Her anxiety remained. She was playing with fire.

Lunch was at the student cafeteria where she had grabbed coffee, but the food was decent. Kelly ordered a turkey sandwich and Banks had a bowl of soup. While they ate, he asked what her all-time favorite book was. She answered without hesitation.

“The Lord of the Rings. I think it’s the greatest work in the last century.”

“I would have thought you would have chosen something more romantic.”

“There’s romance in the story. There’s the love between Aragorn and Arwen.”

“In the movies, yes. But in the novels, Arwen only comes in at the end, after all the excitement is over. Besides, I think you’re more intrigued with Eowen, who had the misfortune of falling in love with Aragorn before the great battle.” He added, “Did you know Tolkien only put her in the books because his daughters complained there were no girls in the story?”

“I didn’t know that.” She paused. “Why do you say I’m intrigued with Eowen?”

He studied her and she was struck then by how penetrating his eyes were. She suspected he was an excellent teacher and had the loyalty of his students.

“Because she was a maverick. She wanted to be a hero in a time when only men were heroes. She also had a broken heart, and wanted to cure it by dying in battle.” He added gently, “You look troubled, Kelly.”

He knew how to touch a nerve. “Perhaps Eowen and I do have a few things in common,” she admitted.

He nodded sympathetically. “It’s only a story.”

They walked to his apartment. Gray gusts tugged at her coat. It was a relief to get back inside. His place overlooked a wooded stream. The furnishings were rich and tasteful: cedar to clear the nostrils, carpets on the floor, handmade lamps, and another huge case of books. The wall facing the stream was glass—the sky seemed to reach inside the room and chill her. He acted pleased when she complimented him on his fine taste.

“My wife deserves all the credit,” he said.

“She’s a lovely woman.” Kelly stood beside the tall window. The adjoining room was full of exercise equipment. She could hide in there, she thought, while the two talked. Perhaps she could match Michael Grander with the man in Slate’s tapes, although faces and bodies did not always fit.

“There are few like her. May I get you a drink?”

“No thanks,” she replied.

“Are you sure? I have sherry.”

“Sorry. On the job.”

“Of course.”

There was a black-and-white picture of a man and a boy standing in front of a run-down office building. The man looked gruff, the boy lost. She pointed out the photograph.

“My father and I,” Banks said, coming up at her side. “You’d never guess, but I grew up only a few miles from here.”

“Was your father a businessman?”

“My father was many things. You could call him that if you want.”