CHAPTER THIRTEEN

As my English lit class ended on Wednesday, Duncan Phillips came calling.

It had been a whirlwind hour, because it was the last review session before Friday, when students would take the nationwide exams that would determine whether or not they actually would move up to the next level. My own finals would be administered two weeks later, and those would determine their letter grades. Sefton would not award degrees to students who couldn’t earn passing grades from a teacher, no matter how well they did on the national finals. Some students cared about this, some did not. As with everything.

I spent most of the hour quizzing them on vocabulary words, since a huge part of the standardized test was based on identifying synonyms, antonyms, and “wrong word combinations.” I divided them into teams and gave extra points for rapidity, so there was a great deal of hilarity by the end of the afternoon. Even Evan Stodley was laughing. Devante Ross, who was so much smarter than he liked to let on, only missed three words. Nancy Ortega didn’t miss any. I was so proud of them all that I almost wanted to cry.

It was while Devante was trying to define semi-recumbent (“It’s, say, when you’re lying down, but maybe not all the way down”) that a movement at the doorway caught my eye. Standing there was a cluster of people who had arrived quietly enough not to be heard over the chatter and laughter in the room. Caroline Summers, looking tense; the dean behind her, looking even more tense; and Duncan Phillips.

“Game over! We win!” Devante crowed just as the ending bell shrilled down the hall.

“By one lousy point!” Dave Zirster yelled back. “And you didn’t win that point—you cheated—”

“We didn’t cheat! We had the answer just as time ran out.”

“Yeah, but you—”

I forced my attention back to the class. “That’s enough, I think,” I said. “You did a great job. I want to wish each of you good luck on your test Friday. Anyone who wants to come to my office Thursday for individual coaching, just let me know. See you on Monday!”

By this time, all of them had noticed the visitors in the doorway. Naturally, they knew who Caroline and the dean were, and some of them also recognized Duncan Phillips. Devante shot me a look so stern and speculative that I wondered what he knew about the billionaire. That kid was not only smart, he was intuitive; I was sure he’d go on to be a world leader. I gave him a smile and nodded. It’s all right. He shrugged and followed the others out of the room.

Caroline, the dean, and Duncan Phillips came in. “Ms. Kendall,” the dean said in his nervous, fussy voice. “I’m aware you know Duncan Phillips, one of Sefton’s greatest benefactors.”

“Yes, we’ve met. I tutor his son. How is Quentin, Mr. Phillips?”

“Doing very well,” Duncan Phillips answered pleasantly. He did not appear quite as feral in this setting as he had when he had trapped me in his own home, but there was still a balled-up intensity to him that gave him an electric presence. He looked appraisingly around the room, as if he was considering purchasing it for his portfolio, and then turned his watchful gray eyes on me. “I enjoyed your class. What part of it I was privileged to see.”

“Yes, Mr. Phillips has expressed an interest in observing some of our teachers in action in a typical setting,” the dean bleated. He was such a small, thin, colorless man that on an ordinary day he was easy to overlook. In Duncan Phillips’ shadow, he seemed practically invisible.

I glanced at Caroline, who looked just as furious as I felt. I was pretty sure this had not been her idea. “Hardly a typical day,” I said. “Usually I’m covering new material, not going over vocabulary words, but I’m helping them prep for the national tests on Friday.”

“Sefton has a good record on the national exams,” Phillips said in his sinister, purring voice. “I know. I’ve seen the percentages.”

“We have an excellent graduation rate as well,” Caroline said icily. “Both results are rooted in the same cause: We have superb teachers.”

If the dean was invisible to me, Caroline was invisible to Duncan Phillips. He said, “How would you describe your teaching style, Ms. Kendall? What makes it innovative?”

“I try to engage the students, getting them to interact with me and each other,” I said. I glanced at Caroline. “That’s the whole Sefton philosophy. That’s why we don’t offer online programs—we want the personal interaction.”

“Mr. Phillips is considering increasing his endowment to Sefton,” the dean said. As if this would encourage me to add more nuance and detail to my answer.

All I said was, “That would be jazz, as his son says. Superjazz.”

I thought I saw Caroline hide a smile.

Duncan Phillips leaned against my desk, taking a half-seated posture while the rest of us disposed ourselves awkwardly around him. “What is the most valuable thing you think your students take away with them when they leave?” he asked.

“You mean when they leave Sefton?” I asked.

“No. Your students. When they leave your classroom.”

I was growing increasingly uncomfortable at the level of personal interest he was exhibiting, but I tried not to show it. “I would like to think that what they take away from Sefton is a well-rounded education. What my students learn, I hope, is a love of reading. An ability to analyze a story or a poem for its technical skill, as well as to enjoy it for its beauty and its heart. I hope they also take away some basic understanding of grammar and punctuation. What I have seen them leave with is deep friendships with their classmates. All of that seems equally valuable.”

The dean suddenly touched his hand to his ear and murmured a hello, moving away to hold a conversation in more privacy. Caroline took advantage of the distraction to speak up.

“Other teachers in the English department have goals that are similar to Taylor’s. For instance, Harold Fogarty teaches drama, everything from Shakespeare to Lorelei Hart. He says an appreciation of theater gives students an understanding of life.”

She might not have spoken at all, so completely did Duncan Phillips ignore her. “If you were to have additional funding for your classroom,” he asked me, “how would you direct the money?”

“We’ve said for years that we’d like to establish a physical library of the minor authors who are sometimes only available in e-books. We’d like better production studios so we could create high-quality recordings of lectures and class presentations. And I know a couple of schools have started experimenting with holographic technology so a professor or a guest speaker can essentially beam in from another location.” The minute I said it, I wished I hadn’t. The memory of his own holographic technology surfaced irrepressibly in my mind.

He waved my answer away. “No,” he said. “If you had the extra funds for your classroom.”

That was too particular to miss. I heard Caroline’s breath hiss softly in. I said flatly, “If someone donated money to my classroom, I’d hand it over to the department head. Caroline, how would you use a special endowment?”

Before she could answer, the dean rejoined us, looking a little shaken. “That was Meyers. He—well, there’s a little crisis. I’ve got to get over to Gorgon Hall. Mr. Phillips, I’m sure I leave you in capable hands with these two women.” And he said a few more fluttery words and was gone.

Duncan Phillips glanced once around the room and smiled at me. “Maybe we could finish our conversation somewhere else,” he said. “Over coffee somewhere, perhaps?”

“I can’t,” I said. “I’m late as it is.” I picked up my briefcase and slung the long strap over my shoulder. “’Bye, Caroline.”

“I’ll see Mr. Phillips out,” she said faintly, no doubt annoyed at my defection. But I couldn’t get out of the room, or the building, fast enough. I didn’t look back once to see if they followed. I just hurried as quickly as I could to the nearest teleport gate and hurled myself to the first city I could think of where Duncan Phillips neither lived nor, as far as I knew, had friends.

Atlanta.

*

I didn’t make it to the hospital on Thursday, since students dropped by my office continually from nine in the morning to nearly six at night. I did call Quentin a couple of times, and he sounded so cheerful that I started to relax.

Friday, I arrived at the hospital around three in the afternoon, bearing cookies I’d baked myself and a new hardcover by Ardel Hawke. I found Quentin and Bram Cortez playing chess while Francis gave Quentin sotto voce advice. Nonetheless, the home team appeared to be losing.

“Chocolate chip cookies! I didn’t know you could bake,” Quentin observed, stuffing two in his mouth in rapid succession.

“Is that an insult? Why couldn’t I bake?”

“You’re a teacher. All you do is read.”

“Well, I eat, too.”

“These are excellent,” Francis said, sampling one. “Better than mine.”

“Your cookies are great, Francis,” Quentin said loyally. Then he looked at me. “But these are supergreat, Taylor.”

Bram Cortez was on his third one before he offered a comment. “Almost makes a man want to get sick if this will be his reward,” he said.

I risked a glance at him. Once you’ve kissed a man and he’s walked out your door, you’re not always sure what you’ll say the next time you see him in front of half the people you know in common. But he looked completely at ease, happy enough to see me but not so ecstatic he couldn’t keep his blushes down.

I tried to match his nonchalance. “If you ever end up in the hospital, I promise I’ll make you cookies.”

“This day’s getting better all the time.”

Quentin was restless. “Hey, Taylor, you want to play a game of chess with me once I beat Bram?”

I glanced at the board. “Doesn’t look to me like you’re going to beat him any time soon. Anyway, I brought you another diversion.” I handed him the book.

“Strato!” he exclaimed. “I can read it tonight.”

“Why wait?” Bram asked. “Kick us out and start it now.”

We all laughed and moved on to new topics. I settled myself into a chair next to Francis, who leaned over and began to quiz me on my favorite recipes, so we debated the merits of hotboxing and conventional baking. When Quentin seemed sufficiently absorbed in his game with Bram, I quietly inquired about his condition, which Francis assured me was improving.

“He’ll probably be home tomorrow.”

“Has his father been by to see him?”

Francis shrugged. “Not that I’ve heard.”

I glanced at the players, who did not seem to be paying attention to our conversation. “He dropped by to see me,” I said.

Bram Cortez’s eyes lifted quickly to my face, though Quentin hadn’t seemed to catch my words. Cortez didn’t say anything, though. Francis asked, “Dropped by to see you where?”

“Sefton. Came to my class with the dean and the department head. Talking about how he was going to make an endowment to the school. But it was pretty clear he was there to see me. I can’t tell you how creepy it was.”

“You need to start being careful,” Bram said.

Quentin exclaimed, “I am being careful! You can’t checkmate me.”

“I guess I do,” I said.

“I’ll be at the door Tuesday when you arrive,” Francis promised.

I smiled at him. “I was counting on it.”

I stayed a little more than an hour, and when I stood to go, Cortez came to his feet. Quentin was instantly alarmed. “Don’t go, Bram! One more chess game! Or we could play a video game—”

Cortez smiled at him. “I’ve been here almost four hours, bud. I’ve got to get back to work.”

“I can stay a while longer,” Francis said.

“Okay,” Quentin said, instantly reassured. “Hey, you want to play chess?”

Cortez and I walked out the door and down the hallways, not speaking. The hospital was busier at four in the afternoon than it had been late at night. Human nurses bustled between rooms and the robo-techs wheeled quickly by, chattering to themselves. Every few minutes an intercom announcement paged a doctor whose name was unintelligible, and from every desk and doorway came intermittent squeaks, blips, and chimes. The light was a washed-out white that gave an alien feel to every face and surface, and the permeating smell was both clinical and chemical. Nothing quite like a hospital. You can’t ever pretend you’re not there.

Cortez broke the silence when we reached the teleport gates. “I’ve had my last eight or ten meals here, and none of them have been very good,” he said. “Want to get something to eat? Or even just some coffee?”

“I’ll have you know I turned down coffee with Duncan Phillips a couple days ago,” I said grandly.

He smiled. “I’d like to think you’d rather have it with me.”

“I’d rather have coffee with almost anyone but Duncan Phillips,” I said, “but I’d like to go with you.”

“Any suggestions?”

“It’s actually warm out,” I said. “Let’s go to Ozone.”

And so we did. Ozone is one of the trendy downtown eateries that prides itself on its international menu. The owner makes a point of teleporting in delicacies from around the world on an hourly basis. So you can eat sushi obtained this morning from Japan or salmon freshly caught off the Alaskan coast. Marika always orders croissants from Paris, while Domenic prefers the Argentinian beef. Jason and I go for the freshly roasted Brazilian coffee. I have to admit that I don’t really care about all this up-to-the-minute authenticity, and that all coffee pretty much tastes the same to me. What I like about Ozone, at least in the spring, is its outdoor terrace, which is ringed by heat lamps. You can sit outside on a 60-degree day, feeling the breeze swoop in off the lake, and still not freeze to death. I count this as a real advantage.

We got a table right by a heater, too, which made me even happier. Cortez ordered a meal, but I just got salsa and chips and then, because it was Friday afternoon and I couldn’t tell if this was a date or not but I was feeling in a celebratory mood, a margarita. At that point, Cortez asked the waitress for a beer.

Once she departed, he glanced around the patio, assessing the clientele, noting the people who were present and, perhaps, what kind of threat they offered. I saw his eyes go more than once to three young men sitting at a table set up closest to the sidewalk. They wore clothes at the extreme edge of youth fashion, and they were laughing too loudly for a Friday afternoon. If they were old enough to drink alcohol, I’d be surprised.

He didn’t comment on them, though. “So,” he said instead, “Phillips came to scope you out at Sefton.”

“That’s the way I read it. Made me a little nervous.”

“You’ve got to start being careful.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“So far, he hasn’t been the type to track someone to her home,” he said seriously. “He tends to work more in public venues. His house. Parties at other people’s houses. Hotels. If a woman later says he took advantage of her, he can say, ‘Why didn’t you scream?’ So far, it’s a strategy that’s worked for him.”

“Are you trying to scare me?”

“Yes.”

“Good work. I’m scared. Are you telling me not to come back?”

“No. I’m trying to underscore what you already know. Don’t walk around that house alone.”

“Wouldn’t even cross my mind.”

Our drinks arrived. I took a small, delicious sip of that sublime salty-citrus combination. Used to be, I could down enough margaritas to crack my lips and leave my tongue sore. These days, one round of tequila will do me in, so I savor the single pleasure.

Cortez nodded at my lime-colored drink. “You know that stuff will rot your stomach.”

“Beer will make you fat,” I retorted. “Pick your poison.”

“You talk tough,” he said. “But you’re not so wild. You hardly even drink, according to the vast amount of research I’ve collected on you.”

“It seems completely unfair that you know so much about me and I know so little about you.”

He was laughing. “What do you want to know?”

“When’s your birthday? What’s your middle name?”

“August 6th. Bonifacio.”

“What?”

“Bonifacio. Boniface. He’s a saint.”

“That is—an unusual name.”

“Maybe for laker girls and their friends. Pretty common in my set.”

“You would have been teased a lot at my high school,” I admitted. “Does Dennis know?”

He grinned. “I don’t think so, but go ahead and tell him if you want. In fact, why don’t you text him right now?”

I laughed back. I could feel the tequila hitting me, and I hadn’t had half my drink. “I like Dennis. He relaxes me.”

“I would think he’d put you on edge. He can’t sit still or shut up—so neither can anyone else when he’s nearby.”

“I know. I like that. He supplies his own energy, so he doesn’t require any from me. My friend Marika is like that, too.” I took another sip of the margarita. “Hey, I’ll have to introduce them. They’d love each other.”

“I don’t think I require any energy from anyone,” he said.

I smothered a smile. He sounded almost miffed. “You,” I said, “you’re the one who makes me nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re so watchful. Because you pay attention to every little thing. It puts me on guard.”

“That’s not my intention.”

“Oh, I’m getting over it. I’m hardly tense at all anymore when you’re in the room.”

He smiled. “I guess that’s progress.”

Our food arrived right about then, and we lost a couple of minutes arranging our plates to our satisfaction. I covered my whole plate with a layer of chips and slowly drizzled salsa evenly over each one. I might have to ask for a second cup of salsa, or maybe some guacamole.

Bram took a bite and then looked over again at the table of teenagers. The three had now been augmented by a fourth, and a fifth one stood on the sidewalk, leaning over the heat-lamp barrier, laughing loudly at someone’s joke.

“Why are they bugging you?” I asked.

“They’re wearing junta colors.”

“Yeah, but—here in such a public place—”

He shrugged. “I’m sure the manager’s already alerted the cops. I hope.”

“Can you try to just enjoy your meal?”

“I will. I am.”

We ate a few minutes in silence, and then began talking idly. About Quentin, of course, and then I mentioned some of my students, and then he said he’d been thinking about taking some classes.

“Really? In what?”

He shrugged. “Art appreciation? Piano? I don’t know. Something completely different from everything I’ve ever done in my life.”

“Strato,” I said, meaning it sincerely though my tone was flippant. “I never even thought about taking classes in—I don’t know—weapons usage. Teleport maintenance. Things completely outside my experience.”

“Or I’ve thought maybe I could teach something.”

“Not piano, though.”

“Weapons usage,” he said with a grin. “Tactical maneuvering. Except that puts me right back in the world I left.”

“Have you given any thought,” I said slowly, “to what you’ll do when—after Quentin—when you leave Duncan Phillips’ house?”

He nodded. “Thought about it. Haven’t come up with anything. I can get a security job almost anywhere. But I don’t know if that’s what I want to keep doing.”

“Of course, the great difficulty in switching careers mid-life is financing the new one.”

“I could afford to take a few years off. I’ve got plenty saved,” he said. “If you were really inquiring into my financial status.”

I could feel myself turning red. “No! I was just—it’s expensive to go back to school, and without an income—you’re a jerk.”

He was laughing. “’Cause if you were really looking to follow the money, there’s someone a lot wealthier than me who seems a little interested.”

“I can’t believe you’d even joke about it.”

“I wouldn’t except that you—”

A woman shrieked, and then the whole world exploded into hyperfast motion. Bram had leapt to his feet and was racing across the patio, dodging tables and knocking aside waiters, before I had even identified the source of the commotion. I heard more screams—shouts from another direction—the sounds of crashing glass and china—and quiet, deadly ricochet noises that even I knew came from a handheld weapon. Bram was tangling with the four junta members sitting on our side of the wall; the fifth one seemingly had fled. Two of the boys were already out of commission, writhing and moaning on the brick of the patio. The other two were attacking Bram with fists and knives and maybe other weapons I couldn’t see through the melee. A blonde woman standing near the fight scene was screaming hysterically, while a frantic dark-haired man tried to calm her down. A few feet over from them, another woman lay motionless on the ground, a long bloody gash running across the front of her yellow dress, her arm outstretched as if to reach for something that had been snatched away.

I was on my feet, not remembering when I’d jumped up, staring around in paralyzed horror. The third junta kid had been knocked to his knees by a blow from Bram’s hand, and the fourth one was locked in a wrestler’s grip that looked likely to snap his neck. Restaurant workers were circling around the combatants, shouting out words of encouragement or warning, but no one came close enough to help subdue the rowdies. Not that any help appeared to be needed.

I was still in shock, still staring, when three police cars wailed up, lights strobing across the sidewalk and sirens snarling down. Now there was even more mayhem, half of the officers rounding up the junta teens, half of them barking orders at the restaurant staff. Bram stood bracketed by two tough-looking older officers bristling with weaponry and attitude, and calmly related his version of the events. I saw a smear of blood across his shirt, but he looked relatively unscathed.

Abruptly my legs buckled, and I sat down with a thump. I drained the last watery drops of my margarita, then finished off Bram’s beer. Two paramedics appeared from nowhere, no ambulance in sight, so I assumed they’d teleported over. They knelt on either side of the fallen woman and began covering her with gauze and tubes.

Our shaken waitress came by our table a few minutes later. “Are you—would you—can I get you anything else?” she stammered. Her hands were trembling on her tray and her face looked ashen, but she was desperately trying to keep herself together.

“What happened?” I asked. “Did you see?”

She glanced over to where Bram was still talking to the police officers, who were nodding and pointing at something down the street. The junta kid who’d run away, maybe. “One of those boys—he grabbed that woman’s purse—and she tried to hold onto it. But he had a knife and he—I hope she’s all right. She’s bleeding so much.”

“I guess I’d like another margarita,” I said. “And another beer.”

She was still gazing at Bram and the cops. “That man there. He just rushed over and knocked the kid away from her. I mean, one punch and the kid fell down. He’s like a superhero or something.”

“Yeah,” I said dryly. “He’s an ex-cop. He’s my date.”

Now she looked back at me, wide-eyed and amazed. I couldn’t tell if she admired my choice in men or feared for me. “He must be something,” was all she said.

“I know,” I replied, “I’m still trying to figure out what.”

She had returned with our drinks, and I’d downed half of the second margarita, before Bram came back to the table. The rest of Ozone’s patrons had either doubled their drink orders, like me, or hurriedly paid their bills and departed. The restaurant manager was moving between tables, stopping to express regret to each customer, offer a trip to the hospital, a free meal, whatever it took to ensure this dreadful experience did not give them a lingering distaste for Ozone. The cops were interviewing the people who’d been sitting closest to the scene of violence. The woman who’d been sliced open had been carried away at some point when I wasn’t looking.

I saw Bram shake hands with two of the officers, nod to a third, and make his way back to our table much more slowly than he’d left it. He was watching me the whole time, and his eyes were still fixed on me as he dropped into his seat.

I gestured at the bottle. “I got you another beer.”

He picked it up and took a long swallow. “I hope it’s on the house.”

“I would think the whole meal would be. Although I guess it’s not really the management’s fault.”

He glanced around once, still watchful, still assessing. Didn’t he ever just stop? “In a way it is,” he said. “Trendy place like this draws lots of attention. Draws all sorts of people. They’re known for not turning anyone away, but then they should have their own security on staff. They do at night. They should during the day.”

“What happened to that woman?”

“I think she’ll be okay. Paramedics got here pretty fast.”

The restaurant manager made his way to our table. He was small and round, with thinning black hair that was probably dyed. He was wearing a tuxedo that, on better days, probably looked tidier than it did at the moment. He was smiling brightly, but there was a thin film of sweat across his face, and I figured it wasn’t from the heat lamp.

“Good afternoon, friends, I am so sorry for the events of the afternoon—”

Bram looked at him without saying a word. The manager gasped, recognizing him as the avenging angel who had kept a terrifying situation from becoming disastrous. “Sir!” he exclaimed. He had a faint accent, maybe French, maybe Greek, and a certain volubility with his hands. “How can I thank you—you have done us such a great service—your quickness to act, your great fierceness—”

Bram brushed aside his raptures. “Let it go. How is the young woman? My friend was just asking.”

“The doctors seemed most hopeful as they took her away. But you, sir! Where would we be without your quick thinking? Absolutely you shall not pay for this meal! What are you drinking? I shall have another round brought out to you immediately. I shall—”

“No more for me,” I said quickly.

“Me either,” Bram said.

“Then you shall have a certificate for a free meal upon your return. No! You shall never pay again any time you come to Ozone!”

I thought I could read the expression on Bram’s face, which said he was never coming back here, so this offer was a pretty good deal for the manager. “Thank you,” I said. “But you don’t have to do anything special for us.”

Ten minutes of thanks, protestations, and gift certificates later, he had finally departed from our table and we could go back to our interrupted meal. I had lost all interest in the salsa and chips, and Bram just picked at the remaining items on his plate. However, we were making pretty good progress on our second round of drinks.

“Good thing I don’t have to do anything tomorrow morning,” I observed. “Because I’m going to wake up with a hangover.”

He smiled with a seeming effort. “From two margaritas?”

“You said it yourself. I’m not much of a drinker.”

He pushed his plate aside and looked at me seriously. “I don’t know why,” he said, “but I think you’re mad at me.”

I scrunched up my eyebrows and tilted my head, as if I was considering an interesting puzzle someone had presented to me. “I don’t think mad is the right word,” I said at last.

“Disturbed.”

“Maybe.”

He shrugged. “I was a cop. You know that. I’m a security guard. You know that, too. What I do best is stop people from hurting other people. You shouldn’t be surprised.”

I nodded. “I don’t think what’s bothering me is that you can do it,” I said slowly. “It’s that you like to.”

“Aaaahh,” he said, and took a drink of his beer.

“And that you look for opportunities to do it.”

“I don’t have to look. The opportunities are always there.”

“Maybe.”

“And would you rather have had me sit here, knowing I could save a woman’s life, and just watch? Do nothing?”

“No.”

“Then? What do you want from me?”

“I’m still assimilating,” I said. “This isn’t how we played when I was growing up.”

“This isn’t playing.”

After that, there wasn’t a whole lot more to say. We finished our drinks, and Bram left money on the table despite our free status, a gesture I liked. We walked silently to the teleport gate and then paused a moment before opening the portal door.

“Take you home?” he asked. I could not tell from his neutral tone if he wanted me to accept or reject the offer.

I smiled and gestured at the sky, where dusk was gathering its muscles but had not yet sprung for the kill. “Still daylight,” I said. “I think I’m perfectly safe.”

“Will we see you Tuesday? I’m sure Quentin will be home by then.”

“I expect so. I can’t imagine anything would keep me.”

He looked down at me a moment, the expression on his face hard to read. As if it wasn’t always hard to read. At the moment, he wore a small smile, a rather sad expression, and seemed full of words he could not form. “You don’t understand how much it hurts me,” he said at last, “to not be able to protect Quentin. Because that’s what I know how to do. And I can’t help him at all.”

“So you’re looking for fights,” I said.

“Maybe.”

“And someone you can save.”

“I suppose.”

I nodded. “Give him a hug for me,” I said, and stepped into the teleport gate before he had a chance to reply. After I’d coded in my stop, I turned to watch him, and then I hit the transmit button. His face dissolved, and I was at my own gate, and for the first time in my life I didn’t like teleporting. It created farewells that were far too abrupt.

*

The weekend went quickly, particularly since I spent most of Saturday regretting the second margarita and trying various painkillers in an attempt to dissipate my nagging headache. Jason came in Saturday night to hang out at Mom’s, so I went over for dinner.

Sunday wasn’t much livelier. I talked to Marika, finished grading some late papers, watched VNN for three hours straight, and was actually looking forward to going back to work the next day when my EarFone sounded late in the evening.

“Taylor,” I said chirpily, happy for any distraction.

“Ms. Kendall. It’s Devante.” His voice was raw and hoarse, and I would not have recognized it if he had not identified himself. I felt dread close me in a cold vise.

“Devante. What’s wrong?”

“It’s—Evan’s killed himself, Ms. Kendall. Here at the house. I don’t know what to do.”