The Garden of Dead Dreams by Abby Quillen

hair product. “No, it’s my job. Wait over there, please.” Teddy gestured toward two red upholstered chairs that sat on each side of the window near the closed door to the director’s office.
    Etta plunked down in the furthest chair from the director’s office and wiped her hands on her pants. She’d heard that Hardin met with each student at least once a semester to check in. That’s all this was, she told herself. But her hands trembled. She grabbed a Poets & Scribes from the pile on the small wooden table between the chairs, and flipped through one, gazing at the photos.
    “Sir. Etta Lawrence is here. Shall I send her in?” Teddy squeezed the phone between his ear and shoulder, still typing. Then he rolled his chair away from his computer and lowered his voice. “Yes sir. I know you said that, sir. But it’s more convenient for me to use the telephone.” Teddy was silent again. “Yes, I understand that we’re virtually in the same room.” More silence. “I will, sir.”
    The door next to Etta swung open, and Director Hardin’s long figure filled the doorway. He smiled, his jowls lifting slightly. “Come in.”
    Poets & Scribes slipped onto the rug twice before Etta managed to get it back on the table and follow Hardin into his office. She sat down in one of two upholstered chairs in front of his desk. Director Hardin sat in the leather chair behind his desk and leaned back, drumming his fingers on the arms of the chair. His office was exactly the place Etta would expect the director of a prestigious writing academy to work—wood floors, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, antique stained-glass lamps—the kind of office Etta had always thought her father should have as president of a university, instead of the windowless box he worked in, which was furnished with just a desk and two wooden chairs. Of course, decorations, books even, would be too impious for Temple Christian College. Etta glanced at the framed black and white photograph of Vincent Buchanan that hung on the wall between two long windows and tried to imagine him in this office, sitting at this desk.
    “Thank you for coming, Ms. Lawrence.”
    “Etta.”
    Hardin nodded and leaned forward, folding his hands over a pile of file folders on his desk. “I apologize for bothering you on a Sunday. I would not think to interrupt your writing unless it was of the utmost importance.”
    A buzz zipped up Etta’s spine, a numbness spreading between her ears. It was happening. The worst thing possible. He knew about her past. She glanced at the door. She could stand, make an excuse, and flee the room. But then what? She turned back to the director. What would she say? She tried to string together sentences in her head, but they swirled together into the humming buzz.
    “Well, Etta, it’s due time we meet again. If only it could be under better circumstances. I’m afraid I have some news regarding Ms. Saxon. She was your roommate, yes?”
    A calmness rushed through Etta. This wasn’t about her. Then she processed his words: was . Was your roommate . A roar burst into her head, like air rushing out of a balloon, only louder.
    Hardin’s eyes shifted back and forth behind his wire-framed spectacles. “Ms. Saxon has left the academy and will not be returning. I hate to trouble you with anything that will interfere with your writing. However, I’m hoping you can gather Ms. Saxon’s things so that we can ship them to her mother’s house in New York. Carl will retrieve them tomorrow afternoon. Is that too soon?”
    Etta stared at him and tried to shake her head, but she couldn’t tell if she’d managed it.
    “I appreciate your assistance. If you find it necessary to be absent from classes tomorrow for this purpose, just leave a message with Teddy. I will excuse you.”
    Etta nodded, although she hadn’t known that attendance was kept in any formal way. She’d never had a reason to miss a class. The silence spread out between them, heavy and