“Did you consider living closer to campus?” I only ask because my impression of lifelong academics is that they prefer to live near campus.

She backs up against the kitchen counter and lifts a half-eaten muffin from a napkin.

“I guess I looked everywhere. But I like this area. There are some others from the university who live around here. It’s a good neighborhood. Where do you live?”

“Near my office.”

“Oh. So, close, then?”

“Yeah, an easy jog.”

She takes a bite of her muffin. A few crumbs remain on her lips. An urge to run my thumb across her lips and brush the remnants away comes out of nowhere. I shove my hand into my shorts pocket.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything to eat? Why don’t you sit?” She gestures to the small round kitchen table with two chairs pushed into the corner.

“I ate earlier. But thanks.” If she had bananas, I’d take one of those for the potassium. But I’ve already had my protein shake. I pull out one chair and sit. “Jack is hoping the FBI will get involved.”

“I can understand him wanting to bring in as many people as possible. But I don’t think the FBI will touch a runaway case, no matter how much money he has.”

“My contacts are saying the same thing. But I do have one agent from the LA office who agreed to come out this morning and go over the case. I thought you might like to be there.”

“Really?” Alex’s eyes widen. “Now?”

“He’s going to arrive around eight. He’s in town for the weekend. Personal friends or something.”

“Great.” She shoves the rest of her English muffin into her mouth. “Let me go get ready.”

“We’ve got time. It’s no rush.” I should’ve waited a little longer to stop by her house, but I woke at four, unable to sleep. I worked out, showered, and was the first customer at the small coffee shop around the corner. I didn’t have much of a plan. Only a few things to talk to her about and a desire to be certain she wasn’t bothered by the media, coupled with the knowledge she’s an early riser.

A short hallway off the kitchen leads to her bedroom. From my kitchen chair, I have a clear view of the solid wood, cream-colored painted door. A half-inch gap below the door lets sound flow freely. Drawers open and close and shadows pass below the gap. The yappy dog followed her into the room, so I sit there, elbows on my thighs, hands clasped.

She exits the room wearing a long skirt and a form-fitting tee. The white cotton skims the skirt’s flat waistband, and when she lifts her arms to drape a necklace over her head, she reveals a tantalizing strip of skin.

“Are you single?” Her question throws me. Yesterday, I asked her, but she didn’t bounce the question back to me.

“I am.”

She lifts a photograph from her dresser and delivers it to me. Lights shimmer off of a toe ring as she passes through the kitchen.