In My Dreams I Hold a Knife by Ashley Winstead
Chapter 28
January, senior year
Dr. Garvey didn’t take me out of town. He didn’t try to hide it. We sat in the middle of a crowded restaurant across the street from campus—the nice steakhouse, the one Mint’s parents took him to every Parents’ Weekend. I wondered if Dr. Garvey knew somehow that no one would catch us—like he’d struck a deal with the restaurant—or if he simply didn’t care.
The professor insisted I call him John. He tipped the wine bottle and filled my glass, over and over, speaking at length about the new book he was writing, which was sure to make a splash, earn him yet another offer from the White House. He never once asked me a question. Didn’t inquire about the fellowship, why I wanted it, or where I would go if I won. I knew within five minutes of sitting down that Dr. Garvey didn’t care about getting to know me.
But I was glad he didn’t stop talking, because I couldn’t have managed a word. I was an automaton, moving in the ways I was supposed to, doing things I could see other people doing in my peripheral vision: unfolding my white napkin, laying it across my lap. Taking sips of water. Allowing the waiter to scoot my chair close to the table, cage me. I ordered fish by pointing blindly at the menu, then ate two bites.
What was I doing? I wanted to be somewhere safe. I thought of Coop’s apartment on instinct, before remembering the two men shattering the glass, the hand untwisting the lock. Maybe there was nowhere safe. Still, every instinct screamed at me to leave as fast as I could.
But I had to have the recommendation.
My phone buzzed on the table, Mint’s name flashing across the screen. I stared at it a second, then clicked it dark.
I had to have it.
Besides, I didn’t know how this would end. Maybe Dr. Garvey would take his last sip of wine, sign the bill, and shake my hand with a thank-you for the company and a promise to have the letter on Monday. Maybe he was just lonely. Maybe it was innocent.
But when the check came, he looked at me and cleared his throat, loosening his navy bow tie. “Back to mine for a nightcap?”
No. I shook my head. “I really have to go home.”
He smiled. “Don’t you want your letter? It’s sitting on my desk, in my office. Come back with me, have a drink, and you can have it.”
I blinked in confusion. He’d already written it? What was the point of this dinner, then?
“I can pick it up on Monday,” I said, picking the napkin off my lap and folding it on the table.
“Ah,” he said regretfully. “I’m out of town for the next few weeks. Off to Europe for a mini-sabbatical. The fellowship deadline’s before then, isn’t it?”
It was in a week. A week, a week, a week. I had to have the letter. I had to win. There was only one more chance for us. The door was closing.
My throat constricted. I clutched my chest, trying to pull in air, fighting the feeling that I was trapped. The couple at the table next to us turned to stare.
Dr. Garvey simply raised an eyebrow. “Is that a yes?”
***
I stepped outside myself.
Watched, from a distance, as Dr. Garvey unlocked the door to his enormous house, led me inside, down the hallway, and into the study. His home was beautiful, dimly lit, masculine colors. He had shelf after shelf of books. I studied them, pausing over the titles I recognized, repeating the words under my breath. They were familiar. Comforting. Everything would be okay.
And then I saw them, hanging on his wall: Two Harvard diplomas. One, a twin to my father’s. The undergrad degree. The second—the PhD—was huge. Larger than life, just like I’d imagined.
He’d been the same major as my father, of course. Economics. They’d been equal, once. Then Dr. Garvey had gone back a second time. And then to work at Duquette, and in Washington. In the thick of things. So important, so much to be proud of. He was living the life my father always wanted.
Dr. Garvey poured whiskey from a cut-crystal decanter and handed me a glass.
I had to have the letter.
I took a sip, and Dr. Garvey slipped a hand down my arm.
He led me down the hall to the bedroom.
One night when I was sixteen, I walked home by myself from a classmate’s party. Halfway there, I caught a man out of the corner of my eye, his pale face stark against the night. He was a few feet behind me, tracking my steps. When I sped up, he sped up. When I turned, he turned. A wild, terrible knowing seized me then, a charge under my skin, the kind of tension a girl learns to read without anyone teaching her.
Terrified, I ran. I could remember that moment so vividly: using every ounce of my strength, running so hard I eventually couldn’t feel my legs. Running for a mile, all the way home, to escape the danger in the dark, right behind me.
Walking into Dr. Garvey’s room, the wild, terrible knowing seized me again. But this time, I didn’t run. This time, my legs moved slowly, one after the other, toward the bed. My arms remained by my side, clenched, as he unwound his bow tie. My face a mask, set in flat lines.
There was still the sixteen-year-old girl inside me who wanted to be free and safe. Untouched. I could feel her heart thumping with terror, nowhere to go. She was running, she was screaming, she was banging on my rib cage to get out.
But I locked her inside. I knelt on the bed. This time, I let the danger catch me.
I drowned her in the dark.
And when I walked home that night, clutching my letter, there was no one left inside to be afraid.