Page 49 of Rush of Jealousy

Dr. Williams narrows his eyes at me. “You are willing to jeopardize everything you have worked toward to follow a path that might lead you to a dead end?”

“I think it might be worth the risk.”

“I see.”

“What are my consequences?”

He pulls back from his desk, straightens his glasses, and turns to look out the stained-glass window. “I like you, Miss McFee, I do. I think you are smart and determined and passionate. However, I am not comfortable letting you be disillusioned to the fact that these events you are investigating may not end up anywhere. It may take years to uncover the truth. And we do not have years, Miss McFee. We are down to less than two months’ time for you to complete the class and earn my recommendation for an internship. Without my recommendation, you might as well kiss your dream goodbye, because all the internships will be filled by the end of January. And you will have what to show for it? A partial story? A story lacking real evidence? Or the stigma of interrupting an ongoing investigation? Are you willing to risk everything?”

I hear what he is saying. But I disagree. Sure, I may fail his class—again. But this situation is bigger than the grade. This is something bigger than me. If I can show the world that I have what it takes to rise above the challenge, maybe I can get an internship without Dr. Williams’s approval.

It is risky, but it’s a chance I may have to take. Right now, I have nothing else. The campus drugging story is all I have. I am all in on this.

“The first draft of your article is due in a few weeks. There will be a signup outside my office for you to select a time slot. A large portion of your grade will be from this draft. Please spend some time in discernment to think about what you really want to achieve. Right now and in your future.”

“Thank you,” I mutter and scurry out of his office as fast as I can.

I walk at a brisk pace to my car and rest my head on the steering wheel. It wasn’t like Dr. Williams didn’t warn me. I just thought if he heard the added information I collected, he would be more on board. I was foolish to think that my passion and determination would be commended, instead of snuffed out like a flame in a jar.

My phone rings and I see that it is Graham. I slide the answer bar without really thinking it through.

“Angie? Everything okay?”

I forget that he has been having me followed and look around at the parked cars near me in the lot.

“Holy shit, are your men giving you minute to minute updates on me?”

“Updates, yes. That frequently? I wish.”

“You are crazy,” I huff. “None of this is normal, Graham. Make it stop. Make it stop now.”

“Why are you loitering in a parking lot, sweetheart? What’s wrong?”

I open and close my mouth. He is too much. It is all too much. My life was so boring and inconsequential before he crashed into it. Now I don’t even know which way to turn or hide. It’s like he has eyes on me from across the country and it is treading on my free will. I just cannot do this. Not right now. And maybe not ever.

“Please call off your guards. I beg you.”

“How am I supposed to function on a workday when you are day drinking and frequenting the exact place where you got slipped a drug? Tell me how I—”

“I was with Claire. We were both safe.”

“Yeah, right, safe,” he grunts. “You basically do the opposite of everything I ask. So, think of the security as being something for me—rather than for you. It is my way of being able to conduct business from a distance and not have to get distracted by all the shit you get yourself into.”

“This is all unnecessary, and it is just drawing more attention to me. If some enemy of yours pays even half attention to where you are putting your efforts, then I am an even bigger target if retaliation is in the plan.”

He remains silent for several seconds. I can tell that my words have affected him. We hang up and find ourselves at an impasse again.

I drive home and channel my inner frustrations over my fizzling dreams and my complicated relationship into how I’m going to help Claire snap back from the breakup with Ethan.

Once inside, I run up into my bedroom, put on some Red Hot Chili Peppers music, and lose myself in the mindless chore of folding laundry.

There is a soft knock at my door. “Angie? You in there?”

“Come on in, Claire.”

She walks in, and I can tell that she is in desperate need of a friend. She sits on the bed and helps me fold the clothes I have left in the basket.

I look at her somber face. “What’s up?”

---