Page 130 of Rush of Jealousy

“Psst, what did you score?” Bryce asks, sipping his pumpkin spiced latte, with all his weird adaptations, that I got him from the coffee shop. The professor just passed back the writing assessment, and I am flipping through my booklet reading her notes and critiques.

“I got an A, how about you?”

“I got a B and am loving it, considering I never even studied.”

“Nice.”

I am thrilled over my score and can confidently say that the remaining credits for my minor should now be secured—unless I completely jack up what is left of the semester. Human Behavior is just an elective class. However, without these credits, I wouldn’t be able to complete the requirements. Just like if I don’t pass Dr. Williams’s research journalism assignment, I will not be able to graduate with a degree in journalism—since it requires this final key component. Instead, I will only have enough credits to have an English degree—which is a slap in the face after all of the work I have put forth, including repeating my last semester.

But grades are subjective. And Dr. Williams does not seem to be a fan of mine anymore, especially after I refused to give up on my quest to find out who is drugging college-aged girls around campus. I honestly don’t think I am interfering with any police investigations, because I have yet to see any police activity around campus, unless they are patrolling the area in unmarked cars. Notoriously, university presidents and board members often try to hide any negative publicity involving their campus in fear that it will affect admission rates—a.k.a. the influx of money funneling in. It is disgusting how much money affects so many aspects of the world.

“I can pretty much jack off the rest of the semester and still pull a C,” Bryce brags, knocking his crutches down on accident. The sound ricochets against the walls of the auditorium. “Shit.”

I laugh at his wide-eyed expression and help him put his crutches back in place where he had them.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, but I have to go pee. I think falling down the stairs has shrunk my bladder.”

“Hopefully, not anything else.”

He looks down at his crotch and frowns. “Ugh, I better measure later just to be sure. Way to make a man paranoid, Teach.”

I stifle my laugh and watch as he gets up on his crutches to excuse himself. On the floor next to his open book bag, I see the orange bottle of pills that must have rolled out with the falling of the crutches. I pop open the lid and take out a small handful. It doesn’t even look like he used any from the last time I snuck a few. I have such pain in my shoulder and can’t even get any medicine for it other than OTC Tylenol. I place the pills in my tin container and seal his back up. At this point, if he is not using them, then they will just go to waste.

Class ends with a presentation on the different types of human personalities and behavior characteristics. I stop taking notes halfway through because my hand is cramping from where my stitches used to be.

After class, I walk out to my parked car and drive into the city to relax at the penthouse. This morning, Graham left a key and my new credit card linked to his bank account on the island for me to use. He also left me a little Post-it note to tell me to order food from the takeout menus that he has collected in a drawer in the kitchen. It’s weird walking into the foyer and being here without him. It is equally weird thinking of this place as anything other than just being his.

I put some upbeat music onto the sound system and move into the living room to start unpacking some of the boxes that were delivered. I carry my book collection upstairs and fill the bottom drawer of my nightstand with them, since I usually read in bed when I have some spare time. I add some of my favorite clothes items to the ones already hung up in the shared closet and dig a little through Graham’s side to see if he still has the two lock boxes I was never able to open. I find them in the bottom drawer—exactly where I saw them weeks ago. I grab a couple of bobby pins and paperclips out of my bag and pull open a YouTube video to use as a refresher. I then go to work at picking the first lock.

It takes about thirty minutes to release both locks and open the boxes. It helps that they were made by the same manufacturer and used the same skill to release the pins.

I am careful to keep everything inside in its original place. The first box has several identity bracelets in different types of metals that appear to be the same ones that agency girls wear. In addition, there are several cufflink sets. It is weird that these are valuable enough to lock up—especially when none contain diamonds or gemstones. I rush downstairs and look in one of the packing boxes for my own identity bracelet and bring it up to compare with the ones in the lockbox. Everything appears to be the same—except for the small, engraved numbers on the inside that I never noticed until now. They are so tiny, I barely can make out the digits 09-01 on the one I own. The ones from the lock box are labeled 09-02, 09-03, 09-04, and 09-05. The cufflinks have 03-01, 03-02, and 03-03 as markings. I email myself pictures and delete the ones I have stored in the Camera App album.

I close that lockbox and set the lock again. Then I pull up the lid on the second one to reveal a tiny pistol. I hate guns. They freak me out. I close the lid and set the lock. It is not unusual for people to have guns in Oregon—which is a “stand your ground” state. While the city of Portland restricts owners from walking around with loaded guns on their bodies or in vehicles, the overarching rule for the state still allows residents to protect themselves in self-defense and to protect their personal property.

The sound of the door opening downstairs and footsteps on the tile floor alert me that someone is inside. I quickly close the bottom drawer. The building is a fortress so I know whoever it is has to have access. It is way too soon for Graham to be done with his work shift, so I assume it’s either the house cleaner, Collins, or Sophia—who seems to love to help herself inside. I push my shoulders back in confidence and make my way downstairs, prepared to fight with her if it is in fact Sophia.

I round the corner and see the back of a man, sitting at the island eating an apple.

“Excuse me?” I say. My voice is shaky.

He turns around and his eyes grow big as he recognizes me and I him.

“Dominic?” I ask, not sure why I formed his name as a question when I can obviously tell it is him.

“Hey, Angie.” He gets up from the stool and makes his way over to me. He gives me a hug, and it seems like it has been forever since our paths have crossed. So much has happened since I last saw him. It’s like he fell off the face of the planet.

“Hi.” I hug him back. “I, uh, what are you doing here?”

“I was actually just dropping off some paperwork for Graham to sign and was going to leave it on his desk. But—”

“Wanted a snack?”

Dominic looks down at his teeth marks in the apple, and he gives me a big grin. “Sorry. I didn’t know you and Graham worked things out to the point where you are cohabitating. I would have rung the doorbell and not just let myself inside.”

“I was unaware you had a key.” Seems like there is a growing list of people who have keys.

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