Catherine Flynn was at the opposite end of the hallway, strolling in my direction.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit.”
I closed the door as quietly as I could and locked it, looking around the room for an alternate escape route. The windows behind Flynn’s desk were my only hope, but the first two I tried to open had been painted shut. The third one, thank goodness, I was able to pry free from its position and wrench wide.
Flynn’s key jingled in the doorknob behind me. Sending up a silent prayer that I wouldn’t fall off a fourth-floor windowsill and die a horribly messy death, I hoisted myself up and out of the window. A stone ledge was attached to the brick building beneath the window. It was only about a foot wide, but it was enough space for me to step out on to. The ground swam four floors below me, and a sudden deluge of nausea hit me. I swallowed it back, nudging the window closed with my elbow, and edged as far out of view of Flynn’s office as the ledge allowed me.
As I heard Flynn rummaging around in her file cabinet, my heart pounded so loudly that I feared it might give me away. One window ledge over, a rickety fire escape creaked in response to the wintry breeze that threatened to knock me off the side of the building. The jump from my ledge to the next was only a few feet, but it was the long drop to the snowy ground that made me think twice about that short hop. With no other options, I took one big, steadying breath and leapt to the other ledge.
One foot landed soundly. The other slipped right off the icy stone. I windmilled my arms, leaning forward, and grabbed a hold of the rusted metal fire escape. It responded with a loud clang that echoed through the quadrangle.
“Oh, Christ.”
I climbed over the railing to get on the correct side of the fire escape and took the stairs down two at a time. It wasn’t a quiet getaway. Every step was accompanied by an obstreperous protest from the aged fire escape. When I finally reached the ground, I pulled the hood of my snow jacket up over my head and sprinted away, keeping to the shadows of the buildings, but as I crossed the quadrangle, I could’ve sworn I heard the sound of a window opening and slamming shut again.
In the dark parking lot behind the quad, I found Wes sitting in his squad car. He leaned across the cabin to push open the passenger side door as soon as I emerged from the dim coverage of the campus oak trees.
“Get in,” he whispered, beckoning me toward him.
I slid inside and closed the door. “Go, go, go.”
He peeled silently out of the lot and on to the little road that circled back toward on-campus housing.
“I thought you didn’t want to be involved,” I said, holding my frosty hands in front of the heater vents. The inside of Wes’s squad car was delightfully warm compared to outside.
“I didn’t,” Wes said, “but you were gone for a while, and I didn’t want you to freeze to death.”
“Much appreciated.”
Wes rolled through a stop sign. “So?”
“So what?”
“Did you find anything?”
I glanced over at him. “You really want to know? I can keep you out of it like you asked.”
As he guided the car into the parking lot behind our apartment building, Wes said, “Honestly, Nicole, as soon as I heard you leave earlier, I realized that if I ever lost you because I refused to back you up and keep you safe out of fear of losing my job, I’d never forgive myself.”
“Baby, I wasn’t shipped off to ’Nam.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said, turning the car off and stepping out. “But still. Come on, let’s get inside.”
Wes wrapped an arm around my shoulders, drawing me tightly to his side as we headed up the stairs to our apartment. As I stamped the snow out of my boots and hung my jacket up to dry, I asked Wes, “Does this mean you’d be willing to track down the owner of an email account for me?”
“Right now?” He sidestepped Franklin, who seemed confused that we were both still awake at such a late hour, and started gathering ingredients for hot chocolate.
“If you don’t mind.”
Wes turned on the stove. “You do this,” he said, handing me a sauce pan and the jug of whole milk. “What’s the email address?”
I showed him the picture on my phone. As he sat down at the counter and booted up his laptop, I busied myself with the hot chocolate process. A few minutes later, I set a steaming cup full of chocolate and marshmallows in front of Wes, who nodded his thanks and took a sip.
“Any luck?” I asked.
“Just one minute.”
I waited patiently, blowing cool air across the surface of my own drink before taking a sip.
“Okay,” Wes said. He picked a marshmallow off the top of his drink and fed it to Franklin. “To no one’s surprise, it looks like that address is managed by one Orson Lockwood.”
“Seriously?” I scooched closer and rested my chin on Wes’s arm to get a better look at the laptop screen. “Which Lockwood is he? I’ve honestly lost track.”
“He owns Lockwood Inc.,” Wes said, zooming in on a picture of Orson. He was a handsome guy for his age, mid-fifties maybe, with a full head of jet-black hair, a razor-straight nose, and the whitest teeth I’d ever seen.
“He’s Lauren’s father, then? The girl that got busted alongside Donovan Davenport?”
“Looks that way.”
I leaned over the counter, resting my forehead on the back of my hands. Franklin nosed my thigh, but I was too distracted by the information spinning around in my head to toss him another marshmallow.
“Franklin, get down,” said Wes. His warm hand found its way underneath my T-shirt, where he rubbed my back in slow, serene circles. “You okay, Nic?”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “I’m just
