Three days later the text came at 11:17 p.m.
One line. An address I didn’t recognize. A time: now.
I was already reaching for my keys before I finished reading it.
The place turned out to be a quiet side-street apartment building near campus, the kind faculty sometimes kept for late work or quieter nights. The outer door was unlocked. His door was ajar. I stepped inside and locked it behind me the way I had learned to.
Professor Hale stood by the window with his back to me, sleeves rolled, a glass of something dark in his hand. The only light came from a single lamp. When he turned, his expression was the same calm, absolute one he had worn the night he first locked his office door.
“You came faster,” he said.
“You told me to.”
He set the glass down and walked toward me. This time h
