“Seth?” It was Tony Bradford’s voice Ridgeway heard, not that of Associate Professor Dave Davis. Ridgeway felt his mood plummet through the deck.

“Ah, yes, Tony, this is Seth Ridgeway.”

“Sorry for intercepting your call but I happened to be walking past Karen’s desk when you phoned.”

An awkward silence hung over the phone as Ridgeway tried to think of a reply. When he didn’t, his department head continued.

“I don’t suppose you were calling young Davis to ask him to take another of your classes, were you?” Bradford said, his voice heavy with accusation.

“Well, I—I haven’t felt—”

“I thought so,” Bradford interrupted, his voice growing angrier. “Seth, I’ve talked to you about this before and it can’t continue.”

“I know that, but—”

“No more buts, Seth. Either you get in here this morning and teach your class and the rest of them for this quarter or I’m going to have to consider terminating you.”

Ridgeway listened numbly, mostly feeling guilty for disappointing the man who had offered him a career after the force had retired him.

‘I’ve never seen you like this before,” Bradford said more calmly. “You’ve always been the fighter, the instigator, the troublemaker. When the doctors said you’d never fully recover from the shooting you didn’t give up, and you didn’t give up when the force refused to take you off disability.

“I watched you attack the books after that final disability hearing, Seth. You always did have a good mind “ for philosophy—I saw that in you as an undergraduate—but the way you went after that doctorate was astounding. You took your rage, harnessed it, and transformed yourself into a first-rate scholar. That’s why I offered you the teaching position. You’re a scholar with experience out in the real world. That’s a rare and valuable thing and I don’t want to have to suspend you. But you’ve got to get hold of yourself!”

‘It’s different now,” Ridgeway protested. “I’m not the same man anymore.”

“Damn right, you’re not!” Bradford exclaimed. “You’re turning your rage in on yourself instead of channeling it into your work.”

“If I just knew about Zoe—”

“Damn it, man, she’s dead! You’ve got to accept that and move on. Because if you don’t there’ll be two murders. Even if you haven’t noticed, it’s clear to the rest of us that you’re right now among the walking dead. I’d say it was time that you put your faith to work for you and pull yourself out of the mire.”

Ridgeway had no answer. Bradford was right.

“The bank called yesterday. They asked me as your employer whether or not you’re planning to sell the house or what. You’re six mortgage payments behind.”

Ridgeway vaguely remembered the envelopes. He had ignored them, along with the rest of the mail that was still being forwarded to his office at the philosophy department. He had never gotten around to notifying the post office that he had returned from Switzerland.

There was plenty of money. He had intended to pay all the bills, especially the mortgage, for as long as it took to sell the house. He had to sell; the house was haunted with Zoe’s spirit. He had lain for hours in the boat, staring out at the harbor, visualizing the visits to real estate brokers. But he had never gone through with it because he knew if he did he’d have to face the house and what it held.