’t in Kansas anymore, was I, Toto?

Chapter three

The past week had flown by, and while I could have sworn I saw two of Dad’s friends outside my building, I didn’t dare say anything. I was just grateful I was living. When I was picking out my classes with my adviser in the spring, I stacked them so I had class all day long three days a week, then the other two days I volunteered in the undergrad library putting away books in the afternoon. I wanted to make sure I had ample amount of time to study on the weekend and during the week.

Walsh and Dad texted me a few times during the week, too, checking up on me.

Walsh:

I saw you walking down the street by the Den. Don’t you fucking dare.

Dad:

How are you doing, Em?

Me:

You know how I am doing. I saw Carlo here today.

My brother and I had always been close, especially after our mother’s death, until he went to college. I knew now, hindsight bias, that I was the “annoying younger sister” most of the time, but I looked up to him growing up. He was always protecting me, keeping me safe, and making sure I was happy. But when I came to Isles, I vowed I would branch out on my own and insisted I didn’t need their protection.

I used to worry about who came for Mom and if that was the reason we needed so much protection, but when I was in middle school, my father told me the guy had been taken care of. When I asked if he was in jail, my father’s response was repeated:“He’s taken care of.”

So when I would ask why there was so much protection, I was frustrated when no one would give me a straight answer. I wasn’t as naïve as my brother and dad thought, but I also knew I couldn’t live life under a constant eye.

It was Friday and only noon but after having the last couple of days full of classes, I was grateful they were almost over. I didn’t realize how grueling college classes were and how they demanded so much independent studying.

I saved the best class for last—Introduction to Fictional Writing, and the instructor was none other than Dr. Connolly, famed for his unyielding demeanor. Those who got into his internship program during junior year, often ended up as acclaimed authors signed by the most prominent publishing houses.

Becoming a part of his program wasn’t merely a goal; it was the only path I had my sights set on, the very reason I chose the University of Isles. During my interview with him last spring, he surprised me by saying I could bypass the preliminary class that most freshmen had to endure to qualify for the introductory class. Dr. Connolly saw something unique in me, something that intrigued him. He extended an invitation to his upper-year class, wanting to see if I “had what it took to join his internship.”

After the interview, I couldn’t contain my excitement, practically squealing with joy and radiating gratification. It was the reason my dad finally agreed to let me attend this university. His face shone with pride as I recounted how well the interview went. Even Walsh, a notorious skeptic, understood the significance of bypassing the preliminary class and heading right into an upper class.

The classroom found its home in an old, weathered, stone building, embodying the timeless charm of academia. On the ground floor, the room was bathed in a soft, subdued light from the overcast sky outside, setting a somber tone that seemed fitting for the day. It was one of those gray gloomy days that hinted at the possibility of rain.

This wasn’t your typical bustling classroom; it was an upperclassman section, which meant it wasn’t as packed. Maybe around thirty of us in total. I snagged a spot in the second row, giving me a clear view of the day’s main attraction—Dr. Connolly.

He was an older gentleman, somewhere in his fifties, and he exuded a certain appeal that defied his age. The skinny jeans he wore hinted at a modern edge, while his salt-and-pepper hair added a touch of sophistication. Something about him seemed to say he had seen and experienced a lot in life, and it was etched into the lines on his face.

What really got me was how he spoke. Dr. Connolly had a way with words that held everyone’s attention. Each word hung in the air and demanded to be heard. He was known for his poetry, and I couldn’t help but think about how my dad had mentioned a couple of his pieces before.

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