Part 19 (2/2)

She s.h.i.+fted from one foot to another and took another step. ”Just give me my paper back, Dr. Bergeron.”

”I can't do that.”

She continued to stare at me.

I thought for a moment and looked at my watch. ”Why don't I read it now quickly and give you an idea of what I think?” I thought that that might pacify her. She obviously wasn't going with my plan of getting the paper back on Monday, and I didn't want her to jeopardize her place on the dean's list just because of her impatience.

She stared back at me. ”I just want the paper back.”

I walked to my office; the briefcase was just where I tossed it and on its side, papers spilling out. I picked it up and brought it back out into the main area, pus.h.i.+ng the papers back in until I could put the briefcase onto the table and sort everything out.

I sat down at the table and she took her seat across from me. I opened my briefcase and pulled all of the papers out, trying to neaten them while searching for hers. I pulled it from the pile; it still had a fair amount of gunk, on it from the time I dropped it on the train floor. I looked up, and said, ”Sorry. I dropped my briefcase on the train one night.”

She stared back at me, impa.s.sively.

There was a coffee can in the middle of the table that held pens, tape, scissors, and pencils; I grabbed a red pen so I could mark anything that I saw on the paper that needed highlighting. I also grabbed a large pair of scissors; the top of the paper was as hard as parchment from the dried muck that covered it. I remembered the paper floating to the ground on the train and watching it soak up mud, water, and spilled beer that pooled under my feet on the train a few weeks earlier. ”Do you mind if I cut off the top of the paper?” I asked her. She didn't, so I cut off the hardest parts, and put the scissors down on the table. I held her paper up in front of my face and began to read her paper: ”The Role of Guilt in Macbeth: 'Tis Safer To Be That Which We Destroy.”

”Good t.i.tle, Fiona,” I remarked. ”Nice allusion to Act III, Scene 2.”

She sat across from me, fidgeting in her chair and sighing loudly as I read the first couple of paragraphs.

This had been a short a.s.signment, so I got to the conclusion with a quick scan of all of her major points in less than five minutes.

So, it stands to reason that there was truly no blood on Lady Macbeth's hands-just the guilt that she had conspired in committing a murder.

I took a pen from my briefcase and made a note on the paper: ”Guilt cannot be on her hands. How about 'It stands to reason that there was no blood on Lady Macbeth's hands, but that she now has to live with the guilt that she conspired with Macbeth in committing a murder.' Need to develop this thought more.”

Macbeth commits the murder, but ultimately, Lady Macbeth feels responsible for the crime against Duncan, the king of Scotland. Once his best friend and confidant, he has turned against him in a way that no friend should turn against another.

Her grammar stank and I didn't agree with the statement, but I thought I would leave it alone until I could do a closer reading. I read on. She referenced Act V, Scene 1, which is Lady Macbeth's penultimate scene displaying her guilt and insanity.

When Lady Macbeth says, ”Yet who would have thought the girl to have had so much blood in her?” it ill.u.s.trates the fact that although she didn't see the crime being committed, she knew that the crime against the king was b.l.o.o.d.y and indeed, violent. In today's world, her only hope would be the insanity defense. Because she didn't mean to do it.

I reread the line. ”Girl” was an obvious mistake. Duncan is an old man when Macbeth kills him. I drew a circle around the two words and inserted a question mark, thinking that she may be mistaking the line for that from another play. Hamlet, maybe?

I looked up at Fiona from over the top of her paper, my eyes landing on the necklace resting on her throat: a diamond-encrusted ”X” on a short gold chain.

Twenty-four.

I put the paper down slowly and stared across at Fiona, who stared back at me.

”Nice work, Fiona,” I said, my voice shaking slightly. I pushed my chair back from the table a bit, but hit an uneven floorboard and couldn't go any farther.

”Thank you,” she said, coldly. ”May I have my paper back now?”

I shook my head. ”I don't think so.” I folded it in two and pushed it back into my briefcase. I pushed the chair back hard over the floorboard and stood up.

She stood up as well. The table separated us.

Even though it was getting dark, I could see a familiar shape bounding down the back steps of the building through the gla.s.s of my office windows. Crawford. I didn't know whether to be relieved or frightened. Moments later, I heard the back door of the building open and his footsteps on the stairs. I prayed that he would come to the office before going to the Blue Room so that I had some company. I heard him call my name as he opened the door. He was dressed in a white-cotton oxford and black pants. No sign of the big gun, but I mentally flashed on the one he wore on his ankle.

Fiona looked at him coming through the door. She turned back around, her face cold and hard. ”Give me back my paper,” she snarled.

Crawford made his way into the room and stood at the far end of the table. ”Ladies,” he said, a question in his greeting.

”Detective, this is Fiona Martin. She's in my Shakespeare cla.s.s,” I said, motioning to her. ”Fiona, this is Detective Crawford.”

He walked over and shook her hand. The look on her face was a mixture of confusion and anxiety. She looked to him and then back to me.

”Detective Crawford is a friend of mine,” I said.

He looked at me for some clue as to what was happening. I looked down at the table and the paper in front of me.

”Detective Crawford is working on Kathy's murder.”

Fiona glared at me. ”Why is he here? Did you already know?”

”Know what, Fiona?” I asked, wanting to hear her say it.

”Is that why you wouldn't give me my paper back?”

Crawford perched on the edge of the table and crossed one leg over the other, his hands wrapped around his right ankle. ”Why don't you both sit down so we can talk?” he suggested, his posture casual and nonthreatening.

Fiona's eyes filled with tears. ”You know, my father's here, and I can ask him to come in and make you give it back.” She continued to stand and stare at me.

I sat down. ”I don't think you want to do that, Fiona. Tell me what you were writing about in the paper.”

I saw her mind working as she decided what to do.

”Please.”

Crawford stayed silent, watching Fiona as she sat down and buried her head in her hands and sobbed. His hands wrapped the bottom of his pant leg tight around his ankle.

”Did you kill her?” I asked.

She nodded. ”But it was an accident!” she cried.

”I'm sure it was,” I said, trying to keep my voice even and soothing. ”What happened?”

”She caught me with Vince,” she said. ”And she freaked out.”

I would have freaked out, too, I thought. But then again, she had been with Ray. Would she really care if Fiona was involved with Vince? I didn't say anything and let Fiona keep talking.

She narrowed her eyes and looked at me. ”You know she was sleeping with your ex-husband, don't you?” She fingered the ”x” around her neck with her free hand.

<script>