Eyes Like the Night

by Emma Accola

  Micah’s voice became low, almost scolding. “We’re working together now, you and I. He can’t take on both of us and win.”

  “He’ll find a way to come between us.”

  “What he’s found is a way to bring us together.”

  I shook my head. “Ray Biles is after both of us. Together we will look like partners in crime.”

  “Then let’s do that. If everyone thinks we’re together, then we’ll be together. You can borrow one of my cars to get yourself to work tomorrow.”

  “Are you trying to stir the pot?”

  “Maybe. You can drive Caleb’s car.” Micah’s hands dropped from my shoulders as a shadow passed over his face. “I couldn’t bring myself to sell it. Something in the back of my mind says that one day it will be important. Anyhow, it’s yours if you want it.”

  “Not to be morbid, but I can’t promise that it won’t be used to run down another student.” The fixed expression on Micah’s face made me think he hadn’t heard me. His mind seemed to be somewhere else, an uncomfortable place. Suddenly I recalled that Caleb had died in a car accident. “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless.”

  “It’s all right,” Micah said, still not looking at me.

  But I could see that it wasn’t all right. Something made me think that it never would be. No one had ever been brought up on charges in Caleb’s death. Micah, the man who had been so successful in investigating everything for his brother in life, had been unable to serve him in his death. Living in his house amid his possessions hadn’t brought Micah any closer to finding the truth about the accident. It reminded me of why I had kept going back to the winery to work after the video, as if being where my sister was would bring her back into my life. It hadn’t worked because she had refused to set foot in any building if I was present. Some days being there had actually made me lonelier for her. Nor had being in Caleb’s house or driving his car brought solace to Micah. Suddenly I wondered how Micah could have Caleb’s car if Caleb had been killed in a car accident.

  “Did Caleb have two cars?” I asked softly.

  “No.” Micah suddenly became fierce. “If you’re wondering whether he died in the car that’s out in the garage, he didn’t.”

  I didn’t wonder because I already knew.

  “Let me get you the car remote,” he said brusquely.

  I followed him into the kitchen. He opened a cabinet that had hooks holding keys and a couple remotes. They swung and jingled as he found the right one. The key chain he handed me had a football team logo.

  “The Green Bay Packers?” I asked.

  “Caleb had a summer job on Lake Michigan when he was a college student. He kept a fondness for the area. Come with me.” Micah led me to the garage, turned on the lights, and pointed to a gleaming, late model Lexus. “There it is. When you’re ready to leave for work, text me. I’ll open the garage door for you. When you get home, you can park it in your own garage. By the way, did you program your garage door opener to respond to a button in your SUV?”

  I shook my head, still gaping at the Lexus, delighted at the car though not wanting to show it. “No, I had been using Gary’s garage door remote. Fortunately it was in my purse or the police would have it.”

  “That was lucky. Did you leave anything personal in your car?”

  “Nothing really, just shopping bags for groceries, some tissues, the registration, and the insurance card.”

  “Seriously? There’s nothing personal in your car?”

  “I’m fussy about keeping my car clean.” I cleared my throat, a little ahem. “It was my graduation present from Mom and Dad to show how proud they were of me reaching an adult milestone.”

  Micah put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  “You could hug me.”

  Micah drew me into his arms. “I could, couldn’t I?”

  Why did Micah’s embrace have to feel so amazing? I leaned into him, loving the feel of his hard male body against mine. His warmth coming through the fabric of his suit and the silk of his tie felt wonderful on my cheek. Touching him this way was entirely too easy. My hands slid under his suit coat and found the hard curve of the small of his back. His waist was slender and I pulled him more tightly against me. He smelled like hot cloth and sandalwood. We were supposed to be comforting each other, but suddenly my racing heart let me forget that. I pulled away, nervous and shy, and opened the front door. Micah noticed.

  “Ah, sweet Gracie, being vulnerable twice in two days. That must be a record. Shall I walk you home?”

  “Why would you need to walk me home?” I asked softly, thinking—hoping—it was a ruse so he could spend more time with me. “There’s only one wall between my place and yours.”

  “I want to come inside. There’s something I want to see.”

  “Just one something? Clearly you haven’t heard the rumors.”

  Micah looked both puzzled and amused. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  I took his hand. “Come with me and find out.”

  Quietly we stepped out into the cold October air. I waited while Micah locked his door. A brisk breeze from off the Pacific blew over us. In the distance the low roar of the freeway traffic lent a hum to the world as we walked across the driveway to the entrance of my townhouse. My hand hesitated before unlocking the door as I wondered whether to give him a warning. No, I would let him draw his own conclusion. Micah had already seen Gary’s office, so perhaps he had an idea of what to expect. I opened the door and we stepped inside.

  “So, this is a bit different from my place,” he said tactfully as he looked around in amazement.

  “From one side of the known universe to the other.”

  In his townhouse, Gary Kozlowski recognized no limits when indulging his love of animal prints. Zebra, cheetah, leopard, tiger, panda, and cowhide featured widely on all the upholstered furniture, drapes, carpets, and pillows. Animals graced every wall, from portraits and landscapes to the toile wallpaper with scenes of French life. Badgers, otters, bears, and horses were frozen in mid-frolic on the mantel and every shelf. The lamps on the sides of the couch were grizzly bears rearing up under the hand-painted caribou drum shades.

  “Is the whole house like this?” Micah asked as he turned a slow circle.

  “Every single room. Even the bathrooms.”

  “How long does it take to dust in here?”

  “I have no idea. A cleaning person comes in every two weeks. She’s been working for Gary for the past ten years, and he required that I keep her on the same schedule and pay her. One look at this room, and I took that deal.”

  Micah laughed. “I don’t blame you.” His smile faded and his eyes sharpened. “Show me the spare remote for your car.”

  For a moment the request puzzled me. Then my heart jumped because I knew what he was thinking. “It’s upstairs in my jewelry box.”

  “Let’s go see.”

  Anxiously I led Micah up the stairs to the bedroom where I was staying. I opened the enormous jewelry box I had received for my sixteenth birthday. The remote lay all alone in a velvet-lined drawer.

  “You’re sure that’s your remote?” Micah asked. “You’re sure that exact remote would start your car?”

  I started to nod my head, but then I froze. “No, how could I be? I only know that it looks like my remote. Without my car to try it out on, I can’t be sure. Do you suspect someone got in here and used my spare remote to start my car?”

  “Using your spare would be easier than trying to hack into your car. Your front door lock can be opened with a code. Doors like that are only as secure as the code.”

  I felt a surge of rage. “How would someone find the code?”

  Micah shrugged. “A tiny camera hidden above your front door could have recorded which buttons you pushed. Or Gary could have kept that code on a computer, and if he did, you can be sure that Harry Spice found it. And there are a number of ways around the security in the garage door opener.”

  I bit back a torrent of pr
ofanity. “Gary installed locks on all the windows and deadbolts on the doors because he traveled to Oregon so much. I thought nobody could get in here without breaking glass or kicking down a door. I thought those mechanical means could keep out Harry Spice. Silly me. I should have counted on the fact that for him there is no locked room. He’d just slither under the door.”

  Micah looked bleak. “Gary thought you’d be safe.”

  “Do you mean safe from intruders I can see like human beings? Or do you mean safe from my trusty technology? My car was used to kill another human being. What’s safe around here?”

  “Maybe you should stay at my place tonight.”

  “And what would that change?”

  “Nothing at all. I’m going to check the house to make sure there’s no one here.”

  My face tingled as I paled. I hadn’t thought that someone might still be inside. While I waited, Micah opened every closet and looked under the beds. Before leaving, he recommended putting a chair against the front door and locking my bedroom door when I went to bed. He gave me a kiss on the forehead before leaving. After Micah left, a terrible kernel of fury began burning deep inside me. It was hot, but it didn’t quite put out the cold fear that I had just begun a long descent into Harry Spice’s deep abyss.

  *

  The next morning a knock sounded on my office door. I opened it to find a young woman with a notebook and a young man with a camera that wasn’t built into a cell phone. Both were wearing Bailey College sweatshirts, and neither was in any of my classes. This pair was from the campus newspaper, no doubt wanting an interview about what had happened to Loren Hernandez. I had been expecting this, for the campus had an award-winning journalism program; nevertheless, I couldn’t say that I found their visit to be welcome.

  “Dr. Meadows?” asked a young woman with bright, searching eyes and a wide smile.

  “Yes?”

  “I am Elina Sokolov and this is Tremaine Bender. We’re from the campus newspaper and we’d like to talk to you about the fatal hit-and-run that occurred yesterday. We know your vehicle was used and that the victim was one of your students.”

  I hoped she didn’t see the angry twitch of my lips when I offered an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I can’t help you much. My car had been stolen and the thief ran Loren down while trying to escape campus. The fact that Loren was one of my students is a coincidence. I have nothing more to add other than to say that I hope the person who killed him is brought to justice.”

  Elina, a brunette with long hair and a spray of freckles over her nose and cheeks, wasn’t easily put off. She was tall, slender, and had a determined set to her chin. “Yes, but how was it stolen? The days of hot-wiring a car are over. The thief would have needed a chip key or a remote. And I see a remote there on your desk.”

  “The police are investigating how the car got started,” I said, growing cool.

  “You don’t know?”

  “No, how could I? That’s a question for an automotive engineer.” I became businesslike. “I’m afraid I’m very busy right now.”

  “Just a couple more questions.”

  “Ah, no, thank you.”

  Elina became firm. “Professor, as you can imagine, the students on this campus are alarmed that one of us was killed in the parking lot by a car owned by a faculty member. A student lies dead.”

  “Yes, I am well aware of that. Did you know him?” I asked sharply.

  “I’m a reporter. Whether I knew him is beside the point.”

  “I did know him. This is personal for me. Right now my thoughts and prayers are with his family. I’m cooperating with the police, and I’m afraid that anything I might say would jeopardize the investigation. You’ll understand if I have nothing more to add.”

  Elina stood firm. “Are you worried that Loren Hernandez’s family will sue you? Is that why you’re being so tight-lipped?”

  I got to my feet. “I’m not willing to talk about my vehicle or the victim during an ongoing investigation.” I put my hand on the door and started to close it. “Good-bye.”

  Elina didn’t move out of the doorway. “Of course we wouldn’t want to jeopardize an investigation. But I’m just so sorry someone had to die.” Her stare was bold and not at all sympathetic. “Understand that asking the hard questions is part of my grade.” She pointed to the photographer who was raising his camera. “And his. We really can’t go back to the newspaper empty-handed.”

  “Your concern for Loren is heartwarming, but this is a police matter. They’ll be able to answer your questions. I wasn’t at the accident scene so I have nothing to say.”

  “But, Professor, this is your chance to set the record straight.”

  My woman’s intuition sensed a trap. “The record, as you called it, is straight.”

  “I’m afraid not.” Elina lowered her voice. Her eyes looked past me to the surface of my desk. “There are rumors, you know, about how you were careless with your keys or that you gave the car remote to someone to run down Loren Hernandez.”

  My voice grew sharp because during Harry Spice’s trial I had been accused of being careless with keys. “I won’t dignify that with an answer.”

  Elina gave me a triumphant smile as if pleased to have gotten a rise out of me. “Professor, pardon me for saying this, but you had motive to hurt the victim.”

  “That’s absurd. Now get out of my doorway or I’ll call the campus police to come and have you removed.”

  “Loren Hernandez was filing a complaint against you.”

  I froze, sure Elina had said this to manipulate me. Students commonly filed complaints about professors, generally when they were unhappy with their grades or when they were dropped from a class for nonattendance and lost their financial aid. Sometimes students even filed complaints because they didn’t like their classmates or something another student said. I couldn’t fathom why Loren would have had a complaint. He had excellent grades, perfect attendance, and pleasant, congenial classmates.

  Elina saw my indecision and grew smug. “No one has told you?”

  “Told me what?”

  Elina’s smile became a smirk. “Loren had filled out a form saying that you were sexually harassing him. He wrote that you ordered him to come to your office at night and that your words to him were sexually charged. You demanded sexual favors for a good grade.”

  I glared, unable to believe her. I’d never once seen Loren outside the classroom and had no memory of him ever coming to my office. He was easily passing my class, but due to federal rules regarding the privacy of student records, I couldn’t share even that much with this student reporter. Her smug assurance made me hesitate.

  “Loren’s mother found the complaint form filled out in the tray of his printer,” Elina went on, not missing the chink in my armor. Her eyes darted around my face searching for any trace of emotion. “He was murdered before he had the chance to turn it in. But don’t worry. His mother has already given it to the police. She told me all about it. Do you care to comment?”

  “Get out.”

  Elina didn’t move. “Everyone knows how you had your boyfriend Micah Ekstrand fire all the attractive girls who worked as student clerks in his department. They’re saying how jealous you are. One of them told me how she saw you unbutton your blouse lower before going into his office.”

  I slowly started to close the door in Elina’s face.

  “And have you seen your reviews on the professor-rating sites?” she cried, stepping backward into the hallway as the door closed. “You’re being called the ‘molester professor.’”

  My heart hammered into my ears. Once the door was closed, I sagged into my chair. Harry Spice. He had done this. He had given me a motive to hurt one of my students. My computer chimed with a new email. The name of the sender and the subject line floated in the corner of the screen for a few seconds before fading away like fog in the sun. The Dean of English wanted to see me. I put my head down on my arms and didn’t bother to stop the tears. I stil
l hadn’t forgotten the atmospheric rush of joy I had felt when offered this yearlong position. To have attained a full-time appointment straight out of graduate school had been a stroke of good fortune that had left me walking on air. Most of us expected to toil as part-time instructors for several years before receiving a full-time job, even only a temporary one. As high as the joy of this job had taken me, I thought how low I could fall.

  I lay down in the fetal position on Gary’s loveseat. Who would I call for some words of comfort? Not Tamra, for she was still off the grid. My sister had slapped me out of her life as if I were a stinging fly. My parents merely tolerated me. The last time I saw them for dinner at a restaurant, they had little to say and kept looking at the table as if they preferred its company to mine. I wanted to call Micah, but why would he want to be dragged into this slow hell? Elina seemed to have a ferocious ambition, and no doubt she would make an appearance in his office if she hadn’t done so already. If Micah were to be seen with me now, questions about his judgment would arise. Why should he put his reputation on the line?

  I pulled myself together long enough to answer the dean’s email. I typed that I was free now, and he replied immediately, saying that I should come to his office in a few minutes and that it would be fine if I wanted a union representative with me. That suggestion chilled my blood. Why would I need a union rep? It wasn’t as if I had been charged with a crime. Would saying that I did make me seem guilty? The feeling started to leave my legs.

  I lay back down on the love seat and pulled my knees up to my chest. A lump burned hard and hot in my throat. I could hear faculty and students passing by in the hallway, chatting, completely unaware that my heart was breaking just on the other side of the door. Five minutes passed before I got up and dragged a brush through my hair and checked my makeup. My tears had smudged my eyeliner, annoying me. I fixed my eyeliner, squared my shoulders, and opened my office door as if my life were easy.

  The walk down the long hallway to the English Department office seemed surreal. My legs found the strength to carry me, and my mouth smiled in return to the greetings of others. People are always pleasant to the new hire, right? I wondered how long that would last once the rumors reached every ear. Gossip flashed through this department quicker than lightning, much faster even than in my family’s winery. The dean’s administrative assistant waved me into his office. The dean waited for me not at his desk, but at his conference table. Surprising me, the union representative, a trim young woman who taught French, was already there. She gave me an anxious smile. Without being asked, I closed the door behind me.