Dead Politician Society

Chapter 55: Clare

Clare pulled out of her parking spot, careful not to let her dress touch the exhaust pipe. With all the chaos inside, she’d forgotten to be self-conscious. She’d barely remembered she was wearing a dress until she had to climb back onto her motorcycle.

She drove north through the city. To Matthew.

Nothing much was happening on campus at street level, but music pumped loud from the dorms. Clare felt a pang of regret that her cover wasn’t just a bit deeper—that she wasn’t up there in a shared residence room drinking beer from an upside-down flamingo. She’d missed out on that life, not having gone to university.

She climbed the staircse to Sidney Smith Hall. She tried the front door. Locked. She pulled out her phone.

“Clare?” Matthew’s voice was welcoming. “How was the party?”

“Terrible. I’m outside. I’ll tell you all about it if you open the door and let me in.”

He was there in under a minute.

“Hey, great dress.”

“You like it?” Clare frowned.

“Don’t make that face. You look fantastic. Come on upstairs.”

But something wasn’t right.

“I need you to level with me.” Matthew unlocked his office door and held it open for Clare.

Clare took her now-familiar seat on the couch.

“On Friday afternoon, when you had that headache, did you maybe have a look around?”

“Um.” Clare gulped.

“Because if you have any questions about the society, feel free to ask them directly.”

How the fuck did he know she’d been in his drawer? Were there cameras in the room? She’d checked so thoroughly—or so she’d thought. Maybe he was fishing.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Matthew poured a glass of red and handed it to Clare. She was tempted to switch it for the one in his hand, in case he’d poisoned hers. But that would seem crazy.

He said, “Someone’s gone through my drawers. You’re the only person who’s been in my office without me.”

“Does someone else have a key?” she said. “Maybe a janitor?”

What had she left out of place? Or was he one of those freaks who stuck a hair on his lock so he’d know if anyone had opened it? Shit, he probably was.

“Of course the janitors have keys. But they don’t snoop in my private drawers.”

“But I would?” Clare widened her eyes, like her high school drama teacher had told her would represent innocence. “Why do you always not trust me? Has some other woman burned you?”

Matthew’s head snapped back an inch, as if she’d struck him.

Clare stood up and slipped an arm into her leather jacket.

“Clare—I—”