Deep (Chicago Underground #8)(67)

One sob shook my body, from my shoulders down to my weak knees. Then another. I sank to the floor, face buried in my hands—and just like years ago, my brother held me, his embrace less awkward this time, tight and comforting and knowing, because now he had felt grief too.

I cried for the things I had lost, an entire life of normalcy that I had dreamed of since I found out I was adopted. I cried for the things I had gained—a family of my own. And I cried for the man who had given it to me, a man who valued family above all else, a man who had betrayed his own blood in order to save me. A man who had gone, disappeared, who cared enough to kill for me but not enough to stay.





Chapter Thirty-Eight

SLOAN MET ME outside the sociology building and fell into step beside me as I crossed the courtyard.

“How was the final?” he asked.

“I’ve discovered the secret to knowing the material like the back of my hand,” I joked. “Just take every class twice.”

His expression was sympathetic. “I’m sure you would have aced it then too.”

“Thanks,” I said, grateful. “It wasn’t bad though. Templeton is a good professor. I was thinking of applying to him for my undergraduate research class.”

“What topic?” he asked.

I cleared my throat. “Well, there are a few that I’m considering. But maybe…analyzing rehabilitation effectiveness at incarceration facilities.”

“Oh,” he said, knowing firsthand how close I had come to the criminal world. He had watched me walked out of our dorm at gunpoint. And he had been the first one to come visit me at my parent’s house when he heard I was returned, a bouquet of daisies clenched in his hand and a heartfelt apology. He thought he should have fought against Philip, but I set him straight, glad that he hadn’t. We had been surrounded by armed men. He would only have gotten himself killed.

“What did Professor Roswell say about your paper?” I asked.

He had already taken his undergraduate research course this semester while I was busy retaking my entire class load. A flush crept up his neck, which told me her reaction had been good. “She said it was better than half the drivel that gets published these days.”

“Whoa, high praise.”

He laughed, looking pleased. “You helped a lot, so part of that praise goes to you.”

I had given him an anonymous interview about the effects of captivity and trauma. His area of interest was the victims of human trafficking, which probably accounted for more of his interest in me than he would want to admit. But I supported his research—victims needed an advocate as gentle as him.

And as for me, I wasn’t fascinated with the victims. I was fascinated with the criminals.

Which was why he and I would never work. I nodded toward the street. “I’m this way.”

He studied the dark street, long shadows falling in late afternoon. “I can walk you home.”

Home was now an apartment off campus. I had moved out of the dorm, because if I wasn’t safe there—and the situation had proved that, if nothing else—I may as well have my privacy. And it felt too hard to pretend I was a regular college student, interested in dorm parties and campus gossip. I still loved my classes, still wanted my degree, but I was irrevocably changed from what had happened.

“No, thank you,” I told him, gently but firmly.

He studied me for a moment and nodded. “See you next week.”

I smiled, more grateful for this quiet trust than his concern over what had happened. The world was a scary place, filled with dangerous people. More than most people, I knew that there was no place safe. But I couldn’t spend my life cowering in corners, using other people as shields.

At least that was what I told myself when I walked home and saw someone hiding in every shadow.

It’s just stress, I told myself. It would remain with me for some time, but everything was fine.

I passed dark alleys, trying to keep my gaze focused straight ahead, the way other people did, but inevitably I would glance to the side, studying the corners, looking for threats.

It was a relief when I reached the modest apartment building where I lived. It was close enough to campus that a number of students lived here, often grad students.

I climbed the outside steps, to be greeted by Misty. She was a gray-brown tabby who had hung around looking pitiful until I agreed to feed her. Sometimes I got her to come inside my apartment, and we had watched a few episodes of Agents of SHEILD together with her on my lap. But she was wild at heart, and she wanted to be free to wander the world while I was in class.

She meowed up at me plaintively and twined her slender body between my ankles.

I frowned at her bowl, which was half-full with dry food. Our routine was for me to put food out at night, usually just enough for her to eat. Which meant the bowl should be empty. “Are you feeling okay?” I murmured. “You didn’t eat your food.”

She just meowed in response.

I unlocked the door, and the cat rushed into the dark apartment. Strange.

I followed more slowly, dropping my tote bag with my notebook and tablet by the door. I headed to the kitchen and opened the fridge, thinking of grabbing an apple to tide me over until I could figure out a proper dinner.

Then I stopped, the air-conditioned air dry against my skin.

Something was different in the space. And Misty was not tripping me up.