Page 522 of Lessons in Cruelty

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” the cop goes on.

“Oh, uh, I didn’t know,” she says. Weakly. “I thought⁠—”

“She’s trying to find some clothes to wear,” I cut in, before Haven gets us both thrown into a holding cell. I’ve never seen a guiltier face in my fucking life.

The cop gives me a wan smile. “And you’re her…personal shopper?”

I chuckle, but when the cop’s face doesn’t shift one iota, I realize he wasn’t joking.

“I’m Miss Lee’s teacher.”

He says nothing.

And I’m compelled to fill that silence.

“Here to supervise, of course, since her room is still technically off limits.”

Just like she is.

Should be.

Jesus.

Why the fuck can’t I keep it together?

Cocaine, of course.

“Was it the yellow tape that tipped you off?” he asks. He should have smiled, chuckled maybe, but his face is still dead serious.

“There weren’t any officers outside, so I assumed you’d already done your thing.”

“Done our thing?” The cop leans back on his foot like he can stand here all day pretending not to interrogate us.

Haven’s eyes skip between us, but she remains quiet and troubled looking.

I wave my hand. “You know. Dusting for fingerprints. Collecting evidence. Photographs. Hell, it’s your job, you tell me.”

“Oh. Well, lucky for you, I did my thing yesterday,” the cop says. “Else I’d have to arrest you for obstruction.”

Was that a threat?

Is this fucker seriously threatening me?

If he knew the pull I had at this college, he’d⁠—

—definitely be wondering what the fuck I was doing alone in a room with one of my students.

“Glad we’re not inconveniencing you.” I sweep my arm toward the door. “Now, if you don’t mind…”

He ignores my universal ‘fuck right off’ gesture, narrowing his brown eyes as he openly studies me. The grim, hardened face beneath his trooper hat is tanned, making it difficult to place his age. The longer he stares, the deeper his crow’s feet become.

I’m guessing he’s in his late thirties. Definitely not old enough to be staring at me like he’s wondering how long to ground me for.

“Hmm,” he muses quietly, then shakes his head. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

I tilt my head, my eyes flashing briefly into slits before I give him a rueful smile. “Were you in my cognitive neuroscience class at Brown?”

“Brown?” Thatcher gives a self-deprecating chuckle that ends with a low whistle. “No, sir.”