Page 137 of Boiling Point
“You are rather due for an upgrade. I replaced your battery in January, but it’s only a matter of time.”
The sun beat through the glass as Gabrielle navigated the airport maze and eventually merged onto the motorway. The air conditioner whined at full blast, failing to keep pace with the inferno outside. But she looked cool and untouched, the way some people are born immune to climate.
We carved through toll plazas and exurban sprawl beneath an impossibly blue sky streaked with candy-floss clouds. Gabrielle grabbed a bottle of mineral water from the cupholder and handed it to me. I twisted the cap, the plastic crackling over the soft hum of the engine, and drank greedily. My mouth was parched from ten hours of recycled transatlantic air.
“How was your flight?” she asked, her tone light, but her eyes cautious. She always saw past my camouflage, even when she pretended not to.
“Long,” I admitted, “but not awful. Shockingly edible food. A few hours of chemically induced sleep.”
She smiled, but it didn’t quite land. Not hesitation, exactly—more like the moment before a plane touches down, wheels suspended, waiting for gravity to decide.
She waited me out.
I drew a sharp breath. “Boyle’s Law.”
She glanced over, caught off guard. “What?”
“Pressure’s rising, but the volume of this car is fixed. So either we talk…or something explodes.”
“Are you seriously making physics puns right now?”
“Technically, it’s a metaphor. But yes.” I tapped my temple. “It never shuts off.”
Her hands worked the wheel with a restless energy, left thumb flicking the rim in nervous taps.
“All right. I’ll just come out with it. What did Bill Watkins want yesterday?”
“To bring you a casserole,” she said dryly. “It’s a Southern thing when someone dies.”
“I’m familiar with the custom.” When she didn’t offer anything further, I prompted, “Can I assume he knows about us?”
She looked over, eyes pleading. “Yeah. I’m so sorry, but there was no way around it.” The words tumbled out fast. “He figured it out the second he saw me in your house. The boxes, the ring…”
“It’s all right,” I soothed. “It was bound to happen at some point.” I rested a hand on her bare thigh. “And it’sourhouse, darling.”
She fixed her eyes on the road, her face flushed from the sun or the conversation or both. “He’s worried about you. Worried about the Board of Trustees. Says they’re sharpening the guillotine.”
“Not inaccurate.”
She placed a hand on mine—solid, grounding. “He thinks I should speak to the review board. Tell them my side.”
I pulled my hand. “Out of the question.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I do when it putsyouin the line of fire.”
A horn brayed as a jacked-up pickup cut too close. Gabrielle swerved with an eerie calm. She never missed a beat.
“If you give them a statement, it’ll make things worse.”
“How?” Her voice was steady, but I could feel nerves sparking off her. “It’s already as bad as it can be, and it’s ninety-five percent false. If I go in and set the record straight—say our relationship was consensual and that I’m nobody’s victim, then what?”
“They won’t hear that.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, eyes squeezed shut. “They’ll hear: student, professor, impropriety. I’ll be no less guilty in their eyes, but you’ll be slung through the mud along with me.” My fingers were trembling. I flattened them against my thigh, hoping she didn’t notice. “I can take their contempt. Hell, I deserve it. But you?—”
“Youdon’tdeserve it. That’s the whole point.” She merged onto the interstate, finally heading north. “Dr. Watkins?—”
“Do call him Bill. I think you’ve earned that much.”
