She gave up on blotting the coffee stains and crumpled the paper towels. “I’m hardly an expert. Otherwise, I’d have learned to dodge hazardous students in the hallway already.”
“I beg to differ,” I said as she turned away from me to toss the paper towels into a garbage can a few feet away. “I noticed that you went up for tenure after just three years as an assistant professor. The university must have been pretty impressed with you. Professor O’Connor’s been here for over six years, and he still isn’t tenured.”
St. Claire paused, peering at me over her shoulder. “What else did O’Connor tell you about me?”
With a surge of confidence, I asked, “What else does O’Connor know about you?”
To my surprise, St. Claire took me by the elbow and hauled me back into her classroom. She closed the door behind us. “Listen to me,” she said, her voice low and rushed. “Whatever it is you’ve found out, it would be in your best interest to drop it. It’s not worth it.”
“What isn’t?”
“Drop it, Miss Costello. Believe me. It’s for your own good.”
Without another word, she strolled away, and by the time I stepped out into the hallway again, she had already disappeared into the stairwell. The coffee-stained carpet was the only indication that the entire conversation had even happened. I leaned against the doorway, going over our exchange in my head. One thing was certain: I had no plans to drop this, whatever it was.
The following day, I had a stroke of luck. I spent all morning at the Waverly library, tucked away at a desk in a shadowy corner with a stack of O’Connor’s newspapers. I read through all of the material he had on St. Claire twice, but other than a couple of speeding tickets, Stella St. Claire didn’t seem to be protecting any kind of deep, dark secret. I’d brought along my laptop too, searching the far reaches of the Internet for any information on the St. Claire family. Most of what I found was useless. The St. Claires had donated a boatload of money to Waverly University, and every year, they hosted a banquet for the students who performed best, but ultimately, there was no obvious reason for Stella’s paranoid behavior toward me.
As absorbed as I was in my research, I almost didn’t notice when Donovan Davenport himself casually cruised by my desk. I spared him a glance and went back to my Internet search before I realized who he was. Then I slammed my laptop shut, hastily hid O’Connor’s files beneath my messenger bag, and sprang up from the desk.
“Hey, Davenport,” I called in a hushed voice, trying not to disturb the other students working. Donovan turned, and I gave him a little wave.
“Do I know you?” he asked when I caught up with him.
“Nicole Costello,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-three or so, but his pressed slacks, tailored suit jacket, and expensive shoes afforded him the illusion of maturity. “I’m a senior staffer at the school paper. We’re doing an article on Waverly students who’ve been really successful post-graduation. Any chance I could talk to you about your internship with the Lockwood company?”
He reached into the pocket of his jacket and extracted a business card. “Call me during business hours. I’m running an errand.”
“Oh, actually, this really won’t take up much of your time,” I insisted but accepted the card anyway. “I’ll just walk with you. Where are you headed?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Rapere Wing. You need qualifications to enter, so unfortunately, you won’t be able to accompany me.”
I resisted the urge to sneer at his snotty tone. Little did Davenport know that O’Connor had cleared me for access into that room during my first semester as his TA. I reined in my temper. As it was, I couldn’t believe that Davenport had actually bought my undergraduate act. There was no way in hell I still passed as a twenty-year-old.
“I’ll be quick,” I insisted, staying in step with him as he tried to walk off. “Tell me, how were you hired for the position at Lockwood Inc.?”
“Applied online, booked an interview, and landed the job,” he said shortly. “That’s the general process for something like that.”
“Were you recommended for the position?”
“Nope.”
“No? Your family wasn’t already familiar with the Lockwoods?”
“Why would they be?”
A student hushed us as we trotted by. I ignored the subtle reprimand. “I just figured since both the Davenports and the Lockwoods owned prominent businesses near Waverly, you might have interacted with each other once or twice.”
Donovan apparently thought that my statement didn’t warrant a response. We were nearing the Rapere Wing. I glanced toward the giant pillars that flanked either side of the great mahogany doors, too aware of the fact that I was running out of time to get any more information out of Donovan.
“What was your GPA when you graduated from Waverly last year?” I asked. When he looked at me sharply, I added, “Just for informational purposes. Waverly students want to know what kind of expectations they should live up to.”
“The highest,” he said. “I was the valedictorian. I had a four-point-oh GPA.”
“Your transcripts state otherwise.”
My mouth had gotten ahead of me again. Donovan stopped short of the manuscript room and whirled around. “And how on earth would you have access to my transcripts?”
I had to think fast. “Uh, the newspaper allows its staff access to select transcripts from past students. For research, you know.”
“Then you might want to get your eyes checked,” Donovan said, “because I maintained straight As all throughout my four years here. Excuse me.”
With an abrupt about-face, Donovan stepped into the Rapere Wing and vanished behind a bookshelf. Under my guise as an undergraduate, there was no way I could follow. Defeated momentarily, I returned to
