“And by somebody else, do you mean the mystery man sending her flowers?”
“How did you know about that?”
“I have my sources. But I don’t know his name.”
“He’s a professor...”
“Which professor?”
“My advisor, Christian Malory. He’s teaching this huge lecture course, two hundred people. It’s called ‘The Fantastic,’ but believe me, it’s anything but. Anyway, me, Beth, and two other grad students were assigned as his teaching assistants. At first, I admired him. Of course, I didn’t realize Malory was such a fucking creep. He’s always hitting on his students, even though he’s got a fiancée in Los Angeles. It’s like they always say, Never meet your heroes.”
“So what happened?”
“Last month, I met up with Malory and his grad school groupies at the Rush Inn, a dive bar on Knight Street. Beth, on the other hand, never came to these drink nights.”
“Why not?”
“Well, she’s a real bookworm, homebody type. Unless we did something together, she was always in her room studying. But this one fucking time, Beth shows up. This is like a day after breaking up with me! And she’s acting flirty — with Professor Malory. Like, at one point, she’s sitting on his lap. She just wanted to make me jealous.”
“What did you do?”
“What could I do? Beth never drinks, but she got pretty wasted that night. I tried to stick around to make sure she got home safely, but her behavior with Malory was tough to watch.”
“So you left the bar early?”
“Yeah, though I actually stayed up waiting for her.”
“Where did you wait?”
“What do you mean?” Chet seemed truly puzzled.
“Where specifically did you wait? Outside her apartment? Or inside?”
“Oh, inside. I have a key. Ended up sleeping there. When she didn’t come home in the morning, I left.”
“Did something happen between Elizabeth and Dr. Malory?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Chet turned his back to me and cracked another beer. “He’ll be at the Rush Inn tonight.”
After meeting with Chet, I drove downtown and bought a tight red dress that accentuated my curves and a pair of knee-high boots with stiletto heels. With a dusting of glittery eye shadow, my outfit came together nicely.
That night, at the Rush Inn, I found Professor Malory with his coterie of hangers-on, just as Chet described. He was an imposing sight: well over six feet tall, muscular, with a supremely confident smirk.
I introduced myself as an undergrad looking for guidance on whether to switch my major. I expressed my admiration for his body of work, peppering my compliments with information I’d gleaned from a cursory reading of his campus bio. Malory was so pleased, I suspect he asked me back to his place on that reason alone.
When we crossed the threshold of his vintage Eichler home, I expected to be offered a drink, but Malory had other ideas — he lunged at me. His lips were pressed against mine, his tongue forcing my mouth open and flopping inside like a fish on a riverbank. Before I knew it, his hands were around my neck — and not in a tender caress. He was choking me. When I realized he had no intention of letting go, I cuffed him. Literally.
“What’s this?”
I’d solidly clipped a pair of handcuffs to his left wrist.
“Let’s play a game,” I commanded, in the most seductive voice I could muster.
Christian Malory was a Berkeley-educated scholar, a man who spent the majority of his adult life dedicated to the pursuit of social justice, and a self-described activist who positioned himself as a feminist ally. And yet here, in his own home, he behaved like a horny teenager — and a willing captive.
Thus, he happily complied with my order to remove his clothes and lie on the bed. He owned a metal headboard, so I snaked the handcuffs around one of the bars and closed the open cuff around his other wrist. Eager to participate, he directed me to a dresser where he kept his neckties, so I secured his ankles to the two newel posts at the foot of the bed. Malory loved every second of it — that is, until I grabbed my purse and drew out my pistol.
“You’re kidding, right?” he asked, almost amused.
I shook my head.
“Look, I’m all for games, but this is crazy.”
I pointed the Ruger at his head.
“Don’t shoot! You can take anything you want!”
“I only want one thing.” I placed the tip of the barrel between his eyebrows.
“It’s yours! Name it!”
“The truth about Elizabeth White.”
“There’s nothing to tell. She was my TA.”
“Oh, I think she was more than that.” I aimed the gun at his crotch.
“Okay! We slept together. Just once, I swear!”
I shook my head. “She was intoxicated. She couldn’t possibly have consented. That’s rape.”
“You’re crazy! She was into it!”
“Then why no second date? Why were you sending her flowers?”
“What? How do you—? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Enough lying.” I grabbed one of Malory’s argyle socks from the floor and stuffed it in his mouth. “Let me tell you a secret. I had an appointment at the student health center last Friday. I saw Elizabeth there. I wanted to say hello, but she didn’t acknowledge me. It’s understandable. Nobody wants to talk about why they’re seeing the doctor. I was still in the waiting room when she came out. She looked horrible. But why am I even telling you this? You were there.”
Malory’s eyes widened, but he didn’t make a sound.
“I followed her outside. I don’t know why. I probably should’ve respected her privacy. But then I saw you waiting for her in the parking lot. And I saw the look on your face when she spoke to you. I didn’t know your name. I had no idea how to find you. But now I have.”
Malory grunted, so I took the sock out of his mouth.
“You’ve got it all wrong!” he screamed, gasping for air. “Let me explain!”
“What’s there to explain? You raped her, you probably got her pregnant,” I said, almost crying, “and then you killed her to shut her up.”
“I didn’t kill her! That was the last time I saw her. She texted me later that night, but I didn’t reply. She needed a ride. The cops already questioned me about all this! I wasn’t even in Santa Cruz! I was in LA with my girlfriend!”
“I don’t believe you,” I hissed. “You’re a liar. And a rapist.”
“It wasn’t rape! If she didn’t want it, she shouldn’t have thrown herself at me.”
“Your behavior put her in an emotional state that resulted in her death. You’re responsible.”
“Actually, I disagree,” he began, as if he were lecturing a student. “I think—”
“I don’t care what you think.”
I put a pillow over his face and pulled the trigger.
The following afternoon, I awoke to the sound of a text message. I’d forgotten I’d even given Natalie my number.
I called Natalie. She suggested meeting up near one of the campus bridges. Not that bridge, she giggled, but one located at the far end of Kresge College deep in the redwoods. There was a park bench near the entrance of the bridge, making it the perfect place for a clandestine meeting. She actually used the word “clandestine.” Obviously she’d seen one too many spy movies. I wanted the diary, so I agreed to meet her that night at eight.