Summer Sons(18)

Andrew said, “Sort of.”

“Okay, please fix that,” West said.

The elevator opened with a tinny ping. Andrew leaned against the rail, thumb in belt loop, while West punched the button for the top floor. The hush of the enclosed space amplified the sound of their breathing. The door dinged at them again on opening, a touch accusatory. Andrew followed West across the hall to a warren of offices. Three were open, the rest shut for the afternoon. West rapped on the frame of one with his knuckles and lounged against the doorjamb without crossing the unmarked boundary. His pose spoke of casual deference.

“Oh, come in,” a woman said from beyond the frame’s edge. “I wasn’t sure if you’d make it. I have a doctor’s appointment with my husband shortly, so we’ll have to keep things brief.”

“Of course, no worries. This is Andrew Blur—he had to drive over to meet you,” West said, glancing over his shoulder to confirm that he hadn’t lost his charge.

Andrew followed him inside an office cramped with stacks of folders in front of overflowing bookshelves and chose one of two chairs that would’ve fit better in a doctor’s office in the seventies. West propped his hip against a shelf beside the professor’s desk. She sat tall in her executive chair, a pair of reading glasses on top of her head and white-threaded red hair flopped over one shoulder in a loose braid. Her papery pale skin had a pinkish flush. Prominent collarbones winged above the scooped neck of her pine-green blouse, accented with a gold ring on a thin matching chain. She was understated but elegant; the hand she offered Andrew was thin and long-fingered.

“It’s good to meet you, Mr. Blur—or may I call you Andrew?” she said.

“Andrew’s fine,” he replied.

“Andrew, then. First and foremost, I’d like to offer my condolences. I knew Edward as a fantastic student in the short time I had with him, and we’re all grieving his loss.”

“We are,” West said, unobtrusively warm.

“Thanks,” Andrew replied.

“How are you finding your first week? Has Thom been taking good care of you?” she asked.

Andrew caught West’s eye and said, “As much as he’s able.”

She rested her wrists on the edge of the desk and leaned into the grasp of her office chair. Her gaze weighed him. He bet she found him lacking, but he affected ease, waiting for her to continue. What could she possibly have to give him?

She continued, “I understand this conversation will be difficult for you, and please let me know if you’d like to wait, but I thought it would be best if we got the messiest bits out of the way?”

“Which bits are those?” Andrew asked.

“To be frank, I wanted to discuss whether you intend to continue Edward’s research into regional occult folklore, as he’d said it was an interest you both shared and would be pursuing together,” Troth said. Andrew’s jaw clenched in reflex; her eyebrows pinched in response, empathetic but cool. “I imagine it’s stressful to consider following in that same direction right now, and possibly more so to think about doing anything else. So, please know that I’m your advocate. I’m still assigned as your advisor, but if your needs lead you to another faculty member, I’ll be available to assist with that as well.”

“I hadn’t decided,” Andrew managed.

Regional occult folklore. In truth, he’d begun to put the question of research out of his mind as soon as he met the raucous crowd Eddie had fallen into. The boys were the more obvious threat, and the scholarship made him more uncomfortable. He’d rather not face those notebooks with their secrets or the haunt stuck to the underside of his shadow, waiting for his guard to slip and allow it purchase. Letting his thoughts so much as drift in that direction made his heart stutter.

Troth continued, “I gathered a few texts from my partner’s collection, and some from other colleagues, for Edward. Would you like to take them with you for now, and see if you’re able to work with them?”

The ensuing silence pressed at his bones. West shifted, recrossing his arms as Troth waited for his response. Andrew’s phone vibrated between his ass and the chair, and he jerked, saying, “Okay, sure.”

Troth stood and looped the handle of a cloth tote sitting next to the desk over her wrist. When she lifted it, the sides of the bag strained with book-edges. “Here,” she said. Andrew took it from her. “No expectations, of course, but it’d be a shame to see his work go to waste. His exploration of local supernatural folklore was already going in unique directions. There’s so little source material that speaks to it sufficiently; he would’ve been able to publish. I was eager to see where it went.”

Andrew stood as well, the weight of the books dragging his shoulder off-center. The bag thumped against his calf. West said, “He was doing some impressive fieldwork for a first-year, that’s for sure.”

“Certainly,” Troth agreed.

“Fieldwork?” Andrew asked, unsure of their meaning.

West and Troth shared an impenetrable glance. Their delicate dance of implication and tradition remained alien to him, and it pulled the air out of the room. West’s whole posture had changed in the presence of Dr. Troth, and Andrew figured his should’ve too, but he didn’t precisely know how. He felt exposed by the expectations sailing over his head, close enough to prickle his scalp but beyond his reach.