ruining my life anymore.”
“So you’re going to try and ruin his by threatening him with a false charge?”
“A
false
charge?” she snaps. “You, of all people, should know it’s not false.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Think about it,” she retorts. “I’m not supposed to talk to you about this.”
“Why not? What am I going to do—run to the Office of Judicial Affairs and tell them you’re lying? My husband has been telling them that since we first heard about this. How do you think screwing up his life is going to help you?”
Her jaw clenches. “By getting me out of King’s University. Either the administration will accelerate my graduation to avoid a scandal, or I’ll sue them for not protecting me from a lecherous professor. Either way, I’ll get out and be done with it all.”
“And you’ll still have your father’s money.”
“You don’t know what my father is like,” Maggie snaps. “But you should have helped me when I asked you to talk to your husband about my thesis. Now it’s too late.”
“It’s not too late for you to do the right thing.”
She shakes her head, her shoulders hunching as she hurries away.
I watch her go, not knowing if I just made things worse.
CHAPTER FOUR
Olivia
March 17
ve stopped researching information about sexual harassment cases at universities because they never seem to end well. The professors often end up resigning, and if they don’t, their reputations are tainted by the allegation.
Even if they’re innocent of the charge, their names are splashed all over the Internet, attached to news stories about the case. Some of the professors are not innocent, I know, and their accusers are right to pursue justice, but that sure as hell isn’t the situation with Maggie Hamilton.
“If you see her again, don’t talk to her, Liv,” Dean says, after I’ve told him about my encounter with Maggie. “I don’t want Edward Hamilton giving us a bunch of BS about stalking again.”
I promise him I won’t, but worries hover around me like a cloud in the days following my encounter with Maggie. My inheritance check arrives via courier, and I deposit it one afternoon before my shift at the bookstore.
After leaving the bank, I stop halfway down Poppy Street, across from a sage-green Victorian building with painted white shutters. The windows are shaded by the interior curtains. The wooden Matilda’s Teapot sign, hanging from a post by the fence, has been replaced by a For Lease sign.
I cross the street and approach the house. I’ve passed by several times since the tearoom closed a few weeks ago, but I haven’t paid much attention to it aside from wishing it was still open so I could stop in for a plate of chocolate crepes and a pot of Darjeeling tea.
A vinyl banner with the word
Closed
hangs over the windows. I walk up to the porch and peer into one of the first-floor windows.
“May I help you?”
I turn to see a robust woman in her mid-fifties climbing the front steps. She has a broad, friendly face and brown hair streaked with gray.
“Are you Matilda?” I ask, recognizing her from my visits to the tearoom.
“Matilda was my mother.”
“Oh.” I gesture to the window. “I wasn’t snooping. Well, not much anyway. It’s just that I used to love your place.”
“That’s nice to hear.” She reaches to unhook the banner from the window. “My mother opened the tearoom years ago, and I took over after she retired.”
“The crepes were amazing,” I tell her. “I’m sorry you had to close.”
“Well, my husband died a couple of years ago and it just got to be too much work for one person,” she explains. “I won’t miss all the paperwork and headaches, but I will miss the customers. Could you get that corner? I can’t quite reach it. I’m Marianne, by the way.”
“Olivia. Everyone calls me Liv.” I put my satchel down, pull a narrow bench over to the window, and step onto it to
“So you’re going to try and ruin his by threatening him with a false charge?”
“A
false
charge?” she snaps. “You, of all people, should know it’s not false.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Think about it,” she retorts. “I’m not supposed to talk to you about this.”
“Why not? What am I going to do—run to the Office of Judicial Affairs and tell them you’re lying? My husband has been telling them that since we first heard about this. How do you think screwing up his life is going to help you?”
Her jaw clenches. “By getting me out of King’s University. Either the administration will accelerate my graduation to avoid a scandal, or I’ll sue them for not protecting me from a lecherous professor. Either way, I’ll get out and be done with it all.”
“And you’ll still have your father’s money.”
“You don’t know what my father is like,” Maggie snaps. “But you should have helped me when I asked you to talk to your husband about my thesis. Now it’s too late.”
“It’s not too late for you to do the right thing.”
She shakes her head, her shoulders hunching as she hurries away.
I watch her go, not knowing if I just made things worse.
CHAPTER FOUR
Olivia
March 17
ve stopped researching information about sexual harassment cases at universities because they never seem to end well. The professors often end up resigning, and if they don’t, their reputations are tainted by the allegation.
Even if they’re innocent of the charge, their names are splashed all over the Internet, attached to news stories about the case. Some of the professors are not innocent, I know, and their accusers are right to pursue justice, but that sure as hell isn’t the situation with Maggie Hamilton.
“If you see her again, don’t talk to her, Liv,” Dean says, after I’ve told him about my encounter with Maggie. “I don’t want Edward Hamilton giving us a bunch of BS about stalking again.”
I promise him I won’t, but worries hover around me like a cloud in the days following my encounter with Maggie. My inheritance check arrives via courier, and I deposit it one afternoon before my shift at the bookstore.
After leaving the bank, I stop halfway down Poppy Street, across from a sage-green Victorian building with painted white shutters. The windows are shaded by the interior curtains. The wooden Matilda’s Teapot sign, hanging from a post by the fence, has been replaced by a For Lease sign.
I cross the street and approach the house. I’ve passed by several times since the tearoom closed a few weeks ago, but I haven’t paid much attention to it aside from wishing it was still open so I could stop in for a plate of chocolate crepes and a pot of Darjeeling tea.
A vinyl banner with the word
Closed
hangs over the windows. I walk up to the porch and peer into one of the first-floor windows.
“May I help you?”
I turn to see a robust woman in her mid-fifties climbing the front steps. She has a broad, friendly face and brown hair streaked with gray.
“Are you Matilda?” I ask, recognizing her from my visits to the tearoom.
“Matilda was my mother.”
“Oh.” I gesture to the window. “I wasn’t snooping. Well, not much anyway. It’s just that I used to love your place.”
“That’s nice to hear.” She reaches to unhook the banner from the window. “My mother opened the tearoom years ago, and I took over after she retired.”
“The crepes were amazing,” I tell her. “I’m sorry you had to close.”
“Well, my husband died a couple of years ago and it just got to be too much work for one person,” she explains. “I won’t miss all the paperwork and headaches, but I will miss the customers. Could you get that corner? I can’t quite reach it. I’m Marianne, by the way.”
“Olivia. Everyone calls me Liv.” I put my satchel down, pull a narrow bench over to the window, and step onto it to
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