CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“WHY ARE WE here?” Aveda grumbled, settling herself into the squashy couch in Richard’s living room. He’d invited us over to his cozy campus cottage, hoping to hear more about our “adventures in collegiate superheroing.”

“We need to make sure he’s not going to blow our cover,” I muttered, keeping my voice low. Richard was in the kitchen, humming to himself and preparing a pot of tea. He knew I hated tea, which I thought tasted like dirty water, but he’d always believed prolonged exposure to his beverage of choice would turn me into a fan. “And he might be able to tell us something about the recent ghost attacks. Shelby and Pippa are in his class, and now we know Julie was, too. And he’s taught here forever. He probably knows a lot about campus lore.”

“Hmph, this is not the kind of ghost-hunting activity I had in mind. Or the fun collegiate activity I had in mind, come to think of it,” Aveda huffed, sitting back on the couch and crossing her arms over her chest. Her ponytail was a bit askew, her sneakers even muddier from stomping around the courtyard. She actually looked like the college kid she kept wanting to be, even though she’d dropped her Angelica glamour once we were back at Richard’s. “And what’s with all the closed doors,” she said, gesturing around the apartment. “What’s with that especially forbidding-looking one next to the bathroom? Does he have a Bluebeard’s chamber in here or—”

“Well, well, well,” Richard interrupted, bustling into the living room with a tea tray. “What an unexpected delight. Or should I say semi-unexpected, since I knew you were lurking around campus, Evie. The way you came for me in class the other day . . .” He set the tray down on the coffee table in front of us and gave me the tiniest of golf claps. “It was so wonderfully familiar. You used to question my taste in literature all the time, do you remember?”

“Not really,” I said dryly, thinking back to Mouse Evie, who almost never challenged Richard, no matter how awful he was being. “I remember you lecturing me on why your old white man books were clearly superior to anything I liked, but usually you just made whatever you said the last word on the matter. So there was nothing left to discuss.”

“Ha!” Richard actually said the word “ha.” Out loud. Instead of just laughing. “Then perhaps it was the particular opinion you stated. You always took your connection to certain stories so personally. In any case, when I gave you so-called lectures during our courtship, I was merely trying to provoke your brilliant mind, my dear. To get you to express your deepest analyses. It seems that in the intervening years, you’ve developed a talent for pushing back, for arguing most . . .” His lips curved into the secret smile he used to give me whenever things started heating up between us. “. . . passionately.”

“Gross.” The word flew out of my mouth before I could stop it. Aveda snorted. I glanced over at her—her face was screwed up in that way that meant she was trying to shove down a laugh.

“So tell me,” Richard said, plopping a couple sugar cubes into his tea, “what are you doing here, Evelyn? I know your work has you investigating the various supernatural escapades of the Bay Area. Are we the latest recipient of your superhero protection?”

I bristled at the way he said “protection,” a perfect cocktail of amused and condescending. He made it sound like we were two kids running a lemonade stand instead of, you know, the most powerful superheroine duo in the world.

“We are on a mission,” Aveda said, shooting me a sidelong glance. “But it’s very top secret.”

“That’s right,” I said, trying to figure out what we needed to reveal to him. “We’re undercover as grad students—we’re using glamours to alter our appearances a bit. So we’d appreciate it if you’d be discreet, and not tell anyone else about this. The officials at Morgan have asked us to look into some of the, ah, odd recent occurrences here on campus.”

“The ghosts,” Richard said, lifting his teacup in my direction. Neither Aveda nor I had touched the wretched dirty water substance. “I’ve heard rumblings about that, even though the college has tried to keep it somewhat quiet. I’m the kind of professor students feel they can really confide in, you know. Something about my relatable demeanor.” He flashed me a grin and I resisted the urge to repeat my “gross” assessment.

“Have any of the students who encountered these ghosts confided in you?” Aveda said.

“You must mean Shelby,” Richard said. “I heard a bit of chatter about her and the courtyard ghost floating about. I don’t believe Shelby confides in anyone—she is an odd individual. Very insular, keeps to herself. Pippa has befriended her, although to be honest I think most of their relationship is Pippa talking and Shelby grunting back at her.”

“What about Julie Vũ?” I pressed. “She was in your class too, right?”

“Hmm, yes,” Richard said, sipping his tea. “I was sorry she’s elected to leave school for now. But what does she have to do with any of this?”

“She also had a ghostly encounter—that’s why we were hired,” I said. “I guess no one’s ‘confided’ in you about that one.”

“They haven’t,” Richard said, giving me an indulgent smile. “Provost Glennon told me Julie withdrew due to a family emergency.”

Hmm. That lie again from Provost Glennon.

“So I’m afraid I can’t help you there,” Richard continued. “Julie has a lot going on in her life, and she has a younger sister she cares for as their parents aren’t in the picture. I wasn’t entirely surprised when she withdrew for the term. She was barely holding it together as it was.”

“Then what are the rumblings you’ve heard?” I said, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. Well, not really trying that hard. I felt like my usual filter was malfunctioning. Maybe I was still under the influence of whatever supernatural truth serum had been in the punch. “Because we only have campus security reports for two of the most recent incidents, which have supposedly been different from past hauntings.”

“I’ve heard that the ghostly woman in the horse-drawn wagon has been appearing far more frequently,” Richard said, clearly relishing knowing something we didn’t. “A sighting nearly every night—at least until Shelby.”

“Has anyone else had an encounter with the wagon woman that’s like Shelby’s?” Aveda said. “Where the ghost interacted with her?”

“I haven’t heard that,” Richard said. “The buzzings I’ve heard are mostly along the lines of the usual hauntings—the passive hauntings, where she simply rides by.”

“You’re familiar with the term ‘passive hauntings’?” Aveda said, cocking her head at him. “Is everyone at this college up on all the latest ghost terminology?”

“Certainly not,” Richard said with a chuckle. “But I’m more current than most, I suppose. My paramour is the faculty advisor of the college’s ghost-hunting society. That’s why I was in the courtyard tonight—as the wagon woman ghost hasn’t shown up since the encounter with Shelby, my paramour asked me to see if she’d turn up tonight.”

“Wait, what?” I said, trying to process . . . well, so very many things about all the words he’d just said. Apparently this ghost-hunting society wasn’t as secret as we’d initially thought.

“Oh, Evelyn,” he said, that indulgent smile appearing again. “Did you think I’d never gotten over you?”

“I’d say it was pretty clear you’d gotten over me after I caught—um, I mean, heard you were fucking someone else,” I shot back. “I don’t think we even technically broke up, it just kind of ended after that.”

“Well.” His smile tightened. “It appears you got over me just fine. I saw the coverage of your marriage in the local news periodical, with your handsome fellow. And I understand congratulations are in order?” He gestured to my stomach. “I just read that bit.”

“Uh, right. Thanks.”

Ugh. Fuck you very much, Maisy.

“Let’s back up,” Aveda said. For once, she was the one trying to employ that soothing, placating tone—usually I was Good Cop. “Your, uh, paramour—who is she?”

“Ms. Leonora Quinn,” he said, smiling at us as if this was supposed to mean something. “She’s the head of the Ethnic Studies department—”

“Wait, this is the white woman who’s head of Ethnic Studies?” I exclaimed, remembering Pippa’s commentary.

“And she also runs a ghost-hunting society?” Aveda said, raising a brow.

“Indeed, indeed,” Richard said, beaming with pride. “She is a very accomplished woman, an old soul—I felt such an instant connection with her. And she’s taught me so much about the history of this campus. I had no idea, for example, that the woman in the wagon is Morgan College’s oldest known ghost, with sightings going back to the school’s beginnings.”

“That’s a long time to haunt a place,” Aveda mused.

“Indeed.” Richard nodded and sipped his tea. “Her story—what the ghost-hunting society has been able to piece together of it—is quite melancholy. Her two small children got lost during her wagon train’s expedition, and then she herself disappeared when she broke off from the rest of her party to go look for them. She was by herself, so no one knows what happened to her.”

“Richard,” I said slowly, “do you or your, er, paramour know anything about a bartender ghost who haunts Mara Dash dorm parties? And possibly serves people some kind of supernatural truth serum?”

“That doesn’t sound familiar, I’m afraid,” he said, fiddling with his teacup.

“Then would it be possible to speak to Leonora?” I pressed. “We need to get more information on all the ghostly legends on campus—you know, stuff that goes beyond the standard information that’s out there. Stuff from people who have been researching every last corner of this, and know things no one else does.”

“Ahh, I’ve always loved the spirit with which you approach academic research,” Richard said, nodding approvingly at me as if I’d just correctly answered a question in class. “At this hour, I’m afraid my paramour is otherwise engaged. She’s an early riser and tends to turn in at eight p.m. on the dot every night. But . . .” He hesitated, using his spoon to scoop up the last bits of sugar at the bottom of his teacup and pop them in his mouth. For some reason, that habit had always grated on my nerves. “If your ghost haunts Mara Dash, then I might know of a way you can learn more about them. If you’re up for a little late-night adventure, that is!” He flashed us what he probably imagined to be a rakish grin.

“Oh, we’re always up for adventure,” Aveda said, giving him an imperious look. “Just please be apprised that if you do anything to hurt my best friend again, Mr. Richard, Morgan College will have an all-new ghost—yours.”

---

Richard ended up leading us back to Mara Dash. In contrast to the sonic blast of last night’s party, the dorm was now silent and completely dark, making it look especially haunted. The stone path leading up to the heavy wooden doors was shrouded in shadow, giving off a sinister air that all but ordered you to turn back. Our footsteps echoed off the forbidding gray tile of the foyer with skittery little click-click-clicks. And a sickly sense of dread seemed to ooze from every musty corner, but especially that unused fireplace—in the darkness, it looked like a gaping mouth, caught in a silent scream. Ready to swallow you whole.

“Ugh, why are we letting an annoying white man lead us into a total haunted house situation?” Aveda hissed in my ear. “This is the beginning of every Lifetime movie, and I’m pretty sure it ends with at least one of us getting murdered.”

“Good thing you already threatened to murder him, then,” I whispered back.

“This way, ladies!” Richard called out, not bothering to lower his voice. “My paramour told me about a hidden nook in this place that may have the information you want.”

“Let’s keep our voices down,” I said, giving Richard an admonishing look (that he probably couldn’t even see because it was so dark). “We don’t want to wake any of the students.”

He responded by theatrically lifting an index finger to his lips. Even in the darkness, I could see Aveda giving me a look: what did you ever see in this guy?

It was a fair question. There must have been something between us at some point, but honestly . . . what the hell. Mouse Evie may have thought herself practical, but she clearly had no common sense.

Richard led us over to the main staircase—a spiral contraption of twisty, rusty metal that looked like it was about to fall apart. Of course it creaked with every step, once again punctuating that eerie silence.

I had a flash of that déjà vu again as we crept up the stairs. What would my life have been like if I’d lived here, on campus, in this dorm? Would I have made lifelong bonds with fellow students, friendships forged in the fires of two a.m. hallway conversations and shared laundry quarters? Would I have gone to parties, developed a sense of fun instead of maturing into the stick-in-the-mud who felt massively guilty whenever she fell down on her responsibilities even a little bit? Would I have possibly discovered better romantic prospects than my condescending professor?

It was impossible to know. But as we walked up the stairs, I tried to picture it. Just for a moment. I wasn’t even sure why.

“Here’s our stop,” Richard said, once again not bothering to whisper.

We stepped into a long, dark hallway that ended in a shadowy nook of a room, framed by a pair of those old casement windows. I could make out that these windows had arched tops that almost gave things that old cathedral vibe again, but the room’s sheer smallness refuted that—it felt more like a slightly more elaborate hobbit hole, buried in this oddly shaped dorm.

“This is the Quiet Room of Mara Dash,” Richard said, as we shuffled into the nook. He reached over and felt along the wall, his brow furrowing. “And the light doesn’t work.”

“How convenient,” Aveda said, giving him side-eye.

I blinked a few times, trying to get the specifics of the room to come into focus. I could make out a lot of dark, scratched-up wood surfaces with Gothic-style architectural flourishes—a curlicue here, a carving there. Two desks in the middle of the room. And the walls were lined with towering built-in bookcases stuffed to bursting with a jumble of dusty old tomes. The room itself was also an odd shape—almost like a triangle, the wall opposite the windows ending in a weird point, a mini-angle. Probably due to the dorm being built into a hill.

“Here we are,” Richard said, using the flashlight on his phone to illuminate the room a bit more. Somehow, that single beam of light amidst the darkness made the room even creepier. “As my paramour tells it, the students who lived here back in the fifties started writing down bits of college lore and history specific to Mara Dash and storing it in this room,” Richard said. “It’s not especially organized and it’s not something that’s necessarily common knowledge, it’s more like a fun hidden surprise for anyone who discovers it. Students have been finding it every year and adding new information.”

“Wow, that’s really cool,” I said, scanning the rows and rows of decrepit-looking books. “But does that mean we have to hunt through all of this to find the right volume?”

“Ooh, are we about to pull an all-nighter?” Aveda said, her eyes sparking with interest. “Another true collegiate experience! How exciting.”

“Not all of these are student-penned volumes of lore,” Richard said. “Some of them are just regular old books. I’ve heard the lore tomes are mostly located on the bottom right shelf in the corner over there.” He swept an arm toward a particularly dusty-looking area. “So we at least have a starting point.”

“Excellent—you can leave this part to us, Professor,” Aveda said, giving him an officious nod. “We thank you for the tip, but this is where the official superheroing work begins, so we’ll take it from here.”

“Nonsense,” Richard said, giving Aveda a grin that was way too self-satisfied, considering all he’d done was lead us to one potential source of not necessarily reliable information. “I’m enjoying this little adventure so very much, and my knowledge of the college is quite extensive, even if I don’t have my paramour’s paranormal insights. I will very likely be able to provide valuable context to whatever information you might find.”

Aveda frowned. “That’s completely unnecessary—”

CLANG

We all jumped at the sudden, jarring noise that rang out through the dorm. Aveda whipped toward the door, her body going automatically into a fighting stance.

Rustle rustle CLANG CLAAAAANG

“That’s probably just a late-night drunk straggler trying to sneak in all stealthy-like,” I murmured.

“Maybe,” Aveda said, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. “But as a superheroine, it is my sworn duty to investigate, just in case something is amiss. You stay here and protect Captain Privilege.”

“I heard that,” Richard said, giving her an attempt at a jovial wink.

“You were meant to,” she said dryly, then slipped into the darkened hall.

We stood there in silence for a moment, waiting for more creepy sounds.

“All right,” I said, once it seemed that no more clanging was happening. “Shall we . . . ?” I gestured toward the dusty corner of books.

Richard led us over with his phone flashlight, and we crouched down next to the shelf. I reached out to grab a weathered green leather tome—and recoiled when my hand connected with a whole mess of cobwebs.

“Yeesh,” I said as I attempted to brush them away. Their light gossamer whispered over my skin, sending shivers up my spine. “I think this corner has been a little neglected as of late.” I finally managed to brush away enough of the cobwebs to pull the book free. As I cracked it open, Richard leaned in next to me, holding his phone up to illuminate the page.

“Thanks,” I murmured, my eyes scanning the spidery handwriting covering the crumbling pages. Some of it was faded and not entire legible, but bits stood out—accounts of students’ first days moving into Mara Dash, complaints about various teachers who were either too hard or too easy with their grading, confessions of secret crushes. Scanning over it made me feel like I could hear all these voices echoing in from the past, painting a picture of what it was like to live and study here—what it was like to find yourself during that heady period of life where anything is possible, but everything feels insurmountable.

“This is fascinating,” I said, running my fingers over the chaotic mix of handwritings. “But I don’t see anything about ghostly encounters or weird occurrences in the dorm.”

“Indeed,” Richard said, leaning in closer. “Perhaps another volume?”

I closed the green book and cast my gaze at the crowded shelf, my heart sinking. How many of these would I have to paw through before finding something?

“Ah, yes,” Richard murmured, shifting his light toward the shelf. “I recall that this was your least favorite part of academia, Evelyn: sifting through reams and reams of material just to find that one scrap of helpful information that would support your thesis.”

I turned toward him, ready to retort—and saw that his expression was actually affectionate and teasing, not the smug, superior grin I’d been expecting. His blue eyes always took on an especially sparkly cast whenever he looked at me like that. I seemed to recall that was how he’d looked at me right before we’d kissed for the first time.

In spite of, well . . . everything in my entire being that was so repulsed by him, I felt my heart skip the tiniest of beats. I shook my head, turning back to the shelf. These pregnancy hormones were really messing with my head.

“You’re right,” I conceded, refocusing on the shelf. “I hated digging through a bunch of shit just to find one little thing that might make it into my final paper.” I ran my fingertips over the book spines, hoping one of them would just tell me what to pull off the shelf. I settled on a particularly thick book with a red cover, taking it from the shelf and flipping through it.

More tales of crushes, loneliness, and mean professors. I flipped faster.

“You were good at it, though,” Richard said.

“Um, what?” I said, unable to hide my surprise.

“Why is that so shocking?” he said, laughing a little.

“Because you would fight me so hard on every little thing!” I exclaimed. “You thought all my analysis was garbage, surface, facile—and our encounter in class yesterday didn’t exactly convince me that your views have changed.”

“I pushed you because you were brilliant—you still are,” Richard said. “I thought you had the potential to be one of the leading lights in academia, and I wanted you to get there—to greatness.”

“Well . . . thanks,” I said, turning back to the book. I honestly had no idea what to do with that. My brain was humming away, trying to process. Every day at grad school had been such a battle; in the end, I had been unconvinced I was ever going to win. But Richard seemed to think I could have.

Or he was just saying that because he wanted something from me.

“Wait, there’s something,” Richard said, waving his phone at the book. “A mention of cocktails. You said we were looking for a bartender, yes?”

I homed in on the scribbles at the top of the page.

Here are some of the words I swear I overheard her say as she brewed her concoctions: “I will get her to tell the truth, I know she feels the same way. Maybe a new cocktail will make her feel inclined to do so? I’ve been experimenting with bitters lately . . . and bitter is how I’m going to feel if she doesn’t confess . . .”

I frowned, re-reading that last section. A girl obsessed with the unvarnished truth, talking about making people drinks . . .

This was sounding all too familiar. I turned the page, eager for more—and was met with a section of jagged bits of paper where a whole chunk of the book had been ripped out.

“What the hell?” I murmured, running my fingertips along the rough edges of the torn pages.

I leaned in to get a closer look.

And then everything went black.

“Oh, blast!” Richard exclaimed, just as his phone flashlight went dark. “My apologies,” he grumbled. “My battery just died.”

“Let me . . .” I fumbled around in my jacket pocket, trying to find my phone. Then realized I’d left it back in my and Aveda’s room. “I guess I can take this book back to my room, right? Given the cobwebby state of this part of the Quiet Room, I don’t think anyone will miss it.”

I tucked the book under my arm and got to my feet. The room was really pitch-black now, and I couldn’t see anything. A wave of vertigo swept over me, and I got that pre-barf feeling I’d grown all too accustomed to over the past couple months.

“Evelyn?” I heard a rustle of movement as Richard stood up and reached over to cup my elbow, steadying me.

My mouth suddenly felt dry and the nausea was sweeping over me in queasy waves—like if I moved even a millimeter, I’d definitely throw up on all of these books. I closed my eyes, trying to center myself. I didn’t want to vomit in the Quiet Room, but I also didn’t want to vomit on Richard, who would most definitely never let me forget it.

“Are you all right?” Richard said, gently turning me to face him.

I stared into the darkness, trying to make out his features. His voice sounded genuinely concerned, free of its usual pompous cadence. In spite of myself, I leaned into his touch, his hands resting on my shoulders . . . and tears sprang to my eyes. What the fuck. Were my hormones really that hard up?

But . . . no. It was the uncharacteristic kindness, the tenderness in his voice that was bringing out the tears. It made me realize just how deeply, how fully I missed that in Nate.

I missed him so fucking much . . .

“Evie?”

Before I could clock the fact that Aveda was calling to me from the doorway, light flooded the room, rendering everything way too bright. I shut my eyes instinctively, seeing nothing but spots cascading through darkness.

When I finally opened them, I nearly collapsed in shock. Aveda was standing by the entrance, her hand on the now-apparently-working light switch. And standing next to her was the last person I expected: Nate Jones. My big, beautiful husband, looking thoroughly out of place in the creepy, tweedy environs of a probably haunted women’s college.

“Nate,” I began—then realized he had a full-on glower going and it was firmly trained on something directly to my left. Or someone.

And then I realized that Richard’s hands were still on my shoulders, holding me steady and giving the impression that we were about to engage in some kind of romantic clinch.

“Why, Evelyn,” Richard said, his tone faux-jovial—and back to its usual pompous state. “Is this your beloved?”