Though her skin heated at the memory of him calling her beautiful, she couldn’t ignore the rest. Anyone who paid too much attention was a hazard, especially if her heartbeat scrambled when she was near him.
Her precarious situation posed enough danger without upping the ante by inviting the enemy to find her. Gabriel Moss was a reporter, the last person a woman with secrets should know.
“Ms. Abbott? I’m Delilah Weems, Mr. Singleton’s secretary.” An older woman with clothes as dark as Amber’s were bright motioned Erin to follow. They wound through the bank to a suite of glassed-in offices. Ms. Weems ushered her into one and firmly shut the door. “You’re here to see Mr. Singleton?”
“Yes. I’m in New Orleans for a conference.” Erin smiled reassuringly. “I didn’t have an appointment, but Burleigh always told me to just stop by when I was in town.”
“Are you from San Cabes?”
“California?” Erin felt her blood run cold. “Wh-why? Why do you ask?”
“Amber indicated that you were an old friend. I assumed you were from his hometown.” Ms. Weems gave her a narrow, suspicious look. The young woman was halfagain Mr. Singleton’s age and dressed entirely too casually. “Exactly how did you know him?”
Erin was prepared for the question. “Business school. The alumni association. Burleigh was great to younger alums. He got me my first job in New York. Told me if I was ever in New Orleans, I should look him up.” Then she frowned and bent toward the dubious Ms. Weems. “You used the past tense. You asked me, ‘How did you know him?’ Has something happened to Burleigh?”
Tears pooled in Ms. Weems’s eyes, and she choked out a sob. “Mr. Singleton died not long ago. He was murdered.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said sincerely. Erin shifted to pat awkwardly at the woman’s sleeve. “What happened?”
Ms. Weems hiccupped. “The police said he was attacked behind the bank. They think it must have been a mugging.”
Comforting the woman, Erin gently probed for information. “Had you worked for him long?”
“Nearly fifteen years. He was such a kind soul. And an excellent boss. Punctual. Polite. Never a cross word.” Ms. Weems covered Erin’s hand with her own. “I miss him so.”
Erin stayed in the office for another twenty minutes, listening to Ms. Weems recount stories of her time with Mr. Singleton. According to her, he’d been a generous man who hadn’t an enemy in the world.
Except a mugger no one could find.
She left the bank, her thoughts turning to the links she’d found between her life as Analise and the two victims. A dust jacket and a tiny mountain town in California. Two strangers living in a city of thousands whose lives shared eerie connections to her past. A past she couldn’t reveal without jeopardizing her freedom.
It was one more terrible decision she would be forced to make because of Nathan Rhodes. One more in a series that had begun more than a decade before.
Callenwolde University, tucked along a curve in the San Francisco Bay, had been training exceptional students for more than a century. Mornings in September were crisp, with the bite of fall in the air. The semester was in full swing, and students had resigned themselves to another bout of classes.
In marked contrast, Analise tried to tamp down her excitement as she parked her bike outside the Linguistics building. The clear, brisk weather matched her mood perfectly. She jogged across the lawn and took the stairs two at a time. Students filed out of the building, but few spoke to her. She’d been on campus for more than a year, but her reputation kept her isolated, even among those like her. Orphaned weeks after coming to campus, she was accustomed to the loneliness. Welcomed it.
Today, though, she didn’t notice. She’d called Dr. Rhodes last night, asking for an appointment to show him her draft text on the linguistic similarities in a Malaysian dialect and one found in the jungles of Brazil. After working hard on it all summer, she was so excited to show him her discovery, she’d e-mailed the document at midnight. If he found it persuasive, perhaps he would agree to co-author the final paper. To publish with Dr. Rhodes would be an honor, one only select graduate students experienced, let alone a college junior. At sixteen, she was younger than many of them, but she had been studying language her entire life.
She keyed in her access code for the laboratory wing and, when the panel coded green, she heaved open the thick glass doors and rushed through. It was her finest work yet, she thought. Her parents would have been so proud. A wave of grief caught her and she stumbled to a halt. Bodies pressed past her, but she didn’t move.
Guilt overwhelmed excitement. She couldn’t blame them for sending her away. Though she’d fought them, she had required closer supervision than either of them could provide. She could finally admit that their difficult decision to leave her in California had been the best choice for all concerned. It wasn’t as though they’d abandoned her. No, Callenwolde and the famed Dr. Nathan Rhodes were the only choice. He had promised careful attention to the brilliant but troubled teen.
Still, she wondered, if she’d been a better daughter, would they still be alive? Would they still be with her? Every day, she missed them. Missed her life with her parents and Sebastian and his mother, Mrs. Cain.
“No more wallowing,” Analise muttered to herself. “Dr. Rhodes is waiting.”
He was an exacting man who had little time for social niceties with a teenager. Quickly installed in a dormitory, she only saw him during their monthly meetings. He didn’t approve of the way she’d used her talents before Callenwolde. A regular on the gameshow circuit and on talk shows, all that had ended.
Today she’d prove that she was more than a sideshow attraction. The paper she’d worked on in secret would make her a scholar.
Beyond the communal laboratory, the professors maintained their offices, which increased in size depending on the length of tenure. She halted outside Dr. Rhodes’s office, suddenly stricken with worry. He was an academic marvel, a renowned scientist, like her mother. He was also a writer, like her father. She’d read every one of his books, and longed to see her name imprinted on a monograph one day soon.
However, her hesitation was as much feminine as it was intellectual. In addition to his remarkable intellect, Nathan Rhodes was quite handsome.
At forty-three, he had no physical interest in her, she realized, but basic vanity prompted her to touch up her lipgloss and run nervous fingers through hair that tended to escape its confines.
Inside the office, Nathan Rhodes waited for Analise. The child was infuriatingly prompt, another of the imp’s perfections. The currently maddening example smirked up from the bare surface of his desk. No other papers cluttered the top, but not because of neatness or a pursuit of order. Nathan doggedly locked all of his personal work in the filing cabinets behind him until he required a document. The more important documents were safeguarded in his desk.
The world of academe was brutal, filled with cutthroats and thieves; and, he acknowledged dryly, he was among the more creative. His peers, such as they were, harbored bitter resentment against him. He was famous, popular, and prolific, the stuff of fantasies for the administration. His spacious office, inflated salary, and five teaching assistants proved his worth to his struggling contemporaries. He was one of the most admired men in his field. As a particularly astute journal article had phrased it, he was a creature of talent envied by all.
Nathan drummed thin, tapered fingers on the paper on his desk. He had once toyed with the idea of becoming a concert pianist. At his Juilliard recital, when he’d placed second, he had stormed from the concert hall and enrolled at NYU the next week. Staring at the slim lines of bone and flesh, he remembered the vicious pulse of disappointment. Second was unacceptable.
Which raised the issue of Analise Glover. Again, he thumbed through the sheets of white, with their black text. She had done a magnificent job. Using source texts and fables from two cultures, she’d linked them together. Others had postulated the travels between ancie
nt worlds, but the child who sat in his social linguistics class had proven it. Her writing was crisp, eloquent. It brought the academic reader to the point quickly and thoroughly, but would not alienate the amateur. It was a brilliant document. Too brilliant.
“Dr. Rhodes?” Analise called out, following a light tapping on the door. Nathan did not respond immediately. One waited for greatness; greatness did not hurry. She said his name a second time, her voice growing less certain.
Nathan understood nuance, and he understood Analise. He wanted her intellect because it would suit his goals. He needed her idolization because otherwise, she would surpass him. The trick would be to cultivate them without losing control. Her third, more timid request for admission assured him he could have both.
“Come,” he instructed. The heavy wood swung silently on its hinges, and she peered inside. “Ms. Glover. Please sit.”
Erin moved to the leather chair opposite his desk and sat, legs crossed. The floral summer skirt covered her knees, but left toned legs bare. Glancing up, Analise thought she caught him staring. For an instant, she felt self-conscious, then dismissed the feeling. She may have a crush on Dr. Rhodes; however, he was too worldly, too handsome, to think of her in that way.
Nathan pushed the pages across the desk to her. “Would you consider this your best work, Ms. Glover?”
Analise reached for the paper, but he did not release it. Instead, she rested tentative fingertips on the title page. “I think this is the most thorough research I’ve conducted. The idea is novel. I couldn’t locate other texts on the matter, besides supposition.”
“Is this your best work?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I will kindly ask you to leave my program!” he bellowed suddenly, ripping the pages from her. In an instant, he reduced the hours of research to narrow shreds of paper. “How many times must I tell you? I have no time for dreamers. Either do the work or get out! Do you understand me?” Nathan’s fists pounded the table, close to her hand. The edge of his ring caught her skin, leaving a small mark.
“Yes, sir,” she stammered. The cut from the ring stung; less though, than the destruction of her work. Language was all she knew. She’d been bred to understand it, trained and studied because of her rare facility for words. She wanted to protest, but anxiety crowded into her throat and she did not move. If he sent her away, where would she go? “What’s wrong with the research?”
“It’s drivel! Who cares about the ties between two communities no one has ever heard of? Do you really think you are the first person to unearth this great find? Of course not! But others had the good sense to see it was meaningless. Meaningless.”
“I–I didn’t realize.” Tears burned behind her eyes, and Analise struggled not to weep. I’m too inexperienced, she thought desperately. I have nowhere else to go. “My folk tales professor—”
“Is a moron!” Nathan finished. “We have a waiting list, Analise. A very long one. While your story is tragic, there are others who are willing to work hard. I’m sure the courts will find you a nice home until you’re eighteen.”
“Dr. Rhodes—” Her heart pounded, echoed in her ears, and she fought not to cry. He was going to make her leave. “What—what can I do to stay?”
Pleased by the fear, Nathan smiled sympathetically. He had expected her groveling response, had counted on it. He had plans for her. Plans that would keep her close, and keep him on top. As abruptly as the explosion began, he subsided. “I think we have made a grave error with your studies here. You have focused your entire life on one area. It has blinded you.”
She swallowed hard, twice, before she could speak. “Yes. Sir.”
“We can salvage the situation, but you must agree to follow my instructions. Can you do that?”
Hope bloomed inside her, an unfamiliar sensation, and she felt a tremulous smile begin. “Yes. I can do that.”
“Good. Good.” Nathan rose from his chair and stood near the window. In the bright morning, he knew the image he cut. Tweed jacket, collar open to reveal the strong line of his throat, the proud angle of his chin. On dust jackets across the country, the ascetic profile of the eminent Dr. Rhodes was knowingly the same each time. The pose caught him as both striking and austere.
Nathan walked over to her and patted her hand. The slender fingers were elegant, lovely actually. She too could have played. Perhaps he’d teach her. Nodding sagely, he twisted the screws. “You don’t have too many friends here, do you, Analise?”
“No, sir. I haven’t had much time.”
He sniffed with disdain. “I doubt you’ve ever even had a boyfriend like normal girls.”
“No,” she whispered, doubts swirling.
“Yet, you’ve been here for a year and a half now.” He patted her shoulder. “It is to be expected, given your freakish upbringing.”
“Freakish?” She’d called herself a freak a million times, but the taunt from him felt like a blow.
Enjoying himself now, and the glazed look in her eyes, Nathan continued, “Semantically speaking. You have abnormal linguistic skills. You were reared by two intellectually abnormal parents. By any definition, you are a freak.”
When he explained it, it seemed less like an insult. “I–I never thought about it.”
“I have. So did your parents. I have taken this past year to observe you, and while I am still willing to work with you, I must set rigorous conditions. I will expect hard work, no excuses. Under my guidance, I will introduce you to the finest minds in your area.”
“Thank you.”
He approached her chair, laid an affectionate hand on her shoulder. “Leave everything to me. You have a good mind, Analise, I’m sure you know. But perhaps you’ve spent too much time studying only language. You are too close.” Carefully, Nathan swept the shredded pages into the wastebasket by his feet, secure in the knowledge that the original was secured in his hard drive. A few tweaks, he thought, and it would be ready for publication.
Another triumph for Dr. Nathan Rhodes. He easily smiled at her then. “I think it would be best if you selected another major, and chose linguistics as your minor. Keep your options open.”
“I’m already a junior,” she protested, a spark of resistance flaring. “It’s too late to change my major. And I’m good at it.” Years spent traveling to universities to be tested and studied had demonstrated that at least. “I want to be a linguist.”
Smiling beneficently, Nathan nodded and lied. “It may not be your forte. Your parlor tricks with words might amaze the pedestrian crowds who watched you when you were a child, but this is college. This is serious.”
Analise flushed miserably. Images of late night talk shows, where she’d stunned the audience with obscure lexicon drawn from dead languages, of game shows where adults bowed in defeat, suddenly embarrassed her.
She had once reveled in being different, but now, she wanted something different. Though she’d fought her parents, part of her welcomed the stability of college. She’d come to Callenwolde to become a scholar, no longer a rara avis, a freak show for the college crowd. “I want to study linguistics. I want to be taken seriously.”
“We set others’ opinions of us early. You chose to exploit your talents for profit and fame. It will take more than a shallow analysis like that,” he gestured to the discarded scraps, “to compel anyone to take you seriously.”
“This is what I know.”
“Form cannot prevail over substance in the academy.” His capped teeth snapped together into a condescending smile. “You’d do well to think of other options, my dear. Eggs and baskets. You know the saying.”
Hearing dismissal, Erin grew afraid. Fear, unfamiliar and oily, smeared her voice. She couldn’t go back onto the circuit, an object of curiosity for the public. He had to let her stay. “If I change my major, I can remain in the program?” She threaded icy fingers together in her lap.
“Yes.” Gratified that she’d followed his lead so quickly, he pounced. “What would you stud
y?”
Stunned by the reprieve, she searched for an answer. It would not do to have him think her limited. Then she knew. “Psychology.”
“Why?”
Analise didn’t answer aloud. How could she explain the need to understand the people around her, hoping she might understand herself?
“No matter. Psychology it is.”
Erin rode her bike along the mid-day street, shaken by the memory. It would be a small victory if Nathan’s tyranny helped her save another person’s life. A small but vital balance to the scales of justice.
Phoebe Bailey’s digs were a far cry from the historical charm of the Lower Garden District or the tony mansion Singleton’s family had inherited. She lived in a shotgun cottage on the outskirts of the neighborhood, where seediness nipped at the historical legacy. The home that had been the dancer’s had been quickly turned over to new, taciturn occupants.
Moving to the next bungalow, Erin introduced herself as a reporter and found herself ushered inside a dimly lit parlor that smelled of peppermints and biscuits. After making small talk, Erin broached the subject of Phoebe Bailey’s murder.
“The police aren’t trying hard enough,” Mrs. Caroline Littlejohn complained, a wizened old woman with skin the color of maple leaves in autumn. The ancient voice shook in outrage. “It’s because she was a dancer. Not a hoity-toity hotshot.”
“I understand they found her at the menagerie.” The stabled horses were rented out for carriage rides. Erin had been to the stables in the Quarter a few times, as her own version of therapy.
She remembered how horses had terrified Nathan, which had been reason enough for her to sneak out of the house when he was in class. She’d learned to ride in secret, a tiny triumph over his tyranny. The sorrel mare called Willow had become her confidante. Until the day Erin’s riding instructor passed her and Nathan at a play and complimented her on her improvement.
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