Page 2 of The Midnight House

All the speeches and evidence I’d prepared to get myself back into good standing fly out of my head. The pain in my skull intensifies.

As if Cole stealing my research wasn’t enough, publishing my work before I realized he’d even been dipping into my notes…

Now he’s trying to get me kicked out of my PhD program?

“Sir, I never would do that,” I say, and am sickened by the stammer I hear in my own voice. The room swims in and out of focus, and I grit my teeth, knowing the headache is going to explode no matter how much breathing I do. “In fact I had new research I wanted to show you⁠—”

“That won’t be necessary, Vivi,” Cole interrupts. “But if you want someone to verify your sources for you, make sure you’ve translated things correctly⁠—”

I am going to black out from rage. Something warm trickles down toward my lip, and I wipe at it, blinking.

“Miss Estrella, why don’t you set up an appointment with my assistant for another date? You don’t look well.” Dr. Hobson seems genuinely concerned. “Your nose is bleeding.”

“Yes, Carmilla is excellent at remembering little things like that. You know, she loves that Italian restaurant I used to take you to in the city.”

“Thank you for your time, Dr. Hobson,” I hear myself say. It’s like I’m watching myself in slow motion. The door closes behind me somehow.

My heels clack in the empty hallway. I wipe at my nose.

My hand comes away red.

I nod, my mouth in a rictus grin, at one of my former research buddies. “Sophia,” I say blandly. My voice still sounds far away. My head hurts, but every step I take away from Cole has my anger lessening a little.

Tunnel vision. That’s what this is called.

I keep walking. Ignoring the people who have been talking behind my back, lapping up everything Cole’s lied about. Believing him.

He took everything from me.

Everything.

But I’ll get the last word, because I know I’m right.

I know the research I have in my bag, at my side, in my laptop, nestled next to the bear spray I carry on me at all times, is the real deal.

So I just don’t go through the fucking school’s grant program to find the artifact mentioned in that dusty old text I painstakingly translated from cyphered Latin for the last six weeks.

I’ll do it myself.

I’m back on the main streets of the city before I know it, the sky green-gray, sure signs it’s going to storm soon. A neon sign catches my eye, and I’m walking through the front door of the corner store, and before my brain’s caught up to my hands, I’ve paid for a cheap bottle of wine with a rooster on the label, a pack of cheap lighters, a roll of duct tape, the biggest flashlight they have, a tiny flashlight, and a baseball cap that’s way overpriced, thanks to the fact it’s advertising the Eagles on it.

Sad, considering I’ll be defacing it in short order.

My head hurts, but it’s manageable, so I grab a few Advil and take them as I collect things, keeping the packaging so I can pay for them.

I glance down at the things in my hands and do some mental calculations.

This is probably going to clean me out.

“You good, miss?” the cashier asks as I hand over a wad of cash. I think that’s my last twenty.

“Yep,” I tell him, and we both know I’m lying.

If I were smart, I’d go back home and change clothes, get drunk, and cry. Come up with a new plan.

But I’m too fucking mad to be smart.

My skin practically crackles with rage. I swear, if I looked at my arms right now, all the hairs there would be standing up on their own.