The Twisted Thread by Charlotte Bacon Page B

need of ESL. Only twenty-four hours had passed since Claire Harkness had died. Small class sizes hadn’t kept that from happening, a thought Matt did not quite forgive himself for having.
    Porter opened the door then and ushered him into a Persian-carpeted room flush with light and winking brass. The desk at which he seated himself was massive, but such was his own size and seriousness, it took a moment to register the sweeping lines of the piece of furniture. Gordon Farnsworth had been swallowed by its grandeur. Yet something seemed unsettled, in the room or the man or both, Matt couldn’t quite tell. He didn’t think it was yet another seizure of his own memory; something was emanating from Porter that he didn’t precisely grasp. Bookshelves lined one side of the office and bow windows two others. The last held portraits of former heads of the board of trustees, men who seemed indistinguishable from one another, their stately self-regard utterly fungible.
    It was the bareness of the desk. Every other surface—the mantel, certain of the shelves, the walls—held the sorts of decorations one would expect in a head’s office. Discreet bronzes. Silver cups commemorating some achievement or other. Metal and wood and gleaming glass, polished and subdued. But the desk held nothing. Not a pad, a computer, an orchid, nothing. Yet it had, and recently. Matt could still see the dried smear of droplets that indicated a recent cleaning, which had been thorough but not meticulous. A corner of wood still held a low, barely perceptible fuzz of dust. What had Porter McLellan removed or had removed from that long length of carved oak?
    As he settled himself in his chair, Matt ran through what he needed to discuss with Porter. Any dark history around Claire, the faculty in her dorm, the teachers who had had her this year.
    â€œI understand you interviewed Scott Johnston yesterday,” Porter began. “But that he’s been released pending further investigation, as his parents said.” His tone implied he knew what Matt might be dealing with when it came to handling the Johnstons; he even managed to imply that he, too, had been on the receiving end of their formidable capacity for outrage.
    What alarmed Matt as he adjusted himself in the overly comfortable seat was how readily he wanted to take Porter’s offer of commiseration. It would have been so easy to raise eyebrows over the barbed, hysterical wall of protection the Johnstons were trying to erect around their son. It was clear that this kind of drama was part of what they considered appropriate parenting, and it was equally clear that Scotty’s arrogance had given them many opportunities to hone their approach. “It’s true Scott’s no longer being questioned,” Matt forced himself to say with some terseness. “But I actually need to discuss other issues with you, Mr. McLellan.”
    â€œOf course,” Porter said. Quickly abandoning his attempt at camaraderie, he leaned forward in apparent eagerness to be of any help he could, in striking contrast to Grace Peters and Harvey Fuller. Brief interviews had proved two things to be true: they had no intention of admitting any wrongdoing—Grace had gone so far as to blame extra loads of committee work for her slightly less prominent presence in the dorm. And they were going to make a special effort to remember absolutely nothing useful about Claire or the last few weeks she spent in their care.
    Matt stood then and chose another chair, far less padded, to sit in. He was going to try something now. It was daring, perhaps stupid, but it might yield the most interesting results. “You’re probably aware of the difficulty I’m finding myself in here. I’m an alumnus, but not one with a perfect record.”
    â€œClass of ’ninety-four, Penn ’ninety-eight,” Porter said thoughtfully. “And probably one of our few graduates in law