His Student

My mother collapsed. Suddenly, violently.

Before they rushed her into surgery, she clutched my hand, her grip surprisingly strong. “Chloe,” she rasped, her voice thin as paper. “Get Justin. You have to get Justin here. There’s something I need to tell him.”

I called Justin again and again from the sterile silence of the hospital waiting room, each unanswered ring echoing the frantic beat of my own heart. The calls went straight to voicemail, one after the other, a relentless digital void.

I was still trying when the doctor emerged from the operating room, his face a mask of grim sympathy. He walked toward me and gave me that slow, soul-crushing shake of the head.

The tightly wound spring inside me snapped.

Just then, my phone buzzed. It was a call back from Justin's number. A woman’s voice, sweet and cloying, answered. It was Nina.

“Chloe? The professor was helping me out with my parents… they were driving me crazy about settling down, and he had a little too much to drink.” Her voice was laced with a triumphant little giggle. “If you need something, you can just tell me.”

I stared through the glass at the still, cold form on the gurney that was once my mother. My voice was ice.

“Tell Justin Hayes that my mother is dead. And if he still wants that lab equipment, he can come to the hospital and get it.”

But Justin never showed. Not even for the funeral.