Page 8 of Cross My Heart

Here it is, I realize, right in front of me: The first evidence that she was even at the party at all.

So what was the event?

My hopes rise. If I knew where the photo was taken, then I could try and find a guest list, photos, build a timeline, and figure out when she was taken—

I eagerly check the yearbook for any more information, but there’s no photography credit, and Wren’s name isn’t even listed by the snap. Her face is hidden, so only I would recognize her in the shot.

My heart sinks. A dead-end. But it’s something, I remind myself: one more piece of the puzzle. And with so little to be working from, every small detail might prove important. So I snap a photo of the page with my phone. But I’m just about to start Googling those other names from the yearbook when the muffled chime of the church bells sound nearby. It’s noon.

Shit.

I bolt to my feet, and hunt for the crumpled schedule I stuffed in my bag.12 noon, Libertines and the Law: Cloisters 5.

Double shit.

I grab my things, shove the yearbook back on the shelf, and race from the library. The Cloisters are clear across campus, and I break into a run, weaving through groups of students milling on the quad.

“Watch it!” Someone yells when I knock them aside, but I don’t slow down. I’m panting by the time I find the right room, up a narrow staircase above the chilly stone cloisters, with a heavy old door that sticks when I push it.

Come on!I heave it again, putting my full weight behind the push—

—Which means that when it gives way suddenly, I stumble clumsily into the office and nearly tumble straight onto my ass. I grab at the nearest solid surface for balance, a coatrack beside the door. And it’s not so solid. The coats and jackets clatter to the ground.

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” I blurt, gathering them up quickly. I finally straighten, flushed and panting, to find I’m standing in an elegant book-lined study, with five other students staring at me with smirks on their faces.

And one handsome, enigmatic professor, smirking the most of all.

My nerves catch, taking in the now-familiar broad shoulders and searching, wry gaze.

Of course it would be him.

“Ms. Peterson, I presume?” Professor St. Clair looks at me with amusement. He’s clearly had a shave and change of clothes since I caught him strolling home at dawn. Now, he’s devastatingly clean-cut, his dark hair curling damp over his piercing blue eyes; lounging on a vintage Eames chair in a rumpled button-down and dark-wash jeans. He could pass as just another student here—if it wasn’t for the simple power and confidence radiating from his body.

There’s no doubt that he’s the one in charge of this room.

“Professor,” I swallow hard, getting my breath back—and trying to ignore the way my pulse kicks dangerously at the sight of him. “Yes. Hi.”

There’s a free chair on the other side of the room, and I try to edge over to it, stepping over bookbags and people’s outstretched legs.

“What are you doing?” Saint’s voice is lazy and even.

I blink. Is this a test? “I was just going to take a seat for the class…”

“You’re late,” he cuts me off.

“By all of four minutes,” I can’t help shooting back. He arches an eyebrow, and I remember, I can’t afford to draw attention to myself.

Especiallynot from this guy.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize again quickly. “I was at the library, and I lost track of time. It won’t happen again,” I promise, finally reaching the corner and sinking down on the spindly chair.

“No, it won’t,” Saint agrees pleasantly. “I don’t stand for lateness. Which is why I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“What?” I stare. “Now?”

“If you wouldn’t mind, Ms. Peterson,” he gives me another lazy smile. “You’ve already disrupted this seminar enough, don’t you think?”

“But, I’m here now. Ready and eager to learn.” I sense the nudges and looks the other students are exchanging, and I wait for one of them to speak up for me and say they don’t mind.