Under the Rose by Diana Peterfreund

Author:Diana Peterfreund [Peterfreund, Diana]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780440337058
Google: -Sb_AUFeih4C
Amazon: B000SCHCBA
Publisher: Delta
Published: 2007-06-26T05:00:00+00:00

Of course, it wasn’t going to be easy. Not only was there the aforementioned mutual hatred, but I’d managed to avoid ever learning the bastard’s real name. That would be step one.

Cue Mission Impossible theme and commence stealthy journey back into the tomb. Once there, I took the stairs to the room of records. There’d been a motion to seal off the room until we’d located the leak, but no one thought it would be much of a deterrent. The person already had their info. Now I was glad for the access.

Along the wall of the room of records hung a group portrait for every club as far back as daguerreotypes were in vogue. I checked the wall for D176. The men were clustered around the grandfather clock I knew was in the Firefly Room, and before them lay a low table with the etching of Persephone on top. Each wore a formal tuxedo with tails. There was Malcolm in the front row, his hand resting on the shoulder of the knight I knew as Poe. I looked at the list of names beneath the photo.

James Orcutt.

What a ridiculously normal name. I’d half been expecting Darth Vader. But, no matter. The Grand Library had a computer terminal (because, honestly, how grand would it be otherwise?). I entered Orcutt’s name into the student directory, and a few moments later had his home number. Bingo. I exited into the hall and approached the tomb’s only phone.

Point of no return, Amy. Are you honestly going to do this? Go to Poe? I took a deep breath, and dialed.

“Hello?” My Pavlovian response to his voice has always been fight-or-flight, but I steeled myself and tried to sound cheery. Or at least amicable.

“Hi. James?” The name sounded bizarre on my tongue. “This is—”

“Amy Haskel.” Not a question. “What do you want?”

I hesitated, still reeling from the shock that he’d recognized my voice. “I…Malcolm said—I need your help.”

Silence, and then, “Figures. What is it—wait, are you at the tomb?”

“Yeah.”

“Meet me at my place: 27 Danbury, number 3. Come now.” And then he hung up.

What choice did I have? I was the desperate one. I’d work on his timetable. So I hoofed it across town. All the law students live off-campus, but when I got to the address Poe—sorry, James, but old habits die hard—had indicated, it was clear my nemesis was living as disreputably as possible. I stood for a moment on the tree lawn and debated whether or not the trash heap before me could possibly be the right address.

The front yard was a mess of weeds, hemmed in by a sagging chain-link fence emblazoned with a black-and-red BEWARE OF DOG sign. But there was no dog to be seen as I opened the catch and picked my way up the cracked front walk, and no mangy mutt chased me as I put my first tentative steps onto the team-of-termites-holding-hands that passed for a stoop. The steps creaked beneath my feet, and the front porch practically screamed “Skirt the edges,” with all of its saggy spots.

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