After my second lecture of the day—design technology—I rush out of the lecture hall, waving Milton away as he approaches me.

“Thanks for the flowers. I’ll see you around,” I throw over my shoulder and rush off before he can respond. I’m not trying to be rude, but there’s something I need to take care of.

Five minutes later, I’m on the third floor, entering the Student Support Department. Breathless, I knock on my guidance counselor’s door. The name Paulette Stevens stands out in bold black letters.

“Come in,” she calls from inside. Her husky voice has a soothing effect on me. As I push the door open, I know I’ve made the right decision. I need to talk to someone or risk going crazy.

Paulette is standing at her window, watering a small indoor palm with a brown plastic watering can. When I enter, she turns, her narrow cornrows sweeping the shoulders of her pinstriped suit.

I close the door and take a few steps toward her. We shake hands. Since coming to Oaklow, I’ve only met her three times; mostly we correspond through email. But what I have to discuss with her today requires a face-to-face conversation.

“Have a seat, Ivy.” She puts the watering can on the floor next to a portable air conditioner. The scent of lemongrass hangs in the air.

“Thanks.” I force a smile and sit at one end of her armless faux leather couch. She sits in the middle of it, legs crossed, hands clasped in her lap.

“I’m sorry I came without an appointment,” I say.

“That’s all right. Today is not a busy day.” She narrows her chestnut brown eyes. “Are you settling well into your new room?”

I hesitate before answering. “Yes… Yes, I am.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Her lips curl into a faint smile.

Paulette is one of those people who are both distant and approachable all at once. But I like her. She makes me feel comfortable.

“What can I do for you?”

“I have something to show you. I didn’t know who else to go to with this.” I reach into my drawstring backpack and pull out the letters. “I found these under my mattress the day we moved into the new dorm.”

Paulette reaches for the stack and pulls at the ribbon holding the letters together. The envelope is at the top. She regards it for a moment. “They’re addressed to Jennifer Hanson.” A deep furrow forms in the milky brown skin between her eyebrows.

“Yes she... she must have lived in our room before us.” I’m hesitant to tell her I read them. I know I have to, and I will… but the thought of the sexual content in the letters stops me.

Paulette lifts one of the letters to eye level but doesn’t open it. “I used to be Jennifer’s counselor.”

“She’s no longer a student here?”

Paulette is quiet for a heartbeat. “Not anymore.” She gives me a ghost of a smile, and something unreadable flashes in her eyes. Before I can try to work out what she’s thinking, she expels a breath and stands. “Tell you what—thank you for showing me these. I’ll hold on to them. Should I see her again, I’ll pass them on. Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?”

I take a deep breath and nip at the corner of a naked nail. I never wear nail polish, preferring to keep my nails short and buffed to a shine instead. “There is something else. I… I read the letters.”

“You did?” She taps her chin, eyes narrowed.

I nod and feel my face turning scarlet. “They’re love letters sent to her by someone named Judson—”

“Devereux.” Paulette sinks back down onto the couch, her chest rising and falling way too fast.

“You know him as well?”

She bobs her head. Her eyes take on a serious expression. “He was an art history professor… a part-time adjunct, who only lectured here during summer semesters.”

I want to ask her if he works full-time elsewhere, but I bite my tongue. It’s none of my business, and it’s also not why I’m here.

“In one of the letters he threatens to commit suicide if she doesn’t respond by the tenth of September.”

Paulette glances at a nature calendar on the back of the office door. “That’s next Monday.” Her voice is as calm as a still pond. How can she remain so serene? I’m a complete mess inside.

“I… had to come and see you. I wasn’t sure what else to do. I couldn’t keep it to myself.”

“You did the right thing.” Paulette’s expression is unreadable as she stands again and walks over to her desk. She picks up a jug from a tray and pours a glass of water. The gurgle of it spilling into the glass calms me. “Want some?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

She takes a sip, and brings the glass with her as she sits down on the couch. “Ivy, I don’t know how much information you got from reading the letters, but maybe you should know the whole story, in case Professor Devereux sends a letter to your dorm again. You have to be careful.”

Paulette downs her water and wraps both hands around the empty glass. “Jennifer was Judson’s student here. Though it’s against university policy, to my knowledge, they dated for a few weeks. Then something tragic happened.”

I hold my breath, waiting for the whole story. Did he kill Jennifer? If so, why would he send her letters?

“Professor Devereux claimed he caught another one of his students raping Jennifer.” Paulette inhales deeply, and glances at the door as though afraid someone might hear our conversation.

My breath comes out in an audible gush. “That’s horrible.”

“Jennifer said it didn’t happen, but Professor Devereux was adamant.” Paulette nods and blinks several times. “That student was found dead two days later… he’d been murdered. It all happened at the end of last semester, a few days before break.”

“Professor—” I’m finding it hard to think of this man—who makes me feel all kinds of things—as Professor Devereux. “Do you really think he murdered the student?”

Surprise flashes in her eyes. “You already know?”

“I thought—”

“It’s not proven yet, but all evidence points to him. It’s been a difficult time for the university. Professor Devereux is now in police custody, awaiting trial.”

It must have been a huge scandal. Why is it that no one at the university is talking about it? Not even Milton has brought it up. Are they all trying to shut it out, cover it up in some way? I wouldn’t be surprised if the students are forbidden from discussing what happened. What university wouldn’t want to hide such a stain on its reputation? But how about the community as a whole? Everyone acts as though there are no skeletons in Oaklow’s closets. Though perhaps I wouldn’t know what people talk about off campus, since I hardly go out. I remind myself to change that.

“And Jennifer, what happened to her?”

Paulette runs a slim finger around the mouth of her glass, as though wiping away invisible dust. “She left town.”

“Did she transfer to another university?”

Paulette clears her throat. “I’m afraid I don’t have any information on her whereabouts.” One of her knees is bouncing up and down. For the first time since entering her office, I detect a slight tremor to her calm exterior. She doesn’t want to talk about this. But I can’t let go—I need to know more.

“Shouldn’t we try and get a hold of her? Judson… Professor Devereux might commit suicide if she doesn’t respond.”

“Professor Devereux is obsessed with Jennifer. At least he was before she left. The threat of suicide is a manipulation tactic.” Paulette sighs and rises. The strength has returned to her voice. “Ivy, I suggest you move on with your life. Focus on your studies. Even if his suicide threats are serious, it’s not your responsibility to save him. He’s safe in police custody, anyway. Thank you for coming to me with this. If he sends any more letters to the dorm, let me know immediately.”

I leave Paulette’s office feeling heavier than when I’d entered.

“I’m so fed up with his guilt episodes,” Chelsea says as she braids her hair for the night. He makes me feel bad about having sex, and I’m not even religious. He cries after every damn time we sleep together. Who does that?”

I say nothing as she spits out her frustration.

“The sex is so good. But we’ve been dating for a year—he either wants it or he doesn’t. I’m only twenty-one once. I want to go wild, and I want to do it with him.”

I envy Chelsea for her free sexual spirit, her hunger for experimentation. I want to feel what she feels with a real man… not a mysterious murderer I know only through letters.

“But you love him, right?” I ask.

“I do. He’s crazy, but he’s mine. I’d strangle any bitch who even looks his way.”

“Well then, you have no choice but to wipe away his tears.” I laugh and pull my sheet up to my chin.

“I guess you’re right.” Chelsea climbs into her bed and switches off her lavender shabby chic bedside lamp.

“I went to see Paulette Stevens today.” I’m braver in the darkness.

“Your guidance counselor? What for? Are you having problems? I haven’t seen mine in ages.”

“I made a huge mistake,” I admit.

“Spill.”

“Remember when you said I should get rid of Jennifer’s letters?” I chew on my bottom lip. “I kind of didn’t.”

“Kind of?” Light floods the room again as Chelsea switches on her lamp. She’s sitting up in bed now, hand on her chest. Her pearly nail polish is chipped. “Are you crazy? The man is a murderer.”

“I know.” I slide my gaze from her face, planting it on the faint cracks in the ceiling instead. “I guess I was curious.”

“So you read more of the letters?”

“Yes, and in one of them he threatened to kill himself if Jennifer doesn’t respond by Monday.”

“Which Monday?”

“Next week Monday.”

“Fuck.” Chelsea’s voice rises in pitch. “That’s messed up. We don’t even know where Jennifer is. Do you think she read that letter? Maybe she did but couldn’t care less? After what he did, I wouldn’t be surprised. I’d have run from the monster as fast as I could.”

“I don’t think she read the letter.” I place my hands over my eyes like a toddler playing hide and seek. “That particular letter was inside an envelope… unopened.”

Chelsea’s mouth drops open. “Oh my God, you opened it?”

I swallow hard and force myself to look at her. “I didn’t want to. It… well, it just happened.”

“Just happened, huh?” Chelsea laughs. “That’s what they always say. So what do we do now?”

“Nothing. I went to see Paulette because, I don’t know, I thought she might know what to do. This is bigger than us, I think.”

Chelsea draws her knees to her chest and hugs them. “What did she say?”

“Turns out she used to be Jennifer’s counselor too. She told me what happened between her and Devereux.”

“The whole sordid story?”

“Pretty much.”

In a few words, I relay everything Paulette told me.

“Holy shit. That’s something straight out of a movie. Funny no one around here talks about it. Maybe the scandal sort of died down during the summer holidays? Every scandal has an expiration date, I guess. Neil told me bits and pieces yesterday, but he doesn’t know many details. He’s useless at gossip.”

“I’m sure the university wants to forget the scandal, pretend it never happened.”

“What else did Paulette say?”

“She said the professor and Jennifer’s relationship was unhealthy, and that he’s obsessed with her. She also said I shouldn’t worry about the threats in the letter. That it’s not my responsibility to save him.”

“I think she’s right. You never know what he might be capable of, even from behind bars.” She gazes up at the ceiling. “Such a shame. He must have been a catch for a student to fall for him. A student-professor affair… how hot is that?”

“I wonder what he looks like. I mean—”

“I don’t care how he looks. His surname says he’s French.” Chelsea sighs. “French is one of those languages with the power to blind women. An ugly guy only has to roll a few sexy French words off his tongue and he’ll turn gorgeous.”

“You’re silly. But I won’t argue with you on that one.”

Chelsea’s and Paulette’s words swirl around my head until I fall asleep. I want to heed their warnings, but I can’t shake the feeling that I need to do something more than sit back and let it all unfold. I want to let go, as Paulette suggested, but something inside me won’t allow it. Somewhere between midnight and dawn, I make a decision that might get me into trouble.

In the morning, as soon as Chelsea leaves for her yoga class, I pull out a sheet of paper from my drawer, where I’d hastily scribbled the return address I’d found on the last letter. I’m pretty sure the address doesn’t belong to a prison. Maybe someone else picks up the mail and delivers the letters to Professor Devereux in person?

After a moment’s hesitation, I start writing.

Dear Professor Devereux,

My name is Ivy. I came across the letter you wrote to Jennifer. She no longer lives in this dorm room.

You don’t know who I am, but I’m begging you to reconsider committing suicide. You might think life is not worth living, and I have no idea what you’re going through, but I thought I’d write and ask you not to do it. I’m sure there’s something in your life you might want to live for. Isn’t there anything at all? Please think about it.

I wish you well.

Ivy