The scratches on his wrist puzzled him and his foot ached inside his shoe, the one with the water-soaked sock. She had screamed—or was that the other kid? Did I make her scream? That other girl’s screams had forced him to reach for her throat to stop her. When he remembered that, his hands started to shake. Had he tried to stop Cecelia from screaming? But he didn’t have his scarf with him. He didn’t want to hurt her. He just wanted to get close to her—he just wanted to …
He pressed his hands against his temples to stop the pounding, to stop the memories. He looked around again, trying to remember where he was, and how to get back into town.His stomach growled. How long had it been since he had eaten? He started the car and drove slowly down the road until he found a familiar intersection. After stopping at a nearby convenience store for a sandwich and a beer, he headed for home, and crawled into bed. Late that evening the kitten he had been feeding for the past few weeks jumped on the mattress and lay down next to him. He slipped his hand over the small animal’s back and stroked her fur until she began to purr. The sound soothed him and he closed his eyes. He woke hours later to the insistent ringing of his phone.
“Professor Winslow?”
“Yes?” Carlton looked at the clock. Almost eight. He squinted at the calendar. If it was Tuesday or Wednesday, he had a class in an hour. “Who’s this?”
“Marc Dunbar. Remember me? We met at the dean’s house a few months ago—when I met the new faculty members? I’d like to see you this afternoon.”
“I don’t know if I’ll have time. I’ve got classes to teach.”
“I can meet you for coffee after the last one.”
Then he remembered. That pushy journalist. “Can’t we do this later?I know I was supposed to call you about the interview, but that was months ago. Why do you still—”
“It’s important that we talk. Now.”
“About what? I don’t—”
“Let’s meet and I’ll tell you then. I have class today, too. I’ll meet you at the union , after your three o’clock is over.”
Carlton stumbled into the shower and made it to his first class with minutes to spare. He fumbled his way through his lecture, did the same with the second one, and felt good only about his last class, on Walt Whitman. He was picking up his notes, scribbled between classes and over lunch, when Dunbar ambled to the front of the lecture hall.
“Hi, Carlton. I’m Marc. The union ’s full of students this time of day.Let’s hit that Starbucks over the hill from campus. It’ll be quieter there.”
Carlton nodded. “Sounds good to me. I’ve had my fill of students today.”
Dunbar studied him before he replied, “I know what you mean.”
They walked down the hill, ordered their drinks and sat outside, the shade of an umbrella protecting them from the late afternoon sun.
“So, what do you think of Buckley?” Dunbar seemed to smirk. “Now that you’re almost done with your first year here.”
“Could’ve been better, but it’s okay.” He reached for his coffee.
“What about your dissertation? I heard you were working on that.”
Why is he looking at me like that? Carlton nodded. “The final draft. Just about complete. I hope to mail it in next week.”
“Good for you.It must feel good to have it done.”
He nodded again.
“What do you know about Robert Francis?”
“Who?”He squinted at the journalist, whose cold blue eyes remained focused on his face.
“He’s a student in Amanda’s—you know, your office mate—in her afternoon freshman English section. He says he left his paper in your office the other day.”
Carlton tried to avoid the man’s eyes. “Don’t know the kid. If he’s one of Amanda’s, why are you asking me?”
“Because someone took his paper to her house, and he says it wasn’t him.”
What was Dunbar after, looking at him that way, staring, as if daring him to answer? Carlton’s fingers beat an involuntary staccato rhythm against the coffee cup, and his right cheek began to move erratically.
“Was it you—did you bring the paper to Amanda’s house?”
Carlton tried to remember. Did he have the paper with him when he saw Cecelia? “Maybe. I think I found it—yes.” Now he remembered. “It was on the floor of the office. I figured she might want it.”
“So you gave it to Amanda?”
“No. She wasn’t—I don’t think she was home when I got there.”
“Oh. Then you left it on the porch?”