2 eggs scrambled, maple bacon, avocado, potatoes, salsa.

He scrolled through the tabs, clicked on “Compliance,” started typing.

DAY 7—NIGHT. Newspaper had desired effect. No resistance after playroom time. Has fallen into habitual pattern for transition between playroom and bedroom. First compliance benchmark met much earlier than with Angel.

DAY 8—MORNING. Gave her alarm clock. Seemed grateful. Left her with promise of quality time after third class. If alarm clock undamaged, consider surprising with laptop again. Rain in forecast. 75% chance, three sources. Shouldn’t result in flooding, but watch rest of week.

He saved the document, opened another, scanned through the “Compliance” tab.

DAY 27—NIGHT. Consensual, reciprocated sex.

He skipped the details, looked to the end of the entry.

Escape attempt.

It made sense in hindsight. His Angel lived a sexual life and knew the power of sharing her gift. She’d tried to manipulate him. He’d mistaken the action for acceptance and had had to punish her.

Would Bergman make the same attempt?

He typed one more note.

The Writer doesn’t understand yet. Take no chances.

He noticed the time. 9:26 AM.

“Shit.”

Time for Branford to go to work.

*   *   *

The rain worsened. His tires spun when they met the asphalt.

He wasn’t the only one fighting the weather. A quarter of a mile from his place, a beat-up red and white pickup shot mud into the air pulling into traffic.

Fifteen minutes later, he stopped at the four-way intersection near the theater department, let undergrads with umbrellas pass, wondered if Caitlin would use the treadmill he’d bought for Paige. He wanted her healthy but wasn’t sure he should encourage her to run.

A horn honked. He looked up, saw the red and white pickup still behind him, the male driver pointing toward the intersection.

Embower turned and parked. The truck sped away in the opposite direction.

Ten minutes later, Professor Branford had his students in a circle, giving one another warm-up massages. After two hours, he stepped out the front door to a dry but still ominous sky. He wanted to spend the hour between classes monitoring his collection, but a lighting designer needed to talk about the summer schedule over lunch at the student union.

Mid-walk, Branford paused to greet two of his students and noticed a man behind him. Over six feet tall, broad shoulders stretching the corners of a lightweight rain jacket, his dark sunglasses and fifties buzz cut made him look like Central Casting’s impression of a soldier or a cop.

“No,” Branford said, his attention back on his students, “I will not be bringing a date to the drama prom. Will you, Tammy?”

He listened politely to sophomore Tammy’s plan for the theater department’s year-end banquet, but something flashed in his mind. He’d read Caitlin’s book eight times. How had she described Mike “Babyface” Roman?

A cop built on the frame of a marine, grown from a Boy Scout.