Page 52 of Shadowface

I scratch the back of my neck. “His brilliance was truly exceptional. His mind was fascinating.”

“More brilliant than Dr. Garcia?” she asks. Her question takes me aback. Dr. Garcia was his mentor, and he surpassed her in so many ways.

“Or what about you? I’ve heard that you’re supposed to be a genius. My father spent a lot of time with you,” she says playfully, her eyes gleaming.

I shrug and choose not to dwell on my brilliance. “He was different from Dr. Garcia. His research was more chaotic, yet precise. He delved into intense psychological theories about the true driving forces behind fear. It was truly an honor to collaborate with him.”

Glancing at the neatly stacked papers on my desk in the corner, she asks, “Is that the research you’re currently working on?”

“Some parts of it. That research provided me with a new purpose in life.”

Her pen finds her mouth as she smiles, and I can finally see her dimples. “You sound like a real professor.”

I chuckle. “I will be a professor in a matter of months, but you’re not here to talk about my work. Let’s talk about why you came to see me.”

She hoods her eyes, then looks up at me with her long lashes. “I don’t stand a chance in this class, do I?”

I lean back in my chair and arch my brows. “Everything’s within reach, Summer…if you’re willing to work hard enough.”

A playful smile hints at her lips. “What do I have to do then, Lincoln?” She runs the pencil down her chest to draw my attention to where she wants it to go. “To help get my grade up.”

Flirting with the TA. If she only knew I’ve already experienced that slick cunt of hers and how much she already owns me because of it.

I pretend to think about it. “I’ll tell you what… Write a thousand words about today’s topic in class. Build on last week’s reflection and give me a thesis statement. Source out at least two additional journals to support the topic. You don’t have to dive into the actual research, but I want to make sure you understand today’s theory.”

She runs her hands through her perfect, angelic hair. “Nature vs. nurture, got it.”

I shake my head. “Nature, Summer. We are talking about the principles of psychobiology. Nurture has nothing to do with it. It’s all about what you were born with: brain anatomy, nervous system, levels of dopamine that cause your primal, most basic responses to situations.”

The opposite of her father’s field of study, which was focused more on emotion. Her inability to grasp this is not unexpected—and exactly the theory I’m trying to prove. She comes from a genetic line of killers.

She shoots me a blank stare, her emotions bubbling to the surface. “I’m sorry. This is all so confusing.”

“Do you have a study partner?” I ask softly. “Someone you can bounce ideas off of? We strongly encourage it in this class; someone you can build trust with. We realize some of these concepts can be quite complex, and it’s helpful to talk them through.”

I can’t wait to hear her response to this question.

Her eyes flash. “Sort of… I suppose I do.”

I rise and casually sit on the desk in front of her, my leg in line with hers.

“Keep talking things through with him. It will help. You have to be open and vulnerable, though. This class brings up ugly feelings in some students because it forces you to be self-aware, and people don’t often like what they see.”

She swallows hard and plays with her hair—a tick she does when she’s nervous, and that’s probably because I’ve inserted myself into her personal space.

“Are you self-aware, Lincoln?” she finally asks without moving. “Did you have to accept everything about yourself, even if they’re ugly or disturbing?”

I chuckle. “You have no idea how long I’ve spent psychoanalyzing myself.”

I’ve come to terms with what I am. Now she just has to come to terms with what she is…preferably before he kills her.

“Do you know what I do when I’m stuck?” She nods at me, her eyes filled with a pleading gaze. “When I’m struggling, I like to go back to classical theory, otherwise known as the philosopher’s point of view. Plato and Aristotle each had different theories of where our thoughts and feelings arise from. Plato believed our mind was connected to the brain, as do scientists today, and Aristotle thought they are directly connected to the heart.”

She bites on her pen, giving me a playful grin. “Well, that’s just ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

“Of course it is! I mean, isn’t it scientifically proven that our thoughts are connected to our brains?” She pauses and thinks about it, which is utterly adorable. “They are…right?”