Professor Dirk Pritchard is a stern man.

Serious.

Composed.

But the way my grad school mentor stares at me right now, makes me think I’m not the only one that has a couple of different personalities.

I expected him to scold me when I came clean, remind me that honesty is a tenant of our chosen profession, and not only part of the college code of ethics, but in life itself. I anticipated disappointment.

But that is not at all how Professor Pritchard stares at me now. His expression is a conflicting slate of intrigue and sympathy. I squirm in my chair, holding my breath while I wait for his comment, trying not to be too obviously nervous as I fidget with the hem on my skirt.

“Chelsea, it takes incredible courage to come forward in these kinds of situations,” he says, gently.

I flinch. Lindsay basically said the same thing, but I’m not feeling very courageous. Had I been, I would have told Holden the truth sooner, or not lied at all. It’s far too late for regrets.

“And I can appreciate that you want to do the right thing,” Professor Pritchard goes on. He shuffles some paperwork on his desk, arranging files into neat piles, and then clasps his hands together on the just-cleared surface. “You’ve been through a traumatic ordeal and one can’t predict how they will respond to such a situation. For example, you and your mother ran…”

My mouth opens, and then closes without comment. Professor Pritchard isn’t judging me, only relaying the facts. An important distinction.

“It was very brave to want to interview the victims of your father’s crimes.”

And stupid. He forgets to mention that part.

“But perhaps, you should look at this experience as a gift, rather than another incident to drag you down.”

“Gift?” I’m aware that my tone has turned incredulous, but either Professor Pritchard isn’t listening, or he’s not quite the mentor I thought him to be. Is anyone who they say they are anymore? “My father ruined people’s lives. And instead of respecting the victims of that crime, I betrayed them. I lied to someone I care about.”

Someone I love.

“How can that be a gift?”

Professor Pritchard gives me a sad smile. “I’m not suggesting you dismiss the pain you’ve caused others, but rather, to use it—and the pain you feel yourself—as a tool to guide your future, and perhaps, a way to help others deal with their pain as well.”

My eyes skim over the awards and commendations on Professor Pritchard’s wall. Despite my ulterior motives in speaking with Holden, I still had dreams of using my schooling for good. He’s right in that I can use this experience to aid victims of tragedy, but in this moment, I’m not even sure I can continue with school. I haven’t even turned in my final assignment.

“Turn it into something else,” Professor Pritchard says, when I say as much. “Have you considered sharing your story in a more…” He runs his tongue across his top teeth. “…expansive way?”

I lick my lips. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

He reaches behind his desk to a bookshelf stocked with texts and true crime fiction. I recognize many titles, though not the book he hands me. “Have you heard of Hannah Rowe?”

I shake my head.

“She was a reporter, a stringer for the New York Times, who covered the story of a mass murderer. Quite a grizzly tale about a man who hid the bodies of his victims in his attic.”

My nose twitches with disgust. “I’m not sure how that’s relevant to me.”

“While covering the story,” Professor Pritchard goes on, ignoring my interruption. I stare at the cover of the book to mask my growing confusion. “She developed a relationship with the murderer. Not a romance, per se, but more of an obsession. It began when she was interviewing him…”

My throat goes dry. Does he know about my romantic relationship with Holden? What correlations is he trying to make?

“…And then progressed to weekly visits to his prison cell. During the process, she lost everything. Her husband, her house, her friends… But as it turns out, Miss Rowe’s obsession with this killer wasn’t about these murders alone—she was using the story to learn some things about herself, to try and deal with the tragedy of her own past, which began with an abusive mother and then continued into adulthood, when she was raped, among some other terrible things.”

I turn the book over and stare at Hannah Rowe’s face. She doesn’t look like a woman whose been through trauma. But isn’t that how we cope? Masking our true self with the illusion of composure? Pretending to be someone—something—we aren’t?

“Miss Rowe took all of those experiences and turned her personal story into quite a fascinating memoir,” Professor Pritchard says. I open the book and see that the author has inscribed a personal message to him, thanking him for his guidance, and also for the numerous times he’s answered interview questions for her articles in the Times.

“Are you suggesting I write a memoir?”

The idea is preposterous. My mother’s likely objections aside, I’m not a writer. Even if I could cobble together my emotions, lay out the facts, and try to find some kind of theme, I doubt anyone would read it.

“You’re a strong writer,” Professor Pritchard says. “Your assignments are always cohesive, well put together, and quite factual, without being boring. I believe your personal account of this decade-old tragedy would shed some light on the situation. It could help not only you…but the victims of your father’s crimes, as well. Isn’t that what you want?”

“I do,” I say, with hesitation. “But, I don’t know if this is the right route. Where would I even begin.”

Professor Pritchard stands, the universal symbol of “dismissal” and extends his hand. “Give it some thought, Chelsea. Take the book. Read it. Maybe it will help with your decision.”

I tuck the book under my arm. “Thank you, Professor. I’m not sure where I will go from here, but I appreciate your support. I’ll think about it.”