LITMIR.BIZ

      Where Drowned Things Live

      A Kristin Ginelli Mystery

      Copyright © 2017 Susan Thistlethwaite. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

      Resource Publications

      An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

      199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

      Eugene, OR 97401

      www.wipfandstock.com

      paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-1363-0

      hardcover isbn: 978-1-5326-1365-4

      ebook isbn: 978-1-5326-1364-7

      The lines from Poem IX of “Twenty-One Love Poems” Copyright @ 2016 by the Adrienne Rich Library Trust. Copyright © 1979 by W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. from COLLECTED POEMS 1950-2012 by Adrienne Rich. Used by permission of W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.

      Manufactured in the U.S.A.

      Your silence today is a pond where drowned things live

      I want to see raised dripping and brought into the sun.

      Adrienne Rich, “Twenty-One Love Poems”

      The Dream of a Common Language

      Acknowledgments

      The University of Chicago is, of course, an actual place but all the people, buildings, departments and events in this novel are fictional. I regret I cannot actually gift this fine university with these buildings and academic departments. I am glad, however, that the events portrayed here are completely without basis in fact and are wholly a creation of my own imagination.

      Regrettably, however, violence against women is all too real, and the widespread failure of individuals and institutions to prevent this viciousness and to quickly and competently identify and prosecute the offenders is all too common.

      This must change.

      This volume, fictional though it may be, is dedicated to the women and men who have suffered many forms of violence at educational institutions and been denied justice.

      1

      All these things, Socrates, my dear friend, so many and so great, which they say about virtue and vice, and how both gods and men respect them—how do they think they will work on the souls of young people when they hear them?

      Plato, The Republic, Book II

      She was terrified.

      From the top of her smooth cap of black hair to the tips of her shiny little black pumps with their fixed bows, her body was rigid. I’d heard the expression “scared stiff” many times. I’d never given any thought to the fact that it could be taken literally. She was practically catatonic and I was pretty sure the cause was fear.

      Well, she should be afraid. Because above the rim of her prim, white, Peter Pan collared blouse was a purpling ring of bruises clearly made by someone’s fingers. Her name was Kim, Ah-seong, Kim being what Westerners would call her last name. She was a sophomore at the University of Chicago. Ay-seong was probably fulfilling her Korean parents’ dream of an expensive American education. I’d bet they were not aware that someone at this famous university was putting bruises on their daughter, or worse. And I had been asked to find out who and why.

      This was Monday afternoon. On Saturday night, Ah-seong’s roommate had noticed that she had returned to their dorm room bruised and upset. She had refused to talk about it to the pleading roommate, to the concerned dorm resident, to the Dean of Students, Margaret Lester, and now she was refusing to talk about it to me. Apparently this was not the first time Ah-seong had come back to her dorm room with some bruises and the roommate was guessing it was somebody she was dating who was making these bruises on her. Date battering. Great.

      “Just talk to her, Kristin,” Margaret had pleaded.

      She had more confidence than I did that because I’d been a cop before I became a university instructor I’d be able to figure out who was beating on this kid. Well, I’d seen my share of domestic violence calls, one reason, among many, that I was no longer a cop.

      “Ah-seong.”

      Her head moved stiffly, slowly to look up. But she didn’t look directly at me. Her dark eyes were flattened and her gaze glassy. She directed that unseeing gaze at the ersatz medieval turrets outside the window. The main quadrangle of the university was built of grey stone in a gothic style—it had its own grim beauty, unlike the spread of disconcerting and disjointed modern that now made up the majority of the rest of the campus. Yes, I might be a lowly instructor, but I did rate a window that gave on to ivy-covered buildings in faux medieval style. But she was not admiring the view.

      I decided not to come at her directly about the events of Saturday night, or even about the bruises. I thought I’d start with something safer, her friendships at school.

      “Ah-seong, Dean Lester tells me you belong to a student group. Right? In fact, you spend a lot of time with them.”

      The face in profile nodded, the cap of ebony hair falling forward.

      “Well, that’s good. Have you many friends in the group?”

      A nod.

      Well, this wasn’t moving swiftly along, that’s for sure. Especially when you’ve been hurt, trusting anyone often came very slowly.

      “What student group is it?”

      I already knew. I had her student profile in front of me. But anything to get her talking.

      “Students—Korean Students. Korean Students Christian Association.”

      Her voice was faint, whispery. Her head was down again and she spoke directly to her hands gripping her backpack on her lap. She hadn’t even trusted me enough to put her books down when she had reluctantly sat in my one office chair.

      I wondered how much pressure those fingers on her neck had applied. Whether she had actual damage to her larynx. Margaret had told me she had refused to be seen at student health. Typical.

      I decided to go with the Christian affiliation.

      “That’s good. Really good, Ah-seong. And as a Christian, I know you know it’s not right for one person to hurt another person. “

      I went in for the kill.

      “That’s not what Jesus would want, is it?”

      For the first time, eye contact. Her head in its little Peter Pan collar with the circle of bruises right above it lifted and sad, drowned eyes met mine. I almost hated myself for pushing that button, especially when I saw the hurt and what seemed to be confusion in her eyes.

      “No . . . Professor Ginelli.”

      Barely a whisper.

      “But someone did hurt you. I can see the bruises, there, around your neck.”

      She lifted a hand to her neck to re-adjust the scarf that I guess she had arranged to try to hide the neck bruises, but it had slipped. As she raised her hand, her sleeve dropped back, revealing a bracelet of bruises to match her necklace. She followed my eyes and made a tiny sound of distress. Her head dropped down again and her hair swung forward, nearly hiding her face.

      She was ashamed. Ashamed that someone would hurt her and ashamed that someone else would see it.

      My

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