The test had been over for an hour by the time Emily got to school. She parked farther away than she was used to, since the parking lot filled up early, then tromped across campus to the administration building, where her history professor kept an office. He had a stern policy — no missed tests without a doctor’s excuse — but she clutched her police report in her hand, hoping he would make an exception just this once. Could he give as much weight to a murder attempt as he did to the flu?
She found Dr. Ingles in his office, his door open as he sat hunched over test papers. He was a large man with a bald head and hefty paunch, and he wore a perpetual scowl. She had never had a conversation with him outside of class, so her mouth went dry. She cleared her throat and knocked on the door’s casing.
He looked up at her, then leaned back hard. “Well, well, Miss Covington. Glad to see you finally made it to school today.”
She drew in a deep breath and reminded herself that Georgians liked to hear ma’am and sir. If she could just remember to say it. “Sir, may I talk to you?”
“You missed your test, Miss Covington. That’s unfortunate.”
She couldn’t tell him straight out that someone had tried to kill her. She didn’t want this igniting the gossip mill like wildfire. “I was leaving on time this morning, when my car caught fire. My brother waved me down and I got out before I was hurt, but I had to wait for the fire department and the police — ”
His bushy eyebrows shot up. “The police?”
“Yes . . . sir.” Why couldn’t she just say it naturally? But the awkward sir didn’t seem to bother him. He suddenly looked interested.
“They came with the fire department. I have the police report here. It’s not a doctor’s excuse, but it proves that it happened.”
He took the report, and she hoped he would just look at the date and time and not read the officer’s scribbled handwriting at the bottom. But that was exactly where his gaze swept. She held her breath as he picked up his glasses and shoved them on, frowning as he read.
“They were there forever,” she said in a soft voice, as if calming a rabid animal. “I told them I had a test, but I had to stay until they were finished, and then the car had to be towed and I had to work out another ride. I couldn’t drive it like that.”
He didn’t seem to be listening. “Wait a moment,” he said, looking up from the yellow copy of the report. “Sit down. Start over.”
At least he was going to hear her out. She went in and sat down, set her books on the seat next to her. His office wasn’t what she often saw in college professors’ offices. His was relatively neat, free of dust, and a shiny green plant of some kind sat under his window, cared for. He had a child’s pictures tacked on a bulletin board and taped to the back of his door. His grandchild’s drawings? He seemed too old to have small children of his own. Maybe he wasn’t as scary as he seemed.
“Sounds like you’ve had a hair-raising morning. Just take a breath and start over.”
Only then did she realize she was still shaking. “Dr. Ingles, I’ve really tried to do well in this class. I study and read everything we’re asked to read, and I like history. It’s interesting, like a novel. I was ready for this test. But I didn’t expect the fire — ”
“It sounds as if it was more than a fire. It says something about a bomb?”
She swallowed and looked down at her hands. “Okay, but I’d rather this didn’t get around. I have . . . a reputation already. But somebody taped a bomb to the bottom of my car, and when I started it, it caught fire.”
He asked her a few questions, and she answered them as briefly as she could. “But I hope you can see that this was out of my control. Will you please let me make up the test?”
He took off his glasses and handed the police report back to her. “Miss Covington . . .”
She wanted to tell him to call her Emily, but professors had a thing about using your last name. It made her uncomfortable, like he was talking to her mother instead of her.
“I know about your history. I followed the news stories when you were missing. I recognized you the first day you were in my class.”
She looked at her feet. “Great.”
He leaned forward and studied her until she met his eyes. “I’ve been inspired by your turnaround. You seem very diligent and focused now, and I find that refreshing. But this is disturbing.”
“Tell me about it,” she said. “My mom is all freaking out because she thinks if somebody’s trying to kill me I must have gone back to drugs. But I haven’t. I’m at this school every day, and I’m keeping a B average. Trust me — when I was using, I didn’t make As and Bs. I didn’t even show up for school. A lot of the time I didn’t even qualify for Fs. I’m working really hard to stay sober, and I don’t think about drugs all the time anymore. This isn’t my fault. But meanwhile, I’ve missed an important test. Please, will you let me take a make-up?”
“So you feel you were ready for it this morning?”
“Yes. Absolutely. I can take it right now.”
He stared at her, his gaze so piercing that she almost felt he could read her thoughts. “All right, Miss Covington. I have another class taking the test at noon in the same room. You can take it with them.”
She let out her breath. “Thank you so much.” She got her books, stood. “I really appreciate it.”
“Be careful.”
“I will,” she said. “I’ll see you at noon.”
She punched the air with a victorious fist as she left his office. Then she pulled out her phone and texted her mother. He’s letting me make up the test at noon!
Her second class today wasn’t until one, so she had time to go to the library and focus her thoughts. If she could quit thinking about the bomb, maybe she could even pass the test.