Page 96 of Home to the Hollow

“Oooh, the plot thickens,” Doyle calls from the back.

Christ, he adores conflict and chaos. If he weren’t so damned hot, I’d smack him on principle.

* * *

Once we arrived,the guys refused to let me run around alone, but they also acknowledged that given the sprawl of the SU campus, we needed to split up. They sent me with Jekyll, Kali, and Isis while Eury, Hyde, and Hecate went with their favorites. Doyle, as usual, winked and strolled off on his own, whistling like he planned on doing something absolutely unacceptable.

Hopefully, it doesn’t involve explosives or any kind of physical fights. I’m well versed in good-looking boys from Belfast and their hidden street skills. I feel Doyle is hiding a fuck ton of things I’d be both fascinated and impressed by—which is why I yelled ‘no violence’ at his retreating back. That he was heading towards the science building didn’t escape my notice; the chem labs are there.

I rub my temples, and Isis adjusts, hissing near my ear. My cadre of animals and I are headed in the building's direction where my parents had offices. Teddy is headed for the main and admin areas, Wolfie is sniffing around the dorms, and Prez decided he’d be best served by nosing around near the graduate and professional degree programs.

We’re hoping to find people who knew my parents or get a ping from the app Jax’s booty call created. Eli swears he will use the guest Wi-Fi to scan for devices that match some or all of the markers from the signal he found. They need to be within five feet of our phones, so we have cover stories just in case anyone questions our presence.

I’m not sure what finding the computer gives us, but Jax says it connects to some symbols and writing in the mystery trunk and my parents’ letters. That has to be connected to his theory about their accident being murder and then… hell, I don’t know after that.

If they were into some weird super secret shit and got killed for it, does that mean their activities flagged me somehow for working in law enforcement? I mean, I thought I had clearance to the moon because of all the places I worked or been—including AirForce One—but the rejection that sent me back to the Hollow was shocking.

Could my parents have been on some McCarthy/No Fly type list and it extended to me? I guess it’s possible, but it doesn’t seem like I would have even gotten a foot in the door to some places I’ve been over the years, if so. No, this has to be something more sinister and secret to only pop up when I interviewed for the FBI. I’ll be damned if I know what it is, though.

The Beauregard Fine Arts building looms in front of me and I stop by the fountain with a sculpture of a Sphinx. The piece is beautiful and created by some famous unknown from France, but even when I tried to research it, I couldn’t find any information about the sculptor. I used to sit by this fountain and throw quarters in to make wishes when I was a child, and when I came to SU, it was one of my favorite hangouts. My parents were long since retired, and even though the name on the engraved plaque reminded me of the bad times in high school, the familiarity made me feel comforted.

Of course, given that the great-great something or others of Antigone Lisel Beauregard donated it, I have mixed feelings now. She’s long gone, and I’m back here at the beginning of my life again, looking for answers in the same way I was before. The stakes are different, but it’s amazing how patterns repeat themselves in our lives.

Sighing, I remind myself that I am not the Catastrophe anymore, nor am I the broken toy that lived on the campus. I’m a successful businesswoman with talent, an excellent education, and enough boyfriends to start a basketball team. I’ve moved on and up, and memories of the past can’t hold me back. With that in my head, I stride to the doors of the building, intent on finding out which current staff members worked here when my parents ruled the English department.

It’s Fall Break, so while there aren’t many undergrad students milling about, there are troves of graduate students and PhD candidates walking around like zombies. It’s easy to ID them because they look like they haven’t slept in months, haven’t done laundry in a week, and have stains from whatever they shoved in their mouth as they worked. Also, grad students move to messenger bags rather than backpacks, and PhD drones roll their shit around in briefcase luggage.

I don’t want any of them to ask where I’m going, so I tuck my sunglasses in my messenger and motion for the animals to be quiet as I creep through the lobby. One girl looks up, sees Isis, and blinks before shaking her head and taking a large gulp from a huge coffee tumbler. She thinks she’s hallucinating, and I’d laugh if I didn’t prefer her to not think too hard about what she saw. When I get to the elevator, I quietly check the labels for the floors and push the button.

The English department is on the eighth floor, and I hope they still have a listing of offices outside of the elevator doors. In the age of apps, it’s possible they’ve moved to an app-based info system that allows students to locate things through geo-location and that would suck an awful lot. It would keep me from looking like I belong, as well as make it harder to identify the offices. When the doors open, I breathe a sigh of relief. The stubborn refusal of academia and artsy folks to adopt tech saves the day once again.

Pulling out my phone, I hit the school website as I lean against the wall as if I’m texting. I compare the names on the directory to the bios of the professors on the English department page as I cross-reference. There are at least six professors who are high in the department whose information leads me to believe they knew my parents. That’s where I will start after I do a quick check for the device we’re hunting.

Eli’s Snitch app pops up, and I hit the scan button. Jekyll bumps his head against my hand, and I watch him walk over to a sitting area to plop down with Kali. Clearly, they’ve stood guard at the front, and I suppose that’s not a poor plan. Awomp wompsound lets me know the scan is complete—nothing in the immediate area has earmarks of the trail we’re hunting. Waving at my companions, I turn and head down the hall towards the tenured staff offices.

If I’m lucky, these people will be here having midterm office hours or working on papers they need to publish. Otherwise, this is a wasted trip.

Tonight, Tonight

“So how’s life been treating you, Pamela?” I ask, leaning against the counter and giving her a five star smile. I know it will work; Pam was a cougar looking to prey on college boys when I was here, and that was almost ten years ago. She hasn’t aged well, and I’ll bet she’s still pulling her same tricks with any good looking rich male who has to make an appointment in the admissions office.

“Why, Edgar Boone! You haven’t aged a whit. You’ll have to tell me what’s in the water down there in Whistler’s Hollow.” Her false lashes flutter and I have to work hard to keep the cringe from showing as she leans in to give me a good view down her blouse.

“Just good, clean living, sugar. My Pop always says the secret to eternal youth is loving your job, and I love the hell out of mine.”

Yeah, I’m laying it on thick.

Mentioning the Senator is dirty pool, but I’m not above it by any means. Living at the foot of a scheming local politician who fought his way to Senator taught more before I was out of grade school than most people learn in a lifetime. Power is power and even more so when money backs it up. The key is to always keep the mask in place when dealing with those who respond to it.

As if she heard my thoughts, Pamela flutters her hand over her tanning bed chic décolletage and damn near simpers. Yes, simpers. It’s a trick Southern women have down to a science and I’ve never seen a woman anywhere else even accomplish mimicking with a modicum of authenticity. “You always were a charmer. Give your daddy my best, won’t you?”

It takes a lot not to laugh in her face. Pop couldn't care less about her ‘best’ if it’s not an election year, and that’s being kind. He doesn’t even care about MY best, for fuck’s sake. “Of course I will. The Senator adores his constituents.”

Her giggle grates on my nerves, and she leans over more, placing a hand on my arm. “Well, I suppose it’s about time you tell me how I can serve you today, you silver-tongued devil.”

I wasn’t an angel when I attended State U—in fact; I spent a lot of my time here trying to blitzkrieg my way through sorority row. Minor scandals to rebel against my parents’ expectations that I find a suitable wife and start setting the stage for my career in politics were the goal. Mother wanted to Manchurian Candidate me into Pop’s seat to ‘continue the legacy’ of Boone men in service to our country. Codewords for controlling my life so they could continue to control the state while my father golfed and slept his way through the waitstaff at the club, if you ask me.

So I made enough trouble to prevent a campaign, but not get thrown in jail.

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