Killer Exposure. Lara Lacombe
click away, and most kids couldn’t resist the temptation of their phones for the full hour of class.
How times have changed. She felt like a stick-in-the-mud for even thinking it, but when she had been in college, she had come to class prepared, asked questions and paid attention. Now students howled in protest whenever an assignment was given, and spent more time trying to figure out how to get out of studying than they spent in class. It was a fact that amused and exasperated her in equal measures.
“You know I’m not going to answer that,” she replied, smiling a little to soften the blow. “Like I told you on the first day of class, if I’m talking about something, it means I think it’s important. And if I think it’s important, you should, too.”
“There’s just so much material,” another student piped up. “How are we supposed to know what to study?”
Hannah felt her smile grow thin. “Study all of it.”
“All of it!” Despair was almost a palpable thing in the room, hovering over the students’ heads like a gray storm cloud. “But that’s not fair!”
“It’s not that bad,” she said, smiling at them before delivering her final coup. “You have all of spring break to study.”
A loud groan rose from the mass of students, and she chuckled, a small part of her enjoying their over-the-top reaction. If chemistry didn’t pan out for them, they all had a promising future in acting. She glanced at the clock. Almost time to end for the day. Recognizing she wouldn’t be able to pull them back on track with so little time left, she decided to cut her losses. “Remember, you can always email me over the break if you have questions while you’re studying. Try to do a little bit of work every day, rather than leaving it until the end and trying to cram. That never works.” She started to gather up her papers, and the students, recognizing their cue to leave, began to do the same. “Have a good break,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the din of books thumping shut, bags zipping closed and phones beeping as they were switched off of silent mode.
She checked her own phone as the students filed out, a little surprised to find a missed call and message from her friend Gabby. Gabriella Whitman had been her roommate in college, and the two stayed in touch after going their separate ways, Gabby to medical school and Hannah to graduate school. Now that they were both back in the same city, they made it a point to have dinner together once a month.
Hannah slipped the phone into her pocket, deciding to wait until she was in her office before checking the message. Gabby probably just needed to reschedule their upcoming girls’ night. She worked long hours as the county medical examiner, and it wasn’t always possible for her to get away. Since Hannah’s schedule was more flexible, she didn’t mind adjusting to accommodate her friend.
She moved on autopilot back to her office, her mind already turning to the exams she needed to work on over the upcoming break. Then there were the letters of recommendation she had agreed to write for students applying to summer research programs or professional schools. She felt a surge of pride when she considered the number of references that were due. It was always gratifying to help a student succeed, and she had to admit, it made her feel good when a current or former student asked her to help them. Brian’s letter was due next week, so she really needed to finish it and send it off well before the deadline...
“Are you Hannah Baker?”
She stopped a few feet away from her office door, taken aback by the question. Two men stood in the hall, one tall and one about her height. The shorter man continued his perusal of the students walking by, apparently not particularly interested in her. The taller man, however, ran his gaze slowly over her body, seemingly evaluating her appearance and comparing it to some mental standard. Hannah felt her face heat, and her skin tingled in the wake of his blatant scrutiny. It had been a long time—too long, her hormones chided—since a man had paid her any attention. Especially a handsome man. And there was no denying her mystery questioner was attractive.
“Yes,” she replied, taking a moment to return his stare. He was tall and lean, but she’d bet almost anything his body was rock solid underneath the green polo and khaki pants. He carried himself with the confidence of a man who could handle any physical threat that came his way, his stance relaxed but not soft. His dark brown hair was short and clipped, threaded with a few silver strands that caught the light of the hall. His cheeks were stubbled, giving him the look of a man who had rolled out of bed and come to work. She had the insane urge to run her fingertip across his face, to feel the sandpaper softness of his whiskers against her skin. Would it tickle against her chest, her stomach? Whoa, she thought, shutting down the crazy daydream before it could go further. Her cheeks grew even warmer, and his dark blue gaze filled with lazy satisfaction, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.
She cleared her throat and swallowed, needing to steer herself back onto professional ground. She didn’t know who these men were. They didn’t look like the usual textbook reps; they lacked the ready smile and casual friendliness exhibited by so many of those salespeople. But no matter their identity, standing in the hall gawking at one of them was no way for a professor to behave. “How can I help you?”
“I’m Detective Owen Randall with the Houston police department.” He pulled a shiny badge from his pocket and showed it to her, then gestured to the shorter man. “This is my partner, Nate Gallagher.” The other man nodded at her in acknowledgment before returning his gaze to the stream of people walking past. “May we have a minute of your time, please?”
“Of course.” Her fingers fumbled with the keys, and it took her several attempts to find and insert the correct one into the lock of her office door. She wasn’t used to having an audience, particularly an audience of handsome police officers. What on earth could they want with her?
Her stomach dropped as she pushed open the door. Was one of her students in trouble? Everyone had been in class today, and she didn’t recall any missing faces in yesterday’s classes, either. But she only saw them for an hour at a time, which gave them ample opportunity to get up to something. While most of her students were good kids, no one was perfect. Besides, how well did she really know them?
Hannah rounded her desk and sat, discreetly adjusting the fabric of the turtleneck she wore to make sure it fully covered her neck. She usually left her shoulder-length hair down as an added layer of concealment, which made it unlikely that Detective Randall or his partner had gotten a look at her scars. Still, her vanity demanded she check. Although she’d made her peace with the burn scars on her back and neck, she still didn’t like others to see the marks. She’d had enough pity, and she didn’t like answering questions about them, no matter how well-meaning the intentions of the other person.
The two men settled into chairs on the other side of her desk. Detective Gallagher, deprived of his view of the activity in the hall, turned his attention to her office, his eyes roaming across the walls and shelves, pausing here to take in her stack of books, there to examine the antique lab instruments she kept on her desk. Detective Randall was more direct, keeping his focus on her. She shifted slightly, then forced herself to stop. She was a professor, for crying out loud! She was used to demanding and commanding the attention of dozens, if not scores, of students at a time. She could handle being the center of attention of one man.
Even if he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen in real life.
“How can I help you gentlemen?”
“How long did you work for ChemCure Industries?”
She leaned back, surprised by the question. Of all the things Detective Randall could have asked, inquiring about her career in the pharmaceutical industry was the last thing she’d expected. “Five years. Why?”
He ignored her question. “And during your tenure there, did you work with nitrogen mustard chemicals?”
“Yes,” she said slowly.
Detective Gallagher spoke for the first time. “Isn’t that the stuff they used during World War I? Mustard gas?”
Hannah reluctantly turned her gaze