Chapter 5: Accusations

You’re going to do it. They do it in the movies all the time, and it mostly works. You’ve never been much of an actor, though—your mom would testify to that after watching you stumble through lies in your early years. You seem to remember that it was about the time you tried to blame the broken window on someone else—a story that resulted in your mom crying (because she was laughing so hard) that you stopped trying to be untruthful altogether. Now, you gather around you any bit of deceiving-power you have to try to make this believable. You take a step forward into the office and Sophie relaxes, then moves back towards her chair, pulling a spare behind her where, supposedly, you are to sit.
“Oooo, oh, ah,” you hope she hears your painstakingly expressed words of surprise, but she seems utterly oblivious. So you try louder. “OH, AH, HHMMMMM…..” she is now busying herself looking for something in her desk drawer as she waits for you to settle into the chair before her. You stare at her incredulously and painfully. “Hold on a second,” you say in a volume really too loud for this closet of a space, “my phone is vibrating.” You reach into your pocket to “answer the call” but, horrified at not finding your phone there, or in your other pocket, you fumble around in the pockets of your backpack, muttering something about “hoping they don’t hang up.” You finally find your phone, lying cold and lifeless under a textbook, and turn around triumphantly, only to find Sophie looking at you with great confusion, and a bit of skepticism, across her face. “It’s—it’s—“above the furrowed line of her brow, one eyebrow rises.
“We won’t be long,” Sophie interjects, motioning to the seat she has situated awfully close to her own. “Feel free to close the door behind you.” So much for the phone trick—and that was your only idea. You turn slightly to take one longing, last look into the hall. “William, really, what is wrong?”
“Actually Sophie—Ms. Sparrow—I do have a class to get to. I—“
“You forgot about a class you had?” Sarcasm. Not only does she clearly not believe you, but she’s starting to take it personally. She says as much. “Really, now, I’m starting to take this personally.” So much for lies and excuses. The truth? You take a deep breath and stand a little straighter. She quickly stands up to face you. Uh, no—to heck with the truth. “What are you afraid of? You aren’t—wait a minute, you don’t think—“ She looks you up and down. “Do you have a crush on me?” You are so caught off guard that you have literally lost the ability to formulate a sentence.
“Wha—no, I thought—actually—“
“I don’t know what you thought, but you can stop that thinking right now. I do not date students. I am seriously just trying to help you, Will. Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?” When she spins around to face the window, her hair follows like a golden wave, catching a bit of sunlight that makes it shimmer. “I think you had better go now. I’m starting to feel uncomfortable.” You are unable to re-hinge your jaw until you reach the end of the hallway and the top of the staircase that will take you to the bottom floor. You are still reeling from the situationally ironical slap you’ve just received across the face. As you descend the stairs, certainly both dazed and confused, you miss the first couple of times your name is called. In fact, you only hear it the third time because you are tapped on the shoulder from behind.
“William Walker.”
“Yeah—that’s me.” You say to a petite, brown-headed girl with big brown eyes who seems unable to progress past age 16.
“Oh, it wasn’t a question.” She replies, smiling. You continue down the stairs together. “I know who you are!” She extends a tiny, soft hand when you reach the landing. “I’m Angela Snow.” Where have you heard that name before? It reverberates slowly through your brain until it reaches your long term memory.
“Oh! Hi! Nice to meet you—you are…Mr. Neil’s niece, right?”
“Right! I was so glad he took my suggestion to add your work to the show. I saw a few of your photographs in the Anthem and I just thought they were awesome!”
“Yes, he told me you liked them.”
“I’m an aspiring photographer, myself. I love it, but I really don’t have a lot of time for it. Do you develop your own film?”
“Ha—no. Local drugstore.” She seems disappointed; you hold the door open for her and you both step into the afternoon light onto the sidewalk.
“Oh, well. I’m interested in taking a class to learn how to do that. All those very specific steps and substances—it’s so interesting…so exciting!” You half expect the conversation to be coming to a close, but now you are awkwardly choosing a direction as you continue to walk, not knowing where she is headed. Angela is unconcerned, chatting away and following your every step. “See, I’m a biochem major, but I’m interested in really all chemical processes. I just love understanding how things work on a molecular level.” You raise your eyebrows. Having somehow managed to skip over even basic high school chemistry undetected, you aren’t even sure you could define “molecule.” “It really puts things into perspective,” she is saying when you “come to” again.
“Well, aren’t you well rounded? Chemistry major, developing artist.” You have reached the student center, where you are planning on grabbing some fast food before heading back to the apartment. You aren’t really that hungry, but you’re a little afraid that this girl will follow you all the way home if you don’t shake her somewhere else. Sure enough, she follows you into the building and to the food court.
“Oh, art is just a hobby. I mean, I wish I could spend more time on it, but classes keep me stupid busy. So I just try to enjoy it when other people take pictures! Mmmm,” she sniffs the air and turns around to look at all the choices surrounding you, “good idea. I have a few minutes to get a bite.”
“I actually have to—“ you say to her retreating figure “—get it to go.” You are sitting, fifteen minutes later, at a table that Angela chose (“because it’s such a nice day!”) by a window, listening to her talk about biopolymers and enzyme-catalyzed reactions while simultaneously trying to eat and shade your eyes from the beam of light bearing down on you from behind her small frame. You are just about to make some excuses for yourself, for the second time today, when you suddenly don’t have to. A tall, stern-faced woman, dressed to the nines, walks smartly through the glass doors on the other side of the cafeteria and makes her way purposefully towards your table, her heels clicking evenly across the tile. You just glance at her at first, but then find yourself watching her approaching figure as she is relentlessly bearing her gaze into the depths of your soul.
“Angela,” she says to your new friend, though not taking her eyes off of you, “you are exactly three minutes, twenty-three seconds late.”
“Oh mother, I’m sorry!” Angela starts rushing to gather her things. “I’m coming—I’ll be out in just a second!”
“I’ll walk you out,” She says, “I’m certainly not going to leave you to continue whatever this is.” It’s amazing how very less-than-human her tone is able to make you feel. You, now a pile of meaningless goo, melt into your seat guiltily. How is this on me? You protest internally.
“I’m William Walker.” You stand and offer your hand, which Mrs. Snow simply looks at momentarily before adjusting to the new height of your eyes.
“Oh, I’m sure I know who you are, thank you, Mr. Walker.” Who are you, the Queen of England? Externally, this is translated to,
“Well, you must be Mrs. Snow. It’s a pleasure to meet both you and your daughter in the same day!” Her highness takes an alarming step towards you and Angela freezes halfway between sitting and rising.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Walker. You don’t have to pretend with me. I know very well how this all works. You seduce my innocent, 16 year old daughter, get her to promote your pathetic bit of art to her philanthropist of an uncle, and once you have gotten as much of his money as possible stuffed under your moth-infested mattress, you leave her used and broken-hearted in your wake. No sir, I am not naïve.” Angela, stone-faced, finishes standing up and touches her mother’s arm, which is coldly shaken off. She tries again, until she is able to drag her mother out of your personal space in a movement towards the door. “You are lucky that I don’t report you to the police for propositioning a minor.” You are sure your eyes could not convey any more alarm. “Do not let me see you near my daughter again” are her parting words. Once you can no longer see them in the parking lot, you take the back door and jog home as fast as possible.

You lock your house behind you in a futile effort to keep out trouble and fall onto your bed to catch your breath. What in the world is going on? Never in your life have you been so bombarded by insanity. Your reluctance to be assertive and social has gotten you into scrapes, but this is getting ridiculous. You can count on two fingers how many love interests there have been in your life to this point, but today you have become the local pimp…or…something like that. You turn over onto your stomach and pick at the old carpet fraying at the edge of the baseboard. Maybe you should lay low for a little while until you have to leave for work. You somehow fall asleep for a short nap, then wake up and bum around on the computer for a while. Noticing the time, you reach for your phone to update KC and ask her for a ride to work. Your phone is flashing with one notification after another that you have missed at least ten calls—a few from KC but most from the same unfamiliar number. There are two messages, the first from an annoyed, but concerned KC.

“I got your messages, Will. WHAT THE HECK? I told you to lock your car! Anyway, call me. I’ll come get you for work tonight. Oh, I need my dad’s coat back. He was a little pissed that I’d lent it to you. Apparently it’s really expensive—“ You grimace at the crumpled black cloth in the corner of your room, behind the door. “—anyway, I’ll bring a clean apron since I know you haven’t done laundry and really—yours is disgusting.”

The second one is from Detective Hobb—the unknown number. After a brief, neutral introduction at the start of his message, there is a noticeable change in his tone that makes your stomach flip-flop. No longer does he sound like the kind, helpful man from last night. He sounds almost…suspicious.

“Mr. Walker, this is Detective Hobb. I need you to call me at once. I have several more questions to ask you. My number is…” as soon as the message ends, you shut your phone and drop it onto the desk by your hand, looking at it as your heart beats a little faster than normal.

What happens next?
A. You heard the man: he needs you to call “at once!” You pull yourself together, dial his number and try to act composed.
B. After your unlucky streak of the day, you are terrified of the conversation that might ensue; you ignore the message and decide to call tomorrow—you have to go to work soon, anyway.