Becoming Professor Moriarty's Probability Novels & Stories

She sat back, her arms crossing as she ventured deep into the equation. It could be true that her professor is Jackson's father, however she needs more concrete proof. She's seen a lot of people with the same features around campus. Black hair, blue eyes, tall frame. Some of the guys have the same brown eyes and brown hair, or same blonde hair and green eyes. None of them are related, but some of their outside features can allow them to pass as siblings or maybe even cousins. Could it be a simple coincidence that Professor Thompson is just a regular white male, or could he be Jackson's father?

I was in a cage with no key, and the man holding the bars was the only one who could keep my brother alive. "Problem, Miss St. Claire?" he asked, his voice smooth and dangerous. "No," I whispered, clutching the phone until my knuckles turned white. "No problem, Professor." "Good," he said, stepping into the light to adjust his cufflinks. "See you in class. Try to look like you haven't been banged into submission. It’s bad for my reputation."

The same mouth that had been on me last night. Professor Elias Thorne. The man I fucked senseless in a hotel room. The man I was supposed to marry. He scanned the room and his eyes landed on me. I could see the same recognition I had on my face, flash through his. But it was gone in a second as he cleared his throat and stepped onto the podium. “Good morning,” he said calmly. “I’m Professor Thorne. Welcome to Advanced Literary Theory.” For a moment I just remained transfixed. Mara nudged me. “You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”

Her hand was on the handle when she paused and glanced back at me. “Is it true, then?” she asked. “What people are saying about you and Jasmine?” Every muscle in my body went still. I kept my face carefully blank, giving nothing away. “I don’t know what people are saying, and frankly, I don’t care.” “People talk, Professor.” Her mouth curved slightly. “Especially when a girl on scholarship suddenly gets a job at your grandmother’s diner. Small world, isn’t it?” “Coincidences happen,” I pointed out flatly. “Was there anything else, Miss Laurent?”

"Or is it exactly what you want? To walk in there and make him regret everything?" Her jaw tightened. I could see the war in her eyes. Pride fighting with the need for revenge. "You are my professor," she said finally. "There are rules." "We would not be breaking any rules. Just attending a public event together. Nothing inappropriate." I paused. Let the word hang between us. Inappropriate. Like we were both thinking about all the ways we could break those rules. Her cheeks flushed. "This does not make sense. Why would you even want to go?"

“I'd like to officially inform you all that a new program has been added to your curriculum following the rising toll in crime rates here in our city.” My mind echoes with a warning I couldn't ignore, but I forced a swallow and listened. “He might look familiar, but he really isn't,” she joked. “This is your new professor for combat, pack laws and authorized hunting, Professor Tyler Deville.” His head raised and green eyes locked on mine from across the room, widening slightly in recognition. Holy shit!

But I soon discovered that some of his beliefs would make me cringe. “Somebody, give me an example of a past story that you think was good journalism,” he said. He called on the raised hand of a boy with thick glasses and curly brown hair. “The Stauche Vierra piece on the Morton Scandal,” the boy answered. “Wrong,” Professor Malory said. “Vierra was a hack who played up honest errors made on Beta property assessments. Sam Morton was a trusted tax collector for twenty years.” Professor Malory glared at the class. “Next?”

Everyone turned, and were looking at her now. She stood up and walked quickly to the projector. She paused the video that was on a loop and pointed to the murderer’s hands. “Although this person has gloves on, and it is difficult to tell their gender even, this gap here.” She pointed to the exposed skin between where their hand glove ended and where their sleeve began, “Would have been enough to expose the Professor.” “What are you talking about?” “Professor Cal has a large tattoo on his forearm,” Myra said. Everyone around the table seemed to lean forward and peer at the image.

“Come in. How can I help you?” I explained the situation… the struggles with Statistics, the professor’s no-tutoring policy, my hope that Morrison might intervene. Morrison listened, nodding thoughtfully. When I finished, he leaned back in his chair. “He, the professor I mean is quite firm about that policy,” he said. “I’m not sure I could convince him to make an exception, even for you.” My heart sank. “Oh. Okay. I’ll just… figure it out on my own, I guess.”