They Never Learn

by Layne Fargo

I’ve spent the past sixteen years murdering men who deserve it, and I’m not about to get sloppy now.

Even in his final moments, I doubt he learned his lesson. But I didn’t kill him to teach him a lesson; I killed him to carve him out of this world like a tumor. And I’d do it again. “Listen.”

“He drugged her,” I say. “She was barely conscious, and he was touching her. That’s—” “Yes, well.” The dean’s smile stiffens. “Maybe now you’ll both think twice before accepting drinks from boys you don’t know.” “But I do know him,” Allison says. Her voice sounds so small and uncertain now, it breaks my heart. “He’s in the theater department with me.”

“This can be a valuable lesson for you,” the dean says, sounding so fucking reasonable I want to punch her teeth in. “There’s no need to ruin anyone’s life over it.”

His face darkens with a mixture of embarrassment and anger—perhaps the most dangerous combination of emotions in a man.