Page 37 of Pink Ink

My sigh threatens to shake the foundations of the old building. I really want to cut ties with Lawrence, but I can’t. He has information about my dad and is my only access to the murders. It’s not like the kills are appearing on the news. I’m stuck with him.

ME:

I can’t, sorry. I promised Kimi I’d accompany her shopping.

Grocery shopping. So it isn’t a complete lie.

I tuck the phone into my pocket and ignore the next text that comes through.

I give tight-lipped smiles to students and staff passing by and swallow my envy that they aren’t on their way to open Pandora’s box. I could technically put this off until after class tomorrow, but I’m bound to lose sleep over it if I do. I’d rather rip out the anxiety in my chest. It’s not good for the soul.

I swipe my sweaty hands on my dress as I climb up the final set of steps. Of course, he gets the nicest floor in the building. The hallway is grand, much like the rest of Cresswell, with high ceilings and arches framing each solid-mahogany door.

Paintings from various alumni adorn the corridor, and a Renaissance-style mural sprawls across the ceiling. It seems to come alive beneath the low, golden light coming from the gilded sconces.

There’s only one door at the very end of the hall, secluded from everything else.

Fitting for the harbinger of death.

Taking a deep breath, I rap my knuckles on the old wooden door and give the entrance a wide berth in case he decides to rip the thing open and knock me out with it. The seconds stretch on as I wait. And wait.

And wait.

I knock again.

Maybe he’s not here.

I don’t think he’s teaching any classes this afternoon. It’s definitely outside of his scheduled office hours. I mean, I did decide to leave it until five to talk to him, so it’s entirely possible he’s gone home for the day—

The door whips open to reveal Shaw standing there, scowling like Satan himself has come to shit on his parade.

His hair stands at odd angles and brushes the skin of his face; it’s beautifully tousled and made to run fingers through. Dots of navy paint cover part of his hand, and there’s a blotch of white on his dress pants. The top buttons of his shirt are undone, sleeves rolled up to the top of his forearms; his usual tie and vest combo is nowhere to be found.

He’s the most attractive disheveled mess I’ve ever seen, andGodI can’t get enough of the smell of him. I want to touch his ridiculously gorgeous face, feel his hands on me, and listen to him rip into me in his lethally addictive British accent—the simple things in life.

Wait, is he wearing yesterday’s clothes?

Venomous green eyes widen before his brows knit together in a deep frown.

“Did something happen?” Maddox—Shawsounds genuinely concerned.

The question takes my axis for a spin. The same fuzzy feeling I felt last night fizzles in my chest. I expected a comment about how this isn’t his office hour, or how I should have booked an appointment if I wanted to speak with him—word on the street is that he’sveryparticular about when he can and cannot be disturbed.

“Can we talk?” I clasp my hands together to stop myself from tugging on the sleeve of my cardigan. “About last night.”

Something dark crosses Shaw’s eyes. He considers for a beat, then steps back to let me inside after sticking his head out the doorway like he’s making sure no one saw his dirty little secret. My plan to question his behavior dies.

His studio isstunning.

Without permission, I help myself into his space.

The room is situated at the corner of the building and wraps toward the opposite wing in anLshape. The afternoon sun illuminates the canvases spread throughout the entire studio, hanging on the forest-green walls, stacked on the floor, or on the easel taking center stage. Clay sculptures are scattered throughout, some that just need finishing touches, others that appear far from complete.

Everything he could possibly need is in here. Against one of the walls is a kitchenette complete with a fridge, portable stove, and microwave. There’s a rumpled blanket sprawled over a leather couch, and a pillow dangerously close to falling onto the Persian rug.

I don’t know of any other professor who’s been awarded this much luxury. I’m fairly certain every art teacher here gets a dingy little office and a studio they can book if they want to paint. Yet here he is, like he’s the king of kings. I guess he’d need the big space for his massive ego.

Shaw makes no move to stop me from going farther into the room, and I take it as his silent invitation.