Page 83 of Make Me Scream

“You don’t get to threaten me,” he says. “Or the school. I’ve seen Ms. Carpenter’s work. I’m not afraid of her outshining my academy, even with your guidance. Now, a sex scandal between a teacher and student, that’s an actual potential problem. I’ll give you a day to consider the decision.”

I don’t need it. He’s not pushing me around, period.

“Think about what you’re doing,” Rush says. “Are you really going to bring Ms. Carpenter to galleries and introduce her to your — our — friends? Will you be able to look your colleagues in the eyes when they recognize her from their classes? Or are you going to keep your tryst under wraps until you tire of her?”

It’ll be awkward, sure. So fucking what? Every member of the faculty remembers what it was like to have an art hero to worship in their academy days. Most have been the target of a student’s infatuation themselves. Some have acted on it. They may judge, but not harshly.

“There’s no future in this for you. When she decides she needs cock from someone who respects her taste, you won’t be-”

He doesn’t get to finish. I spring across the hall, shoving him against the wall.

“Careful,” I growl. “I’ve kept secrets for you, Rush. If you hurt Gwen, the truth comes out. We’ll see how your reputation holds up then.”

Somehow Rush’s fist finds the side of my head. His swing comes way too fast and hard for a man who looks softer than fresh bread. It doesn’t hurt enough to stun me, but it gives Rush a chance to sidestep me and reach the door.

“You’re emotional,” he says as he walks out. “I understand your frustration, so I’ll be charitable. You have one day to make up your mind.”

I follow him as far as the porch. My instinct says to keep fighting, but there’s no point. We have serious leverage on one another. There’s no way to break the stalemate of mutually assured destruction. One of us will have to cave.

If I don’t want it to be me, I’m going to have to make a move.

Chapter 19

Despite waking up so early, by the time I get home, shower and change, I nearly don’t make it to the cafe in time. Joel, the single greatest friend anyone could ask for, has a bagel waiting for me.

“I had a feeling you’d be hungry when you didn’t come home last night,” he says.

He has no clue. My stomach rumbles so hard, I could probably scarf down the bagel in less than a minute.

“You have fun? Did he give you a hard time about taking off the… you know?”

It’s hard to wrap my mind around that only being last night.

“It was a really good night,” I reply, though I can’t meet his smile.

Lane turned my body into a masterpiece, then made me feel as amazing as I looked. I’m dying to show the photos to Joel, if just so they can be appreciated by a truly great artist, but Lane said that was just for us.

I wish I could live in that moment until the next time I see Lane, but instead I’m stuck on that name: Chloe. The girl who left him, who left Mundell Academy and seemingly left the whole world behind. After the lunch rush, I hide in the bathroom and search for her everywhere.

I find Chloe Andreason, 71, a retired orthopedist from Fresno. There’s Chloe Andreason, 29, a doctoral student in Machine Learning at MIT. Then there’s one from Ottawa, who drowned in a freak accident as a child, and a graphic designer from the UK well into her forties.

No one in their early twenties who had anything to do with art. So what happened to her? What kind of woman my age has no presence on the Internet? Was she some kind of digital recluse before she came to Mundell Academy?

I’m jumping to conclusions. Maybe Chloe wasn’t her real name. That would make more sense than a student straight-up disappearing. Would Lane know if Chloe was just her artist name? I guess it depends on how long were they seeing each other. How serious were they as a couple? I have a lot of questions.

Hey, call me soon, Lane texts me.We need to talk.

Yeah, no kidding.

After work, I send back.

“Oh my god!” Joel says, a hand pressed to his chest. He’s breathing heavy, a cautious smile blooming.

“What’s going on?”

“I just got an e-mail from Professor Mundell! He got me an exhibition at the Gallery Madrigal!”

“Joel!” I shriek, pulling him into a hug. “That’s amazing, congratulations! You deserve it.”

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