Layne Fargo

This is the most I’ve ever heard out of Tyler Elkin’s mouth. When he bothered to show up to my class, he grunted one-word answers, slumping down in his seat with his legs sprawled across the aisle like he didn’t give a damn how much space he took up.
They never do, men like him.

I’m always starving after a kill, even the ones that don’t require physical exertion

His entire life taught him that he was special, that consequences didn’t apply, that he’d pass with flying colors even if he turned in his midterm two weeks late. Even in his final moments, I doubt he learned his lesson. But I didn’t kill him to teach him a lesson; I killed him to carve him out of this world like a tumor. And I’d do it again.

Kinnear doesn’t really want the fellowship. He just doesn’t want me to have it.

But the way Kinnear stared at me as I took my seat in the interview room immediately punctured my confidence. Later I overheard him commenting on my “great legs” to one of his older male colleagues, and I deflated entirely. I took the job, but I never wore that outfit again.

Come January, I’ll be in London doing career-defining research, and Kinnear will be rotting in his grave.

Kinnear is using his professorial voice now, the better to mansplain my own academic specialty to me.

Typical, that he chooses to call her “Lady Vance”—replacing her name with her title by marriage.

They never see the murder in my eyes.

It adds fuel to the fire of my rage, hearing her apologize for them.