Summer Sons(62)

“I’m sure he didn’t mention it to anyone, but I reached out to him when I saw his name on the roster, well before I realized how intriguing his research would be. I was an acquaintance of his parents, years ago,” she said.

The content of their first uncomfortable office conversation stood out to him in chilling relief: her implicit knowledge of him and his past, the panic attack he’d heaved through in the stairwell. Of course she knew Eddie’s parents, that was his fucking luck—no wonder she had been acting weird about Andrew avoiding her.

“He hadn’t told me that, no,” he said instead.

She shifted her weight from one modest high heel to another, relieving the pressure in a minute human gesture. Even leaning against the desk, she had several inches on him. Andrew fought the urge to draw himself taller while she observed his discomfort with the conversation, his fingers itching to ground themselves on the ring in his pocket.

When he said no more, she continued: “The Fultons and the Troths are old families, you know, but both our lines have dwindled to almost nothing. He said the old Townsend house was still standing. I suppose it’s yours now, as well. Have you been to see it?”

Prickling cool sweat spread across his scalp.

“No,” he said.

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth; he took a sip of his ice-diluted bourbon to cover. He shook his head in a second no. His phone buzzed once, twice, three times in quick succession, each message a faint audible hum in the stock-still room. Another sip of bourbon. His fingers itched to see what he’d been sent, but Troth remained perched against the desktop, unfinished, considering him with a tilt of her chin.

“I apologize, local histories are a passion of mine. I’m sure you’ve been busy. But have you had a chance to read any of the texts I loaned you?” Before he found an answer, she cut her own question off: “Ah, I suppose not, with the accident. Proposals will be reviewed at the end of the term for initial approval, you’re aware?”

“Yes,” he said, lost in the chop of the conversation.

She sighed, cracked her knuckles, and said, “I’ll be frank. I have an interest in working with the material Edward was gathering, but I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to adopt it, given the circumstances. The optics would be poor, don’t you think?”

Taking her dead student’s research—Andrew allowed, “Maybe, yeah.”

“So, let’s you and I meet in the coming week. If you’d be willing to consider continuing in his footsteps, and would allow me to participate in a hands-on capacity, I’ll do all within my power to assist. I’m aware this is unorthodox,” she said. “But it feels almost like returning the ring. Since you’re an heir yourself, after all, aren’t you?”

The briefest flicker in her expression set him on edge. Something akin to disdain, there and gone. To her, was Andrew another scholarship kid, a different sort than Riley but a charity case all the same? She was old blood, watching him pick up the leftovers of a family hers had known for generations. He pressed his thumb to the edge of the ring in his pocket and thought, hands-on means she’ll know who he was talking to.

“All right, I’m interested,” he said.

“Perfect. I hope I haven’t come across as rude; I don’t mean to pressure you. It was a delight for me to help a Fulton research the Fultons. They’ve always had a famous connection to the supernatural, you know,” she allowed, smiling like a conspirator.

Andrew finished his drink in a long gulp. The burn singed his healing gums. His phone buzzed again. Despite his scramble for ten total words in the entire conversation, she’d said more to him than she ever had to date. Maybe she’d been planning out her pitch, saving it up. Maybe he’d pissed her off by ignoring those emails, or maybe she was wine-drunk and feeling proprietary over the young wreck in front of her, connecting him to a namesake he’d never claim for himself.

The Fulton line, dwindled—a bitter taste in both their mouths.

“I imagine that fine, spooky history was what led you boys to tromp around the woods that summer. It’s hard to believe I’m looking at the young man from the newspaper all grown up,” she said. Andrew’s hand spasmed on the glass. Weaker crystal might have cracked. Troth stepped from the desk and laid delicate fingers on his shoulder in passing. “I remember the search, because my youngest was your age then. Edward’s parents were distraught. It was such a relief when you were both found.”

She left before he had a chance to ask his questions, or calm his pounding heart. Her heels clacked across the hall, then down the staircase in a decrescendo. Andrew set the empty glass on the floor at his feet before he could throw it. White noise roared in his head. She’d hinted before, but proof that she really knew ripped him open like a row of unhealed stitches—that was why he hadn’t wanted to be in Nashville, had argued with Eddie not to take him back to a place where people might remember him. And Troth had the gall to throw it at him while leaving a room.

When he passed through the den Luca called out to him, “Andrew, are you all right?”

“—and anyway, you’re flat fucking wrong,” Riley said with enthusiasm, gesticulating wildly at West as they stood toe-to-toe, refreshed wine glasses in hand. Riley’s cheeks were red; West’s eyes blazed.

“Listen, I’m not disagreeing the book is useful, but what I’m saying is—” West began in a rejoinder containing equal fervor.