“She’s one of them, isn’t she?” asked Jo, peering over my shoulder to get a glimpse of the email.
I locked the phone so that the screen was no longer visible. “I thought you didn’t want to know.”
“I don’t.”
“Listen, Jo,” I said, squeezing her shoulder in what I hoped was a reassuring gesture. “I can’t promise you that I’m going to stay out of this. If anything, I’m already neck deep. You should steer clear, though. I won’t fault you for that.”
She gave me a hard look then nodded. “Give them hell.”
“I intend to.”
I avoided the library over the weekend in the hopes that BRS would think I’d dropped my investigation. Wes was more than pleased about me stepping out of the line of fire. He was just as motivated as I was to figure out what was going on behind closed doors at Waverly and had put in more effort at work to get in on O’Connor’s case. Wes thought that a discreet approach would be more beneficial to us, but no amount of eavesdropping at the station revealed anything else about how Officer Wilson or other members of the force might be involved. Wes was frustrated, as was I, and it made for stressful days and restless nights.
On Monday morning, I reported to Research Hall for my scheduled meeting with Flynn. I was early this time, with a good fifteen minutes to spare. As I lifted heavy feet up the carpeted staircase, my stomach fluttered with anxiety. The details of BRS’s dreadful affairs circulated through my mind. I was not looking forward to coming face-to-face with one of the society’s highest-ranking members again. On the fourth floor, I took a deep breath and knocked lightly on Flynn’s office door.
The door swung open, and I instinctively stepped back. A tall man, in his late fifties or so, stood in Flynn’s office, a benign smile plastered across a handsome face that I recognized at once. I’d seen him countless times in black-and-white newspaper photos, the adjoining article always praising him for some positive societal impact or another. Behind him, Catherine Flynn sat at her desk. Together, they looked like the sort of power couple most of us could only dream of being a part of: both tall, dark, and thin. The man beckoned me inside with a flourish of his hand and a polite inclination of his head.
“You must be Nicole,” the man said. He offered me his hand. “Dr. Flynn’s told me all about you. My name is Orson Lockwood.”
I forced myself to shake his hand. His palm was smooth, as if he’d never done a hard day’s work in his entire life, and he barely squeezed my hand. It was an annoying gesture. I always thought men who refused to give women a firm handshake were trying to subtly convey that we were somehow inferior to them. To counter his passive greeting, I gripped his hand tighter and for a moment longer than necessary.
“I can’t imagine Dr. Flynn would chat about me,” I said, nodding at Flynn. She smiled coldly back. “I’m not exactly her most promising student.”
“Well, we already disagree, Miss Costello,” Lockwood said. His accompanying grin was easy and practiced. It even reached his dark-blue eyes, which shimmered in the sunlight that had managed to pierce through the veil of clouds outside and illuminate the office. “I happen to take special interest in promising students, and you’ve caught my eye.”
I now understood how Lockwood had such an impact on society. He could get anything he wanted with his benevolent demeanor. He spoke casually, his hands in the pockets of his pressed slacks, and he leaned over a little bit as he addressed me. If I were a child and he offered me a lollipop, I wouldn’t hesitate to pop it in my mouth.
“Have I now?”
He tilted his head in an amiable nod. “Indeed.”
“Mr. Lockwood is a Waverly alumnus, Miss Costello,” piped in Flynn. She rose from her desk chair to stand next to Lockwood. “I thought he might be of use to you. The Lockwood family is one of Waverly’s most prestigious. If you’ve decided to do your thesis on the history of our university, Orson Lockwood is the man you need to interview.”
“And I would be more than happy to oblige,” added Lockwood, flashing me yet another stunning smile. He reached into his inside jacket pocket, drawing out a business card. When he handed it over to me, I noticed how similar it was to Donovan Davenport’s. “I do have some time constraints though. Call my office. Speak with my secretary, Dawn. She’ll get you all set up.”
I’d been backed into a corner. A one-on-one meeting with Orson Lockwood was sure to end poorly for me, but I couldn’t refuse the interview in front of Flynn. I nodded and pocketed the business card. “I’ll be sure to do that. Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome,” he said, buttoning up his suit jacket. “I’m afraid I can’t stay and chat. Duty calls. If you’ll excuse me, ladies.”
With that, Lockwood pardoned himself from the room, leaving me alone with Flynn. She returned to her desk, gesturing for me to sit down in one of the leather chairs across from her.
“Well, Miss Costello?”
“Sorry?”
“What kind of progress have you made on your thesis paper?”
This was another roadblock. There was no lie authentic enough to convince Flynn that I had actually done any work at all for my thesis. Though Flynn was my primary advisor, I was still holding out hope that one of the other professors on my thesis advisory panel wouldn’t be a member of BRS. That way, my attempt at exposing the society’s misdeeds wouldn’t get immediately buried beneath yet another falsified story of a Waverly student gone insane. Unfortunately, this meant that I had to hide the contents of my paper from Flynn until it was time to present it to the board. It was a feat that would not go smoothly.
I put on my best ashamed face. “I’m
