My Ex's Uncle, My Trap novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Rules of the Room

Over dinner at the dean's own club, Rhi sets her four rules and Pierson adds one; he recuses as judge, and Clifford says he'll judge it himself and chair her hearing.

The dean pushed the shop door open and stood in the hall with us.

He looked at my mouth, then at his brother's lapel, which I had wrinkled.

"Pierson," he said. "The tour continues in the atrium."

"I'll catch up."

"Miss Keating has been asked not to be in this building."

"Miss Keating is leaving," Pierson said. "With me. We're having dinner tonight."

He said it to the dean, but he was looking at me.

"At your club, Cliff," he said. "Eight o'clock. I'm still a member. Dad never took me off."

The dean's glasses caught the light, so I couldn't see his eyes.

"Enjoy," he said, and went back inside.

That was how I ended up, eleven hours later, in a dining room on Sixth Avenue with oil portraits of dead steel men on the walls.

I wore the only dress I owned. Black, from my cousin's wedding.

I'd left the hex key in my hair.

Pierson stood up when I got to the table.

"You look like you're about to rob the place," he said.

"I might. That painting is ugly enough to steal."

"That's my great-grandfather."

"Then I'm sorry for your loss."

He laughed, and two old men at the next table turned to look.

That was the point. I let them look.

The waiter brought a menu with no prices on it.

"How am I supposed to know what to order?"

"Order what you'd want if it were free."

"Nothing is free. That's why I'm going to say some rules."

He put the menu down. "Go."

I held up one finger.

"One. No lies. Not to me, not even small ones, not even nice ones."

"Done."

"Two. No rescuing me without asking first. You don't fix things. You don't call people. You don't pay for anything."

"I'm paying for dinner."

"That's a different thing."

"It's eighty dollars of fish."

"Fine. Dinner's allowed. Rule three."

I could feel my face getting hot, which was so stupid.

"No touching without asking. Not when people are watching, not when they aren't."

"You kissed me against a window," he said.

"I asked first."

"You told me first."

"Same thing."

"It is not the same thing," he said, "but I'll allow it."

"Four," I said. "This ends the day the Nautilus opens. Friday. Whatever happens. After that we're strangers who once ate fish."

He took a sip of water and looked at me over the glass for a long time.

"Can I have one?" he asked.

"One what?"

"One rule."

"Depends what it is."

"If you ever want it real," he said, "you say so. Out loud. In words. I won't guess, and I won't assume, and I won't take a look across a table as a yes."

"That won't happen," I said.

"Then it's an easy rule to agree to."

"Fine. Agreed."

He held out his hand across the table, palm up.

"May I?"

"For a handshake?"

"Rule three."

I put my hand in his. He shook it once, solemnly.

Then he turned it over and looked at the burn on the back.

A pale comma, a little raised, the size of a fingernail.

"Soldering iron?" he asked.

"Sophomore year. I fell asleep at the bench at four a.m. Woke up with it on my hand."

"What were you building?"

"The first gear of stage two."

His thumb stopped a quarter inch from the scar. It didn't touch it.

"Can I?" he said.

"Yes."

He ran his thumb over the burn once, very slowly.

That was all he did. I felt it in the backs of my knees.

The fish came. It was the best thing I'd ever eaten, and I said so with my mouth full.

He told me about a slot-floor puzzle in Macau that took four grown men an hour to solve.

I told him about the bachelor party that tried to pry open my room's fake vault with a fork.

"Did it work?"

"No. I'd welded it."

"You weld fake vaults?"

"I don't build anything fake."

He was smiling at that when the dean walked into the dining room.

Clifford Wardell came straight to our table without a drink in his hand, which meant he'd come for us.

He didn't sit. He didn't need a chair. The whole room leaned toward him.

"Pierson. A word about Friday."

"Say it here," Pierson said.

The dean looked at me.

"You're the outside judge. Your nephew is a finalist. You're dining in public with the girl who stole his design."

"Alleged," I said.

"Accused," the dean said. "By my son."

Pierson didn't answer him.

He looked at me instead.

"Rhi," he said. "Can I tell him something about Friday? It concerns you."

The dean's mouth went thin. I'd never seen anyone ask me first in front of him.

"Go ahead," I said.

Pierson turned back to his brother.

"I'm recusing myself as judge. I'll email the provost tonight. It's a conflict, and I'm not going to pretend it isn't."

For a second, the dean looked almost pleased.

"That's very honorable," he said. "Then the committee will need a replacement."

"They'll find one."

"They already have." The dean folded his hands. "As dean, I can chair the judging panel myself. I'll judge the Nautilus personally."

My fork slipped and rang against the plate.

"And Miss Keating," he said, "you'll want to know your integrity hearing has been scheduled. Friday, May first. Nine a.m."

The morning of the Showcase.

"Who chairs it?" I asked.

He smiled at me, the closed-door smile.

"I do."

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