to rip him a little more. She decided not to do either.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said. “I just need to decompress. In case you’re asleep when I get back, I’ll say goodnight now.”
“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “Goodnight. I love you.”
“Goodnight,” she said, giving him a kiss despite her lack of enthusiasm at that moment. “I love you too.”
She left the bedroom and wandered the house, waiting for her frustration to dissipate as she moved from room to room. She tried to put his dismissiveness out of her head but it kept sneaking back in, riling her up despite her best efforts.
She was just calming down enough to head back to bed when she heard the same distant creaking noise from the other night. Only tonight it wasn’t so distant. She followed the sound until she found what she thought was the source—the attic.
She had come to a stop in the upstairs hallway right below the attic access door. After a moment’s hesitation, she grabbed the string to the door and yanked it down. The creaking definitely sounded more pronounced.
She clambered up the access ladder as quietly as she could, trying not to think about how this sort of decision always ended badly in horror movies. When she got up the stairs, she pulled out her phone and used the flashlight feature to search the space. But apart from a few aged, empty cardboard boxes, the space was empty. And the creaking had stopped.
Jessie carefully climbed back down, replaced the ladder, and, too amped to sleep, resumed her restless wandering. Eventually, she found herself in the bedroom they anticipated using for the baby, when and if one ever joined them.
It was empty now but Jessie could picture where the crib would go. She imagined it against the far wall, with a mobile dangling above it. She rested her back against the wall and slid down so that she was sitting with her knees in front of her face. She wrapped her arms around them and hugged tight, trying to reassure herself that life in this new strange place would be better than it seemed so far.
Am I reading this all wrong?
She couldn’t help but wonder if maybe her meds did need to be tweaked. She wasn’t sure if she was being too hard on Kyle or if she was judging the Club Deseo women too harshly. Was the fact that Kyle was adjusting so easily to this place and she wasn’t a reflection of his adaptability, her brittleness, or both? He already seemed at home, as if he’d lived here for years. She wondered if she’d ever reach that point.
She wasn’t sure if she was just nervous because her last semester of classes started up tomorrow and she’d have to dive back into the world of studying rapists, child predators, and murderers. And she wasn’t sure if that creak she kept hearing was real or in her head. At this moment, she wasn’t sure of much of anything. And it scared her.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jessie was short of breath and her heart was palpitating. She was late for class. This was her first time on the campus of the University of California at Irvine and finding her classroom had been daunting. After running the last quarter mile across campus in the sweltering mid-morning heat, she barreled through the door. Her forehead was beading with sweat and her top felt slightly damp.
Professor Warren Hosta, a tall, thin, fifty-something man with narrow, suspicious eyes and a lone, sad tuft of grayish-black hair on top of his head, had clearly been mid-sentence when she burst in at 10:04 a.m. She’d heard rumors about his impatience and generally churlish demeanor and he didn’t disappoint. He stopped and waited for her to find her seat, staring at her the whole time.
“May I resume?” he asked sarcastically.
Great start, Jessie. Way to make a first impression.
“Sorry, Professor,” she said. “The campus is new to me. I got a little turned around.”
“I hope your skills at deduction are stronger than your sense of direction,” he replied superciliously before returning to his lecture. “As I was saying, for most of you, this will be your final course before securing your master’s degree in Forensic Psychology. It will not be a walk in the park.”
Jessie unzipped her backpack as quietly as possible to pull out a pen and notebook but the sound of the zipper passing along every tooth seemed to resonate in the room. The professor glanced at her out of the corner of his eye but didn’t stop speaking.
“I will pass out the syllabus momentarily,” he said. “But in general, this is what is expected of you. In addition to the standard course work and associated exams, those of you who have yet to complete one will submit and defend your thesis. In addition, everyone—completed thesis or not—will have a practicum. Some of you will be assigned to a correctional facility, either the California Institute for Men in Chino or the California Institute for Women in Corona, both of which house a number of violent offenders. Others will visit the high-risk unit at DSH-Metropolitan, which is a state hospital in Norwalk. They treat patients commonly referred to as ‘criminally insane,’ although local community concerns prevent them from accepting patients with a history of murder, sex crimes, or escape.”
An unspoken current of electricity passed through the room as the students all glanced around at each other. This was what they’d been waiting for. The rest of the lecture was fairly straightforward, with a description of their course work and details on writing their theses.
Luckily, Jessie had completed and defended hers while at USC, so she didn’t pay much attention to that discussion. Instead, her mind returned to the odd brunch at the yacht club and how, despite everyone’s warmth and generosity, she’d felt unsettled by it.
It was only when talk returned to the practicums that she really focused back in. Students were asking logistical and academic questions. Jessie had one of her own but decided to wait until after class. She didn’t want to share it with the group.
Most of her classmates clearly wanted to work at one of the prisons. The mention of a community ban on violent offenders at the Norwalk hospital seemed to limit its popularity.
Eventually Professor Hosta signaled the end of class and folks started to file out of the room. Jessie took her time returning her notebook to her backpack while a few students asked Hosta questions. It was only when they were all gone and the professor himself was starting to walk out that she approached him.
“Sorry again for the late arrival, Professor Hosta,” she said, trying not to sound too obsequious. Over the course of just one class, she’d gotten the strong sense that Hosta despised spineless groveling. He seemed to prefer inquisitiveness, even if it bordered on rudeness, to deference.
“You don’t sound very apologetic, Ms.…” he noted with a raised eyebrow.
“Hunt, Jessie Hunt. And I’m not really,” she admitted, deciding in that moment that she’d have more success with this guy if she was straightforward. “I just figured I needed to be polite in order get an answer to my real question.”
“Which is…?” he asked, his eyebrows raised in intrigued surprise.
She had his attention.
“I noticed you said that DSH-Metro doesn’t accept patients with a history of violence.”
“That’s correct,” he said. “It’s their policy. I was basically quoting from their website.”
“But Professor, we both know that’s not entirely accurate. The Norwalk
