Summer Sons(93)
“What’s your point? I’ve returned his notes to their rightful owner.” West’s voice dropped, colored by guilt. “Though I’d appreciate the consideration if you kept from telling Troth where you located them.”
Andrew said, “Forget the fucking notes, West. Out of all these motherfuckers, you’re the one person who had a reason to get rid of Eddie. He was in your way, whether you admit that or not.”
West crossed his arms, his shoulders dropping an inch. Ragged exhaustion showed on his face for the briefest second. He glanced from the news clippings on the far wall to Andrew’s face, but instead of escalating he let the flames between them gutter with an expression of—pity.
“Is that what this is all about? You think I drove him to … what happened? We weren’t even friends, Andrew. How could I have influenced Eddie?” West looked sad and resentful as he continued. “It’s tragic what Eddie did to himself, but it doesn’t have anything to do with me. My world doesn’t revolve around him, or you for that matter. Troth’s conflict with me predates Ed by years, and is a symptom of a systemic problem in the whole department. My big mistake was sticking with it, thinking I’d be able to put up with her and this institution both, long enough to defend. Have you even noticed that I’m the only Black student in the program? Our issues here have nothing in common, frankly. Troth has miles of give for her white legacy students, but I get the sense she’d rather I hadn’t been admitted in the first place.”
Given what he’d seen of Troth’s parties, her home, and her interactions with them both, Andrew couldn’t disagree with West’s assessment—but he had been spending so much time with Riley and Sam that he’d almost forgotten the prevailing narrative was suicide. He asked, “Did you take any books, or just the notes?”
The other man gave a short shake of his head. “No, nothing else. I asked for a copy of the key when he passed because I assumed she’d get to it if I didn’t. I needed her to drop Ed’s line of inquiry so she would focus on my dissertation. She wouldn’t do the work herself, so if it was gone, my problem was solved.”
Andrew thought out loud, piecing the timeline together, “Then it would’ve been in your best interest for me to defer, keep her attention off me. Or, barring that, to fail.”
“Of course I’d rather you deferred, but that wasn’t entirely selfish,” West said. “You are, actually, failing of your own accord. My advice wasn’t wrong there.”
The door handle dug into Andrew’s side. He’d relaxed enough to loosen his posture. The whole interrogation left him with one remaining question, though he suspected he wasn’t going to get much use out of the answer.
“Where were you when he disappeared?” he asked.
“At home with family in Boston. As in, Massachusetts. I get out of Tennessee the moment I’m free every summer. Sowell called me when he was found, out of courtesy, but I hadn’t seen or spoken to him in weeks,” West said freely.
The adrenaline fueling Andrew sputtered out, at last, with that verifiable proof. An alibi that big was simple to confirm, so he doubted West would lie, and the tale he laid out gave him no reason to. The sense-memory of careless strong hands toppling Eddie’s corpse into the trunk stung him, and Andrew rode ghostly shotgun toward the old oak tree. West shifted on his feet, fabric-on-fabric rustle breaking their silent reverie.
“I’m done with mentoring, all right?” West asked. “She forced me to keep after you, but we’re done.”
“All right, fair,” Andrew agreed, picking up the missing notebook with the sour edge of disappointed expectations.
West stepped past him, pausing to rest a hand on his shoulder in comfort. He said, “There’s no shame in quitting if you’re struggling. I’m sure you’re beginning to realize how goddamn unwelcoming this place is, no matter their public image. If I’d left sooner…” He trailed off. “Well, no telling what would’ve changed for me. Get out from under her thumb, Andrew, and don’t let her use your labor.”
Andrew shrugged his hand off and leaned on the desk corner to allow West to pass. He swung the door closed behind him with a resounding click of finality. Andrew had lost his only suspect, for the most mundane of reasons. It might be life or death for West, but Troth plagiarizing Eddie’s work wasn’t a problem he cared about.
He dropped into the rolling chair and buried both hands in his hair. Skeletal fingers laced with his in the knotted mess of his curls. The whisper of his name drifted through the air like dust. The phantom draped over his crumpled form, offering the relief of an ice-bath after a distance run. He’d been expecting a visitation for so long, the real thing was anticlimactic; he shook the haunt off, standing through the churning cold, and set off from the carrel with notebook in hand.
Music greeted him at Capitol when he entered through the back door, echoing from farther in the house. He stole a few gulps of juice from the container in the fridge door, fruit punch with questionable relation to actual fruit.
“West wasn’t even in the state last month,” Andrew announced as he entered the living room.
Riley looked up from his book, fingertips marking his place. Notes and texts littered the couch and coffee table in a semicircle, most pertaining to his actual coursework. His phone, facedown, blared Get Stoked On It. Andrew braced his hands on the doorframe above his head for a necessary stretch. The left shoulder popped.