Chapter 1
Cecelia Gardner followed her mother into her office. They’d already spent most of the last week running back and forth between home and the campus as her mother got ready for the school year. Cecelia was beginning to feel like this might be a cool place to hang out and do her homework if Mom wouldn’t let her stay home alone.
“Cecelia, sit here, hon.” Her mother motioned to the extra chair as she glanced at the man who shared the cramped office. He’d barely looked up when they entered.
“I won’t be long, Carlton, and Cece knows to be quiet. I’m sure she won’t disturb you.”
The man named Carlton grunted, continuing to peer at the papers on his desk, not seeming to care that she was in the office.
Cecelia sat down, swinging her legs in the too-tall chair. She pulled her favorite book from her backpack and sighed. At least her mother hadn’t told her to do her homework.
“What’s your name?” The man looked over at her, a half-smile on his face.
“Cecelia.”
The man’s black hair was shiny, and his grey eyes squinted at her, reminding her of her best friend’s cat when it stared at her, never blinking.
“I’m Professor Winslow. You must be Amanda’s daughter.” He gave her a quick, sidelong grin. “Your hair is all curls. Do you always keep it in pigtails?”
Cecelia nodded.
“My mom said she’d be right back.”
“I’m sure she will be. Is she in a meeting?”
“I think so. Then we’re going home.”
“How old are you?” He straightened in his chair and then leaned closer.
“Nine, going on ten. Next summer I’ll be ten.”
“What grade are you in?” His chair slid in her direction.
She eyed the man briefly. “Fourth.” No more questions, she thought, as she shrank down in the chair and raised the book up to hide her face.
“At the Campus School? I’ve met some of the teachers there. Do you like it?” He placed a hand on the back of her chair. His breath reminded her of cigarettes. Nasty.
“It’s a nice school. And I’m on the soccer team.”
“Good for you. Is this your first year—on the soccer team?”
She shook her head. “No. But I don’t know all the other girls yet.”
“I saw some soccer players on the field the other day. One girl had bright red hair. Is she on your team?”
“That’s Gloria. Her dad is our coach.”
“I see you’re a reader.” He placed his hand over the spine of the book, his fingers, stained yellow, splaying across the words. “What are you reading?”
“It’s my book—Misty of Chincoteague.” She pulled it closer when he slid his big chair closer and continued to stare at her.
“You have very pretty eyes—blue, like the sky. Has anyone ever told you that?” The man’s beard reminded her of sandpaper, like what she’d touched in class when they were studying different textures.
She shook her head and opened the book again, wanting to get back to the story. If only she could move her chair away so he couldn’t touch her book, but there wasn’t enough room. Something about the way he was watching her made her uncomfortable.She wished he would stop talking to her, stop asking her questions.
But the man moved his chair closer so that it bumped hers. She didn’t like that he smelled bad. His big hand with dark hairs on his fingers traced the air just above her knee.
“Your hair smells nice.”
Cecelia pulled down her skirt, tucked her feet under her, and scooted as far away from him as she could, wishing she could leave the room. But she didn’t know where her mother was and she’d been told to stay in the office.
“Where did you get that scar on your leg?”
“I fell down—when I was playing soccer,” she answered, her voice a near-whisper, her heart thudding like a drum in her chest.
The doorknob rattled. The man abruptly repositioned his chair in front of his big computer.
“Yes, I’ll drop it off on my way out.”
Her mother’s voice carried through the door, to Cecelia’s relief. When she opened it, Cecelia smiled at her mother, and looked over at the man in the big chair. He was fiddling with his tie, and the skin under his right eye was twitching.
Cecelia lowered her feet to the floor. “Can we go home now?”
“In a minute, Cece.” Her mother reached for her briefcase as she glanced in the man’s direction. He stared down at his papers and resumed typing.
“Come on, Mom.” Cecelia slid out of the little chair, keeping her mother between herself and the man. She pulled on her mother’s hand, eager to get away from the man’s prying eyes and bad breath.