Page 135 of Boiling Point
“Who can rock your world in fourteen different dimensions.”
A hot flush crept from my neck to my ears. “Okay, you win.”
“Damn right.”
The doorbell rang again. I stood and walked down the hall. “Maybe I have to sign for it.”
A figure shifted behind the rippled glass—solid, broad-shouldered, familiar in a way that knotted my stomach. I’d expected a delivery person, maybe a clipboard and a bored smile. Instead, when I opened the door, the world exhaled a damp waft of cut grass and gasoline and Bill Watkins, standing awkwardly on the step holding a foil-covered Pyrex dish.
“Crap,” I said before I could help myself.
“Gabrielle?” Dr. Watkins’s voice was cautious and oddly formal for a man in a sweat-stained polo and white dad sneakers.
Cal’s voice crackled through the phone. “What is it?”
“I’ll call you back.” I hung up before he could argue. “Hello, Dr. Watkins.” My voice cracked in a register I didn’t know I had.
He blinked. “Didn’t expect to catch you here. Sorry. I just…” His eyes dropped to the casserole, like it might prompt his next line. “My wife made this. I thought Cal was back today.”
“He gets back tomorrow.” I was hyperaware of my bare feet, disheveled hair, and oversized T-shirt.
He paused, eyebrows narrowed. “What are you doing here?”
“Housesitting,” I managed feebly.
His gaze darted over my shoulder into the house. “I didn’t realize housesitting involved so many boxes.”
I tried on a smile that didn’t quite fit. “I’ll be happy to put that in the fridge and let Dr. Hawthorne know you stopped by.”
He handed over the casserole but didn’t budge from the stoop. “I’m not here to judge, Gabrielle. What you two do is your business. But let’s not insult each other, okay?” He wiped his palms on the sides of his khaki cargo shorts. “May I come in?”
It was phrased as a question, but it was clearly anything but. I stepped aside. “Please excuse the mess.”
Dr. Watkins walked into the living room, his gaze snagging on the half-unpacked boxes and the nest of blankets on the couch.
I ferried the Pyrex to the kitchen, cheese and garlic wafting in its wake, and slid it onto the second shelf of the refrigerator. “Would you like something to drink? I made sweet tea,” I offered, trying to remember how normal people behaved.
He shook his head as he settled into the armchair. “Nothing for me, thanks.” He rubbed at the thinning spot on his scalp, as if starting a fire.
I perched on the edge of the sofa. My phone buzzed with a message from Cal.
Who was at the door?
I looked up at Dr. Watkins, who met my gaze with an unshakable, almost clinical, patience. “It’s Dr. Hawthorne,” I said, holding up the phone. “He wants to know who was at the door. Should I tell him?”
He mustered a smile. “Of course. Tell him it’s Bill. And that I come in peace.” The words were mild but carried a strange finality, as if they were the preface to a much longer, heavier soliloquy.
I typed out a reply, letting him know I had it under control, then set the phone face down on the coffee table. Dr. Watkins waited until the silence had outgrown its natural lifespan before clearing his throat.
“I won’t waste your time—or mine. You know as well as I do that Cal is in a heap of trouble.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and pinned me with a steady, unblinking gaze. “Look, I’m not here to play gotcha. I’m here because I care about Cal, and, to be honest, I care about you too. So I’ll ask straight: what the hell happened last spring?”
I folded my hands into the hem of my shirt, hoping it read as poised rather than panicked. “Is this off the record?” I asked before I could stop myself.
“Gabrielle, I’m not a cop. I’m not even your advisor anymore.” He glanced at the nearest box—my name scrawled in block marker—and softened. “If I were, I’d have brought a notepad.” He looked at me, then added, “But if you want to lawyer up, I’ll wait.”
I shook my head. “No. It’s just…” Was it the urge to confide, or the terror of what confession did to a secret? “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”
“He’s already there. I thought everything would blow over, but it’s only gotten worse. New complaints—some downright inventive. And now the Board of Trustees is involved.” He leaned in, pain etched across his face. “They’re going to make an example of him.”
