Page 8 of A Touch of Darkness

There’s something wrong. I feel it, I just really don’t want to sound like the psycho sister. Not this early in the schoolyear.

Rebecca places a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. She’s probably fine. This place is huge—it’s easy to get turned around. Think she might have forgot to charge her phone?” she asks, and it’s a good point, really. Lara is notorious for forgetting to plug her phone in at night. Still, though. She planned on meeting me, so even phoneless, she should’ve been back in the dorm. Probably even quicker since the girl can’t handle not having her phone in hand.

Nicole suggests heading to the admin offices and says I might be able to catch someone still on-site if I hurry, so that’s what I do. She offers to come with, but I tell her to hang back with Rebecca.

The girls agree to stay posted up in the courtyard for a while, just in case Lara walks by or ends up looking for me while I’m looking for her.

I end up walking to the wrong end of the West wing first, then backtracking and finally finding my way to the correct section of the East wing after giving in and asking for directions.

The offices are mostly dark, but there’s one with a faint glow radiating from under the door—Guidance Counselor Trevor Fallon. I burst in, my nerves overriding my usual politeness as I forget to knock.

A young-ish looking man glances up from a stack of papers and jumps as if I’ve startled him—and I clearly have by rushing in here like a mad woman. His round glasses are perched atop his head, and he smiles kindly at me, despite my intrusion, although it does little to soothe my nerves.

After he introduces himself and we exchange pleasantries, I explain everything—Lara’s classes, our plans, and the deafening silence.

Instead of panicking like I am, Mr. Fallon calmy and quietly places his glasses back on his face and turns his attention to his laptop, the only other light in the room aside from a small green desk lamp. “Let me check the attendance records and see if any emergency events happened in any of her classes, Miss Rosenthal. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation. Maybe she was held up somewhere. Or, like your friend suggested, perhaps her cell phone died, and she’s made other plans for the night.”

Definitely not, I think. But I humor him all the same.

He scrubs a hand down his face, running his palm along his beard, neatly trimmed and framing his jaw. It adds to composed yet rugged appearance—just enough to be striking without seeming unkempt.

“Let’s see,” he says, tapping at his keyboard. “No emergencies occurred, that I can tell. It does look like Lara wasn’t in attendance for her last class of the day,” he says, and my stomach sinks. He holds up his pointer finger, narrowing his eyes at the screen before him. Then, he looks back up at me and flashes me a smile, like he just figured it all out. “However, she was in her second-to-last class of the day. Ancient Relics and Mythology. Professor Draedon’s class.”

As the name spills from his lips, a jolt of electricity pulsates through me. I can’t place the name, but it affects me all the same. I shut my eyes as a sharp pain shoots through my head, templeto temple, and I have to lean against the wall to steady myself. An image of the man in the window appears in my mind like a still-frame photo, and I immediately snap my eyes back open to refrain from seeing him. The eerie nostalgia, those green eyes, the way he disappeared as if he’d never been there at all.

“Miss Rosenthal, are you okay?” Mr. Fallon asks, his voice filled with concern as he stands and rounds his desk toward me.

I blink hard, shaking the image away. “Where is his office?” I ask. My head thumps, but the shooting pain is gone, thank God. I don’t have time to question why I’m suddenly seeing images of the man in the window. I can’t think about him right now; in fact, I did a great job not thinking about him yesterday or all day today. No more weird, mysterious occurrences.

The counselor frowns. “I’ll take you there. His admin office is in this wing, so it’ll be a short walk. We’ll check in with him and file a report if necessary, although, he may be gone for the day. It’s getting late.”

The halls are quiet in this area of the university, the evening casting long shadows that seem to shift as we pass. We walk through a long corridor, the hallway seeming to stretch before me. The walls are lined with the kinds of portraits that feel more like watchers than decorations. Each frame holds a headshot of a professor—or maybe some long-dead university figures. I’m not exactly sure, but some of the portraits are exceptionally old. Shades of sepia and black and white, all the way to newer, more vibrant photos. The expressions range from stern to contemplative, their gazes unyielding…as if they’ll sit, perched, silently judging for the remainder of their days. The walk to Professor Draedon’s office feels interminable, though it is, in reality, fairly short in comparison to my walk earlier.

When we finally reach the door, the counselor knocks.

“Come in,” a deep, baritone voice calls from within.

Mr. Fallon opens the door and motions for me to walk in first, and as I do, my eyes immediately lock on who I assume is the professor—the only one in the exceedingly dark office.

Only, instead of some form of relief that I may get answers about my sister, an unyielding darkness washes over me.

The man from the window stands behind a large, L-shaped mahogany desk, his presence even more commanding up close. His dark hair curls at the ends, brushing the collar of his black coat, and his green eyes seem to pierce through me once again—sharp, almost predatory. I swallow past the growing lump in my throat, my feet unwilling to move.

The counselor, clearly being none the wiser to my sudden lack of interest, explains the situation, but Professor Draedon’s expression remains impassive.

“Lara Rosenthal,” the man in the win—I mean,Professor Draedonrepeats, as if testing the name. “Yes, she attended today’s lecture,” he says, looking up from a sheet of paper he’s placed in front of him. “She sat in the back and left before I dismissed the class. Perhaps…twenty minutes early. Give or take.” He shrugs, as if it’s no big deal. “I simply noted the early departure and moved on, but I haven’t seen her since.”

My stomach twists as nausea creeps in. “Did she say anything about why she was leaving? Did anyone go with her?” I ask, blurting the words out before I can even properly think.

The professor’s gaze flicks to me, his eyes narrowing slightly. “No. She was alone.”

The counselor thanks him for the info, but I can’t move. Something about the way Professor Draedon looks at me makes the air in the room feel heavier, makes me feel…stilted. Off-balance.

“If I hear anything,” he says, “I’ll let you know.” It’s just now that his words truly resonate, that I catch some sort of accent tinging his voice, just barely. It’s one that I can’t place.It’s haunting, yet beautiful, and I don’t know why my focus is zeroing in on that right now.

Despite the professor’s words being polite, there’s a unique edge to them, a finality that leaves no room for questions, and finally, my feet move and I turn, grateful for the lungful of air I’m finally able to inhale.

As we leave the office, and the presence of the man in the window who I now know is Professor Draedon, my momentary relief for air shifts. The unease I’ve felt all day surges, drowning out any attempt to rationalize this situation. Dread blankets me, and I have to hold back my tears.

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