Linwood Barclay - Far From True

First, there was that whole business of getting attacked by that guy in the hoodie with “23” on the front. Which was totally nuts. Why does some guy drag you into the bushes, and then tell you he isn’t actually going to do anything to you?

Not that she was sorry that nothing worse happened. But still, it was weird.

And then the guy turns out to be Mason Helt, whom she didn’t really know, but had seen around campus. Gets his head blown off by Duncomb.

What a place Thackeray was.

Despite all that, she felt safe in this cocoon of a room, which was about the size of a walk-in closet in some of her friends’ houses. There was a desk built into the wall, but she did most of her work on the bed, sitting on it sideways, her back propped against the wall, a pillow tucked in to provide comfort.

She had the laptop resting on her thighs, a couple of paperback novels, spines cracked, open and facedown on the covers next to her. Just within reach on the shelf above her pillow, a cup of tea.

Lorraine figured she had at least two more hours in her before she wouldn’t be able to keep her eyes open, but found, only minutes later, that she was nodding off. She had her fingers poised over the keyboard, was staring at the screen, when she felt her eyelids growing heavy.

Her phone trilled. A text.

She reached for it. It was from someone else in her English class with Blackmore. A girl named Cleo. She wrote: Did u hear about Bmore?

Lorraine texted back: What?

Cleo wrote: He got arrested. Ran down someone with his car

To which Lorraine wrote back: Holy shit

Cleo said: Yeah

Lorraine wrote: Hate to think of this first but what about essay

Cleo wrote: Yeah I know

The knock on the door was like a thunderclap.

Lorraine texted: GTG someone here

She tossed the phone onto the bed and called out, “Who is it?”

From behind the door, a man’s voice: “Lorraine? Sorry to trouble you so late. But I need to talk to you.”

Lorraine slid the laptop off her thighs and padded in her bare feet to the door. All Thackeray dorm rooms had peepholes in the doors. She went up on her tiptoes to get a look at whoever needed to see her at such a crazy hour.

“Oh!” she said. “It’s you!”

“Do you have a second?”

“I’m — God, I’m just in my sweats. I look like a horror show!”

“I’m really, really sorry. I wouldn’t be coming by if it wasn’t important.”

“Okay, okay,” she said.

She turned back the dead bolt and swung open the door.

“Hey,” she said. “What’s going on?”

“May I come in? Just for a second?”

Lorraine shrugged. “Sure, but excuse the mess.”

Her visitor just needed her to turn around, have her back to him for a second. It was always easier that way.

She obliged when she turned to walk back to her bed. He was able to do it the way he had with Olivia Fisher and Rosemary Gaynor.

They struggled, but it went quickly. Surrender was almost instant once the blade went in, and across.

Like a smile.

Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.

It’s time.

As always, I had help. Thanks go to Sam Eades, Eva Kolcze, Heather Connor, Loren Jaggers, John Aitchison, Paige Barclay, Danielle Perez, Bill Massey, Carol Fitzgerald, David Shelley, Helen Heller, Brad Martin, Kara Welsh, Ashley Dunn, Amy Black, Kristin Cochrane, Spencer Barclay, Louisa Macpherson, and Juliet Ewers.

And, once again, booksellers.