Layne Fargo

Kinnear doesn’t really want the fellowship. He just doesn’t want me to have it.

But the way Kinnear stared at me as I took my seat in the interview room immediately punctured my confidence. Later I overheard him commenting on my “great legs” to one of his older male colleagues, and I deflated entirely. I took the job, but I never wore that outfit again.

Come January, I’ll be in London doing career-defining research, and Kinnear will be rotting in his grave.

Kinnear is using his professorial voice now, the better to mansplain my own academic specialty to me.

Typical, that he chooses to call her “Lady Vance”—replacing her name with her title by marriage.

They never see the murder in my eyes.

It adds fuel to the fire of my rage, hearing her apologize for them.

How bold of him to assume he was ever “useful” to Mina. He’s saying much more about himself right now than about his ex-wife. If anything, his warning increases my respect for her.

killing a man is so much more satisfying than fucking a man could ever be.

Kinnear has never looked at me like this—really looked at me. In all the years I’ve known him, eye contact was always a brief stopover on the way to ogling my tits, my ass. Reducing me to parts. This wild-eyed fear is the closest thing to respect he’s ever paid me.