Miss Costello,
With the extended absence of Professor George O’Connor, it has come to the department’s attention that you no longer have access to a readily available thesis advisor. A new advisor has been assigned to you. Please contact Dr. Catherine Flynn, Dean of Arts and Humanities, to set up an appointment with her.
Regards,
Jacob Blackburn
Waverly University
However, it turned out that I didn’t even have to go to the trouble of contacting Dr. Catherine Flynn, because the next email was from the dean herself.
Miss Costello,
As your new advisor, I would like to speak to you about your thesis as soon as possible. I took it upon myself to check your class schedule and noticed that you are available tomorrow morning at 9:00. I am located in Research Hall, Room 410. Please be prompt.
Regards,
Dr. Catherine Flynn
Dean of Arts and Humanities
Waverly University
It was clear that this Catherine Flynn did not waste any time. I’d only heard about her in passing and seen her signature on a few of O’Connor’s documents, but I’d never met her. I now had no other option. I sent a quick email back, saying that I’d see her tomorrow, then packed up my things to head home. If Flynn wanted to discuss my thesis, she was in for a major disappointment. What with O’Connor’s disappearance, the extra classes I’d been teaching, and my foray into investigative journalism, I’d all but forgotten to pick a topic for my thesis. This meeting was bound to be a disaster.
4
Research Hall was across the quadrangle from the Arts and Humanities Building. I’d been there once or twice to run errands for O’Connor. It was drafty and dark inside, as though the university custodians had forgotten to replace several of the fluorescent light bulbs. An elegant wooden staircase was featured in the center of the lobby, bordered on either side by an ornate banister and lined with one long Oriental rug. As I headed upstairs, the carpet muffled my steps as if to subdue my presence in the building. I ran my hand along the smooth mahogany of the banister, marveling at its craftsmanship. Then I caught a glimpse of my watch. It was three minutes to nine o’clock, and Catherine Flynn would surely not accept my appreciation of the building’s design as an excuse for my tardiness.
On the fourth floor, I was out of breath from taking the steps two at a time, and of course, Room 410 was at the end of a lengthy wood-paneled hallway. I jogged toward it, earning a look of consternation from a passing professor. Flynn’s name was printed on the frosted window set in the door. I knocked gently, smoothing my hair back in the hopes of appearing more collegiate and less windswept.
“Enter.”
Flynn’s office was twice the size of O’Connor’s. A towering bookshelf adorned one entire wall, and if my eyes didn’t deceive me, it was stocked full with rare first editions. A sculpture of a crow, made entirely of onyx, served as a single bookend. On the opposite side of the office, Flynn had hung her multitude of degree certifications in gilded frames as if to showcase her individual devotion to higher learning. Flynn herself sat behind an immense ebony desk set against a triptych of windows. Sunlight streamed in, bathing Flynn in a pale aureate glow. She was a hawk of a woman with raven-black hair, sharp eyes, a streamlined nose, and thin lips. She stood as I approached her desk, and if her severe features weren’t intimidating enough, she’d topped the effect off with a slim black power suit and a pair of sky-high gold heels, both of which belonged more on a Milan runway than on the Waverly campus.
“You’re late, Miss Costello,” she chided.
It was only two minutes past nine o’clock, but late was late to Catherine Flynn. “My apologies,” I said, reaching out to shake her hand. Her grip was firm and cold. “This building’s a bit of a maze.”
“Hm. Have a seat.”
I sank down in one of the leather chairs opposite her desk, its deep seat swallowing me, and unbuttoned my coat. Flynn paced leisurely behind her desk, reading through a manila file folder. After a few minutes of silence, I cleared my throat to remind her that I was there. She glanced up.
“Would you care for a cough drop, Miss Costello?” she asked, and though her tone was even and polite, the offer was clearly rhetorical.
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
“Hm,” she said again. “I see here you’ve worked as O’Connor’s graduate teaching assistant for three consecutive semesters now?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you never thought to diversify your experience?”
“Sorry?”
She regarded me over the top of her black-rimmed designer reading glasses. “Waverly hosts a number of distinguished professors. I only wondered why you limited your interactions with the faculty to Professor O’Connor.”
“Oh, I certainly didn’t mean to,” I said, trying and failing to sit up straight in my chair. Though glamorous, the chair’s design wasn’t conducive to a professional posture. “I simply admire O’Connor’s style of teaching.”
“And yet, if you had perhaps shown more interest in other professors in your department, you might not have found yourself in such a situation,” commented Flynn.
“What situation is that?”
“Mere months away from graduation and lacking a thesis advisor,” she retorted, circling around to my side of the desk. She leaned against it, crossing one long leg over the other. “O’Connor’s vacation time has undoubtedly set you back.”
I gave up on the chair, moving to the edge of the seat in a half-hearted attempt to exert an air of confidence. “To be fair,” I began, “O’Connor was perfectly reliable before his disappearance. Shouldn’t the university be more worried about the fact that one of their ‘distinguished professors’ inexplicably disappeared rather than implying his sudden absence at school is
