The Dunkin Hall projection room, situated next to one of the shared dorm kitchens, has a wine burgundy carpet and resembles a miniature movie theater. There are at least twenty padded seats the same color as the carpet, round overhead lights, and a large popcorn machine. The only difference is that there’s no elevated seating, and instead of a white screen, a massive state-of-the-art flat screen TV covers most of the wall, framed on both sides by a red velvet curtain, which has been drawn back in preparation for the evening’s entertainment.

As I walk past other students sprawled on chairs—some from Oaklow University, and a few strangers—spilled popcorn crunches under my ballerinas.

“Hi,” someone says as I walk by. It’s Milton, sitting with legs wide open and a popcorn box tucked between them.

“Hi,” I say, and push past him. I feel his eyes on me as Chelsea leads me to a seat at the end of the row. I avoid looking back.

A minute or two later, the lights dim and the screen turns on. I take a sip from the bottle of water I brought with me. On the way down I promised Chelsea I’d try to have a good time, and for the next hour and a half I keep my promise. I force myself not to think about Judson’s letter back in our room.

The comedy is about four rich guys who take a break after high school to tour Europe. Their misadventures are hilarious, but even though I laugh at the right places, and feign shock at the characters’ outrageous behavior, my heart isn’t in it. At least Chelsea can’t say I didn’t try.

I give a silent sigh when the movie finally comes to an end, and one of the students, Jacob Ramey, who studies journalism, stands up to go fiddle with the DVD player.

For a second the screen goes blank, only to light up again with a local news channel. A brunette news reporter with extremely long eyelashes and ruby lips says something, but I don’t hear; my eyes are fixed on a small photo in the upper right corner of the screen.

The whole room goes quiet, and Chelsea grabs my hand so tight I think she’s going to break my bones. “That’s him. That’s Professor Judson Devereux,” she whispers. “The monster is delicious.”

“Yeah.” I give a small nod. She doesn’t need to tell me that. His name scrolls by at the bottom of the screen.

As I listen to the words of the pretty newscaster, hands clasped in my lap, my body tenses up. No one knows I’ve been in touch with him, but I feel as though they know every word I’ve written. My heart is slamming so hard against my chest, the sound vibrates in my ears. I’m barely listening to what the woman is saying, but the words that do hit my ears leave me trembling within. There’s nothing new—the same information I came across online. But somehow everything seems more real on the big screen.

“On Monday, May 7th, 2012, the murder of Oliver Banes, a student at Oaklow University, shook the town of Oaklow, Florida. Judson Devereux, a former art history professor at the same university, is currently behind bars as he awaits trial for the murder. Although Devereux maintains his innocence, several witnesses have come forward to dispute these claims. Devereux was rumored to have had an affair with Banes’s girlfriend, Jennifer Hanson, one of his students. Oliver Banes was found naked and stabbed to death inside one of the university lecture halls. The autopsy report states the cause of death as blood loss due to castration. After months of waiting, the trial date has finally been set for Thursday, December 12th.”

My breath is struggling to find its way to and from my lungs. I grab my throat and without saying anything to Chelsea, get to my feet and push my way out of the row, careful not to trip on popcorn boxes and empty paper cups. I finally stumble out onto the nearest balcony and grip the rail as I take a deep breath of fresh air.

I keep my eyes squeezed shut. I want to drown out the words I heard on TV. I want to erase the pictures of the covered corpse that was Oliver Banes being wheeled out of Oaklow University.

Someone taps me on the shoulder and I jump. I turn around so fast my head spins.

“Milton, what the hell.” I try to calm my breathing. “Why are you sneaking up on me like that?”

He chuckles. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I swallow hard.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He reaches out to touch a lock of my hair, but I move out of his reach.

“That’s because you scared the shit out of me.”

He drops his hand and tips his head to the side. “I’ve never seen anyone look so cute when they’re frightened.”

“Why are you here, Milton?” My question is stupid, because like me, he has every right to be on this balcony.

“I saw you walking out of the movie room. I thought it was the perfect opportunity for us to talk.”

“Talk about what?”

He leans against the railing and licks the corner of his lip. “About you coming to dinner with me.”

I shake my head. He’s almost as bad as my mother.

“Milton, when are you going to get it? I’m not interested. Thank you for the flowers. Thank you for the notes. But I’m not changing my mind.” It dawns on me that I’m being a bit too harsh. I place a hand on his shoulder. “Look, you’re not a bad guy. I’m just not interested in dating right now.” I drop my hand and my eyes.

“I want to be the guy who helps you change your mind.”

“You never quit, do you?”

“Not when I like somebody. And I really like you.” He lowers his voice. “I think we could be good together.”

“Are you sure you don’t just want to sleep with me? Word around campus is that you’re not really a relationship kind of guy.”

“All lies.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Fine, maybe that was true in the past, but not anymore. The first time I saw you, I became a changed man.” He leans into me and whispers, “Ivy Hollifield, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

I lean a few inches away to avoid his popcorn breath on my cheek. “I’m interested in nothing more than friendship. That’s all I can offer you. Take it or leave it.”

“Come out on a date with me. Give me one date and I’ll change your world.”

I laugh out loud and shake my head. “I do like one thing about you. You’re funny. But the answer stays no.”

“I’m glad I make you laugh. I’ve noticed you don’t do much of that.”

“You’re perceptive. I’m working on it,” I admit.

“I want to teach you how to laugh. Let me take you out to dinner tomorrow night.”

“I don’t think so. I’m sorry. I like you, but not… like that.”

“That’s a shame.” He pauses for a moment, glancing briefly at the entrance to the balcony. When he looks back at me, his eyes are a shade darker. “I don’t like hearing that, Ivy. I don’t like it at all.”

“You have no choice but to accept it.” I attempt to walk past him, but he stands in my way. And then, without warning, one of his hands is on the back of my head, pulling me to him, and the other is on my butt.

“What the hell, Milton.” I grip the hand on my butt and yank it off, followed by the one on the back of my head. “Don’t you ever touch me again.”

“I’m sorry.” He takes a few steps back. “I don’t know what got into me. I wasn’t thinking straight. Please forget it.”

“Don’t do it again.” I grit my teeth. “Seriously, never touch me like that again. Not unless you want to end up like Oliver Banes.”

I’m taking it too far, but the shock on Milton’s face is satisfying.

“Hey, I said I’m sorry. No need to get nasty.” He wipes a sheen of sweat from his brow and raises his hands, palms facing me. Regret wrinkles his features. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”

I sigh. “Fine, let’s forget about it. See you around.” I shove past him. Instead of returning to the movie room, where I hear the sound of a new movie playing, I return to my room. I’ve had enough drama for the evening.

I lie on my bed in the dark, plagued by thoughts of the news report and Judson’s words to me. Part of me believes he’s guilty, but something else holds me back. Either way, after a long, sleepless night, I wake up to a decision that hurts my heart. I have to cut off my correspondence with him. If he really murdered that guy, I don’t think I can handle it.

This time I use a brand new sheet of paper.

Dear Judson,

I’m sorry, I won’t be writing you anymore. Don’t ask me to explain. Good luck with everything and take care. Please do not respond.

A week goes by with me trying to get on with my life, trying to forget him. And then he ignores my request and writes back anyway. The letter he sends this time is not a brief note.

I was shattered to read the letter you sent me. I can’t even begin to tell you how much I’ve enjoyed our conversations in the last weeks. My life is broken, but you have given me something to look forward to. I know I have to respect your decision. I do wish you would reconsider, but I understand why you feel the need to pull away. I’m behind bars. It’s normal for you to think of me as dangerous. I need to say one thing, however: many people behind bars are no more dangerous than some of the people you see walking the streets every day. I’d like to tell you I’m a good person, but I’m not one to brag. That said, I do know you are a good person. That’s why you reached out to me in the first place. You didn’t know me, and yet you wanted to make sure I was okay.

Our conversations started because of Jennifer. I loved her, but the truth is, it was over long before you found those letters. You helped me deal with her departure. Life doesn’t always give us what we want, I guess.

This might sound weird, but in a way I’m glad it didn’t work out with Jennifer. At the same time I’m grateful to her. She led me to you. If it weren’t for her leaving behind my letters, you and I would never have entered each other’s lives. I feel as though I’ve known you forever, and I can’t deny the connection between us. I know you feel it as much as I do. Otherwise you wouldn’t have corresponded with me for as long as you have.

While other people call me a monster, you gave me the benefit of the doubt. My wish is that you will continue doing that. Write back, Ivy. Or better yet, come and visit me. I know it’s too much to ask, given the circumstances, but it might help for you to come and see for yourself that I’m not the monster everyone thinks I am.

I don’t believe in coincidences. Everything happens for a reason. Why don’t you stick around to find out why we ended up in each other’s paths?

Please write back.

By the time I’m done reading, the letter is stained with my tears.

After a week of reading and rereading Judson’s first real letter to me, feeling things I still don’t know I have the right to feel, I write back. I decide to stick around, to give him the benefit of the doubt, as he’s asked. Not because I think it’s the right thing to do, but because some unseen powerful force inside me is driving me to do it. In a weird, twisted way, my connection to him feels like life support. It’s hard to breathe when I think about cutting off that support. He’s a stranger to me in my head, but so familiar to my heart. Everyone says he’s a monster, but my heart won’t let me believe it. I want to resist his pull, but the harder I try, the quicker I fall into his web.

He’s right: there has to be a reason why we ended up in each other’s paths. Nothing else can explain this insanity. I hate myself for what I’m doing, but it seems I’m no longer in control of my actions. My heart holds the key to my sanity.

In the coming days and weeks, our letters bounce back and forth while I navigate my way through university life and my friendship with Judson. We never talk about his trial. Our communication starts off supportive, with him telling me about his lonely life behind bars, and me telling him about the university and life outside.

Even though he ignores questions about his background and family, from his letters I manage to glean information that at least points to his character. He’s an enthusiastic art collector who loves to paint in his free time. He also runs every morning no matter the weather, and enjoys classical music. He didn’t lecture for the money, he tells me, but rather for the pure joy of it.

The one hint at his background I do get is that he isn’t actually French, despite his French surname. He began learning the language as a child and is now fluent in it.

Before I know it, our conversations turn in a different direction. Our letters return to brief notes again—his flirty, with an erotic undertone that leaves me breathless. Our correspondence slowly but surely develops into a bizarre but intense long-distance romance that sucks me in without my explicit consent.

His words echo the ones he wrote to Jennifer, but these are meant for me, and they’re beyond intoxicating. When he talks about being together one day, I humor him, but it’s mostly out of pity since I doubt he’ll ever be free.

Still, I find myself dreaming about him. I allow him to spend most nights with me in my bed, inside my mind. He’s far away but feels oh so near. He fills my dreams and my reality. He could be dangerous, but he’s my comfort zone. He could be poisonous, but he’s my elixir.

When I’m thinking straight, I struggle with wanting to let him go. But the need to keep him is so much stronger. So many times I find myself aching to see him in person, to look into his eyes. If he can have such a hold over me from afar, am I brave enough to withstand what might happen in person?