Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“Of course. Whatever you need.”
Perfect.
“I’m having trouble reaching a student. She’s not answering her student email, so I was hoping she might have another email listed in the school’s records? Or a phone number or an address? Some other method of contact.”
“Oh, that’s . . .” He swallows, looks down at his hands. When he looks back up, he won’t meet my eyes. “I’m afraid it’s against policy to give that out to anyone, even professors.” Aaron fidgets. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s really important,” I press, dropping my voice. “She could fail the class if I can’t get ahold of her. I would feel really awful. Aaron?”
“Yes, ma’am?” He looks up, locks eyes with me.
“I think this once we could make an exception, right? Help out a fellow student. And because we’re friends. Right?” Another smile, just between us.
“Well . . . okay. But don’t tell my boss, all right?”
“Oh, I thought you were in charge.” I slide him a paper where I’ve written down what I know about Hannah Greer. “This is her name and student number.”
“Let me . . .” He types away, clicks the mouse, then pulls the scrap of paper toward him and scribbles a Gmail account. “Oh, interesting,” he mutters. “This might be why you can’t get ahold of her.”
My ears perk up. “Oh? Is something wrong?”
“No. But she’s a visiting student.” He slides the paper back. “Nonmatriculated. It looks like yours is the only class she’s taking.”
I pause, sirens blaring in my head. So “Hannah” could be anyone, anyone who only signed up for my class.
“Thank you so much, Aaron. I owe you.”
Stepping outside lets me breathe a little easier, but not for long. My nerves come back full force as I glance down at the sheet. Hannah Greer. I have a Gmail now. I would have preferred an address. I’ve slowed to a stop, lost in thought, staring down at the scrap of paper, when someone bumps into me.
“Excuse me,” the man mutters. He’s tall, wearing a dark jacket, and continues striding down the sidewalk. I look up, watch him go. There’s something familiar about him, but then again, I’ve had hundreds, thousands of students here. Of course I recognize some. I glance over my shoulder, cross the street, and hurry toward my office. I can’t help it—once I’m across, I look back one more time. The man in the dark jacket, he’s stopped. And he’s looking right at me.
Is he watching me?
Did he bump into me on purpose?
Could he be Hannah?
No, no, no. I’m being paranoid. Have been since I read that damn chapter. The chapter that’s a coincidence. A very big one, but a coincidence nonetheless. It has to be. Once I sort out who this student is, I’ll know for sure.
Back in my office, I pull off my jacket, unwind my silk scarf. They both go on a hanger, and I adjust my blinds so the outside is blocked—as if someone might want to see what I’m doing. I sit down to type at my laptop, speedy pecks of keys, entering the Gmail account and hitting search. I already know from my Google research this morning that the name alone returns millions of hits. It’s too common. Maybe that’s the reason they chose it. But nothing comes up with the Gmail account, either.
No social media tied to it. No image of a person.
I huff in frustration and repeat the same search, this time adding the name Hannah Greer to the Gmail account—still nothing usable comes up. My phone vibrates from my purse, and I pull it out, annoyed by the interruption.
Sam.
Again.
I need to cancel tonight, so I swipe to answer.
“Hi, Sam.” I stare at the tiny cactus on my desk, the one that’s shriveled into a collection of brown, dead spikes—a sign that I should not be in charge of the care of any living creature.
“Hey. Sorry to interrupt your day, but I thought I’d see if maybe you wanted to come to my place tonight,” he says. “I can cook us some dinner. I’ve been told I make a mean chicken piccata.”
Sam and I don’t have that type of relationship. He’s a nice guy, a handsome police detective who will probably make some lucky lady a great boyfriend or husband someday, but that’s not what I’m looking for, and I was up front about that from the beginning. He’s been good with our arrangement, too. Though lately, I’ve suspected he wants more. “I think I actually need to cancel tonight. I have a lot of work to finish up for this class I’m teaching.”
“Oh. Then maybe we can just hang out like usual and do dinner another night?” A car door slams shut, and the city sounds in the background go quiet. “I caught this call last night. I’m going to be pretty busy with it for a while, at least once the autopsy comes back in tomorrow.”