Eve of Eternal Night Read online

  “Were you at a party last night in Greek Row?”

  Yes.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Just answer the question, Ms. Carmichael.”

  “And implicate myself in whatever crime you think I’ve committed? Without a lawyer present? I think not. Why don’t you just tell me what you suspect I’ve done, and I’ll tell you if I did it.”

  With a dramatic exhale, the dean leaned forward, propping his elbows on his grand mahogany desk. I couldn’t help but stare at his thinning grey hair. “You have been accused of knocking out Christopher Martin, the backup quarterback.”

  I must have gawked at him, blinking repeatedly until a giggle erupted, escaping my lips. Then it grew to a roar of laughter, which, judging by the crease in the dean’s brow and the tight set of his features, wasn’t appreciated.

  “You think I knocked that asshole out?”

  “I think that is the complaint he brought to the police. I also think he has witnesses.”

  “Then those witnesses were drunk or high, because I sure as hell didn’t pummel that kid. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to, since he was set to lay me out flat, but I didn’t get the pleasure. Someone else stepped in and did it on my behalf.”

  “And just who was the knight in shining armor that saved you from this alleged attack? The one who knocked Chris unconscious?”

  I opened my mouth to say Fenris’s name, but nothing came out. Then I slammed it shut. Something deep within me stirred at the thought of giving him up to save my own ass; something dark and wild that balked at being disloyal to the guy that had helped me. No way was I telling the dean his name.

  I’d go down for the crime instead.

  “I didn’t get a name,” I said, feigning boredom. “He punched that asshole and I left.”

  “I find your story rather convenient, Ms. Carmichael.”

  “That’s funny, because I was just thinking that it wasn’t convenient at all.” I stood up from the worn black leather seat and threw my bag over my shoulder. “Are we done here, sir?” I asked, heading toward the door. His answer really didn’t matter to me, and we both knew it. His evidence of my involvement in the crime was sketchy at best. It wouldn’t hold up in a court of law; of that I was sure.

  My dad was an asshole, but he was also the best damn lawyer in New England.

  “Not exactly,” the dean replied, getting up out of his seat to follow me. “I recently checked in with your academic advisor, and he said he hasn’t seen you in over a year.” I ground to a halt. “He also said that you’re impossible to work with and that he’d be glad to be rid of you when you graduate. While I understand his sentiments and share them, you cannot go without someone advising you your senior year, so I have taken the liberty of setting you up with our newest hire. You’re due in his office in fifteen minutes.” I turned back to find him staring at me, a smug smile tugging at his lips. “Good luck with that, Ms. Carmichael. You’ll need it.”

  I could hear the dismissal in his tone, so I didn’t bother arguing. Instead, I opened the door and left, closing it a little too firmly behind me. The glass pane rattled loudly enough to scare poor Sarah at her desk. I flashed her a smile as I walked past and continued out of the office.

  As I made my way to the building’s main exit, I considered the dean’s words about my new advisor. I hated the idea of having to go there—or do anything he wanted me to, really—but those offices were just on the near side of Greek Row, and I still needed to see for myself if there was any sign of a crime scene where I was sure there’d been one the previous night.

  I could drop in quickly to meet my new advisor, make him wish he wasn’t, then be on my way. Easy peasy.

  With a smile on my face, I strode through the grassy area of campus where kids hung around and studied, killed time, or avoided going to class altogether. The haunting sound of a violin danced through the air, and it almost made me want to stop and listen. Almost. But I had an advisor to torment and a body to find.

  I pushed the double doors to the MacMillan administrative building open and took the stairs to the second floor. The halls were empty as I made my way to the main office where the advisors were stationed. One quick inquiry at the front desk and I was ushered back to an unoccupied office and told to wait. Mr. Christensen would be with me momentarily.

  Unpacked boxes riddled the room, evidence that he’d only recently joined the staff. I wondered if one meeting with me would send him running from his contract. The dean had seemed quite confident that I wouldn’t be able to walk all over him like I had my last advisor, so I was intrigued. Maybe he was ex-military or something—a real hardass who’d promise to make my life miserable. It seemed likely.

  “So,” a male voice called out from behind me. “You’re the infamous Ms. Carmichael.”

  I turned in my seat to find the new guy—I assumed—standing in the doorway. He was younger than my last advisor by a solid fifteen years. In fact, he barely looked more than five years my senior. But he held an all-knowing confidence that made him appear older somehow, an arrogance that made me want to shrink down in my seat a bit. And he’d only greeted me.

  “I don’t know about infamous, but the rest is accurate.”

  He looked down at the open file in his hands, then back up at me. The unimpressed smirk on his face was duly noted as he walked into the room and sat down across from me at the desk, where I could get a better look at him. Even with his smug look of superiority, I couldn’t deny that he was good looking. His clean-cut brown hair was styled to perfection, as was his attire. Not a wrinkle to be seen. For someone working at a school, he had a bit of an edge to his dress clothes, the cut of them tighter than his khaki pant/polo shirt-wearing colleagues. And I spotted the bottom of an intricate tattoo peeking out from his rolled-up sleeve.

  As if he’d seen me notice, he tugged his crisp sleeve down to cover it before starting in on me.

  “So the word is you’re not big on authority, is that true?”

  “I think that’s fair to say,” I replied, settling back in my seat.

  “Is it also fair to say that you don’t want to be here right now?”

  “Yep.”

  “The dean made you come?”

  “Right again.”

  “And you’re just going through the motions?”

  “Three for three. You’re good, new guy.”

  “Iver,” he said, closing the file he’d placed in front of him. “Not ‘new guy’.”

  “Oh, is this the part where you try to be cool and relatable? I’ve had therapists try that. It’s a total waste of time. I don’t relate to anyone.”

  “I can’t imagine why.” His droll response hung between us for about a minute before the weight of his pale green-eyed stare started to get to me. Then he floored me with his next remarks. “Your father is an asshole, and you’ve grown up in the spotlight because of who he is. Your actress mother left, and he screwed her in the divorce, getting sole custody just to stick it to her. You can’t trust anyone around you. Your friends have never really been your friends. And every time you think you’ve found someone you can trust, they betray you, and your armor gets just a little thicker.” He pinned me to the chair with his sharp stare. “Sound about right?”

  Holy fuck...

  “How did you—”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “No,” I said, trying to tamp down my rising anger. Yeah, he’d fucking nailed it, and it pissed me off. He stared at me curiously, as though his account couldn’t have been flawed. As though that wasn’t even a possibility. “You forgot the part about daddy’s friends getting handsy whenever he wasn’t looking. Otherwise, I’d say you did okay for a dime-store analysis.”

  “Tell me something, Ms. Carmichael, why are you here?”

  “Like in an existential kind of way, or…?”

  “I mean, why go to college at all? You clearly don’t need to work for a living. I can only assume your father would have provided for you in t
hat regard. Is it the need to appear normal in some way, or is it the desire to have something apart from him? Something he can’t dictate and control?”

  I didn’t bother answering. It was plain in his satisfied expression that he already knew why.

  “Let me ask you something, Iver. Why are you pretending like you give a flying fuck about who I am or why I do what I do? If you were smart, you’d mark down that I met with you and send me on my way. The sooner you’re rid of me, the sooner your life gets easier.”

  “Maybe I don’t want it to. Maybe I like the path of most resistance.”

  “Then you’re in for one hell of a bumpy ride.”

  He looked down at the manila folder in front of him and cracked it open again, thumbing through the pages until he found the one he wanted. Taking his time, he read through whatever the magical page stated, then looked back up at me, a frown firmly etched on his face.

  “When was the last time you saw your therapist?”

  “That’s none of your fu—”

  “When, Ms. Carmichael?”

  I could feel blood rushing to my face, filling my cheeks with anger. My mental state was none of his business. Neither was my history of therapy.

  “I haven’t seen the drug pusher since I came to this school. Happy?”

  “Why did you stop going?”

  Because all he did was shove pills down my throat at my father’s request.

  “Because it wasn’t helping.”

  “Maybe you weren’t a good match.”

  “Maybe I’m broken and there aren’t enough meds in the world to fix that.”

  He continued to stare at me for moment, collecting his thoughts. “I don’t think you’re broken.”

  “Well congratulations! You’re the only one.”

  “I’d like you to see someone here on campus. He’s new, like me, but I’ve heard good things. He excels at getting to the bottom of issues and addressing them.”

  “Sounds awesome,” I deadpanned.

  “And he’s not a psychiatrist, so no meds.”

  “Just caring and sharing? My favorite.”

  My eye roll let him in on the secret that it really wasn’t, not that he hadn’t already put that one together. Ignoring my sarcasm, he reached into his desk and pulled out a business card: Gunnar Fredrickson, Psychologist. The rest of the card was totally blank, except for a campus phone number.

  “I think you should call and make an appointment with him. You won’t be disappointed.”

  “I’m sure I will, but I’ll let you know.”

  I got out of my seat, taking the card he offered. It seemed easier to placate him rather than kick up a stink. I could just toss it into the nearest trashcan as I left the building. Iver the all-knowing wouldn’t be any the wiser.

  But as I held the card in my hand, it seemed hard to discard, even when I hovered next to the garbage on the way out of the main office. Maybe somewhere deep down inside, I knew I needed help. Knew that I couldn’t keep up the façade of giving zero fucks forever. It hurt to be hurting and have nobody care—nobody notice. Not even my own father, who lived so close to me but was emotionally miles away, Maybe that’s why I actually dialed the number for Gunnar Fredrickson as I walked toward Greek Row.

  Maybe I liked the idea of no longer feeling broken.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The overly perky receptionist at the student medical center was all too happy to schedule me an appointment with their new therapist. And did I know that I was his first appointment? And this college was so progressive, taking students’ mental health seriously!

  Clearly she’d had one too many happy pills that morning.

  Since my date with Gunnar Frederickson was scheduled and I had no other distractions, I retraced my steps from the night before until I stood on the walkway in front of the narrow divide between frat houses. I knew it was the right one because the rainbow flag that had been ripped down by some bigoted asshole still hung limp from a rope dangling from the third floor window, just like it had the night before.

  It was then that it hit me—a wave of fear and nausea that nearly knocked me over. I was more than adept at stuffing my feelings down so deep that they rarely if ever resurfaced, but even I lacked the capacity for denial needed to pretend I hadn’t been affected by what I’d seen. Someone had lost their life between those buildings—I just knew it.

  I could feel it in my bones.

  With careful steps, one after the other, I made my way closer to where I’d seen those five silhouettes standing over the motionless body on the ground. The one that, even in the scant light of the moon, I could see had been covered in blood. There was no way they could have erased every sign of the crime they’d committed. I’d watched enough CSI to know that was impossible. Especially if they were in a hurry.

  The buildings seemed to close in around me when I stood where there should have been a body, but wasn’t. And there was no sign of blood. I scoured the textured brick exteriors to see if I could find even a single drop of it, but there was nothing. That feeling of nausea rolled in my stomach, but for a different reason this time. This time I wondered if I was losing my mind.

  Again.

  Iver had been careful not to say my diagnosis out loud when he’d spoken of my previous therapy, but if he’d obtained as much information as it seemed, then there was no way he hadn’t seen it. Whatever the technical term for ‘breaks with reality’ was, that’s what I’d had. But only once, right after my parents’ divorce when I turned eighteen.

  Taking deep breaths, I tried to calm myself. Tried to tell myself that this was different—that I wasn’t spiraling down a dark hole. What I could remember of those five days had been the scariest, most empty time of my life, and I’d have given anything not to relive it.

  I stumbled backward out from between the buildings and started running across campus toward the med center. My appointment with Gunnar wasn’t until later that afternoon, but it was about to get bumped up if I had any say in the matter. I couldn’t afford to be swallowed by the darkness again.

  ***

  A severe-looking dark-haired man with harsh, angular features opened the door and poked his head out to spot me waiting in the chair. The corner of his mouth curled up slightly before he waved me in, greeting me warmly.

  “Eve, right?”

  “That’s me. In the flesh. Ready to earn your paycheck, doc?” I asked as he made his way past me into the room.

  “I’m not a doctor,” he said, correcting me. “Why don’t you just call me Gunnar or Mr. Fredrickson? Whichever you’re more comfortable with.”

  “Freddie it is,” I replied, leaning back into my third chair of the morning. This one was at least overstuffed and comfortable.

  I looked up at him, expecting to find a sour, irritated expression, but I didn’t. Instead, a quirked brow and a wry smile stared down at me. He apparently found my behavior amusing.

  That was a first.

  “Freddie works for me. Now tell me something, Eve. My secretary told me you were adamant about moving up your appointment. Would you like to tell me more about that?”

  No.

  “I just wanted to get it over with,” I lied. Old habits apparently died hard. “My new advisor seemed to have a hard-on about me coming in here. Since I’m already in shit with the dean—for something I didn’t do, by the way—I figured I’d comply with the new guy’s request. Before someone gets my dad involved.”

  “Does that happen often?” he asked, sitting down in a chair a respectable distance from me. “People intercede on your behalf?”

  I laughed out loud.

  “No. Not at all. In fact, my father makes it a point to have as little to do with me as possible; he’s too busy with work and his new family. But if it’s something nasty that could get tied back to his gleaming reputation, he tends to rush in and threaten lawsuits to shut people up.”

  I waited for the inevitable ‘and how does that make you feel?’ When one didn’t come, I sat
up a little straighter.

  “You say your father has little to do with you. Let's explore that a bit.”

  “There’s nothing to explore. It’s really quite simple. I’m a reminder of a relationship gone south—the blemish on his perfect record.”

  “Sounds like a great guy.”

  I pulled my gaze up from the hole in my jeans I’d been picking at and leveled it on Freddie. He was staring back at me as if assessing my reaction to what he’d said. Maybe that had been his intent, and if so, I’d taken the bait, but I just couldn’t tell. There was something in his hazel eyes, a thinly veiled anger that I recognized easily. I’d seen it looking back at me in the mirror more times than I cared to count.

  It was then that I really took stock of the man sitting across from me. Though only thirtyish, he had a wizened air about him and a rugged handsomeness that I had somehow overlooked at first glance. And the scar on his left cheek that ran from the lobe of his ear under his cheekbone, stopping just shy of his mouth, was a mystery I suddenly wanted to solve. I had to force myself not to ask him about it.

  “Eve?” he asked, as though it wasn’t the first time he’d said my name.

  “Sorry. What were you saying?”

  “I asked if there was another reason that you wanted to come here today? Something not involving your issues with the dean?”

  I stifled my knee-jerk response of ‘no’ and instead considered telling him what had me so on edge. Telling him what I’d seen the night before—or thought I’d seen. It was risky, knowing that it would likely dredge up my past, which I locked away a long time ago. But for whatever reason, for the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt like I wanted to tell someone my secrets.

  Wanted to have someone else share the burden they’d become.

  “The last time I told someone about what was really troubling me, I ended up being heavily medicated. That’s not a route I want to go down again, Freddie.”

  “I understand. Is that what you think will happen if you tell me why you’re really here?” I let my silence be answer enough. “Like I said, I’m not a doctor so I can’t give you any medication. I do, however, have to report you if I think you’re a danger to yourself or anyone else.” His warm eyes narrowed. “Are you?”