His eyebrows rise. “You knew her? Oh, shit. I’m sorry. You know, Mikaila doesn’t know. She doesn’t pay attention to anything like that. She wouldn’t have snuck up on you that way if she knew.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m not really mad at her.”

“I’ll handle whoever’s at the door,” he says. Steven is wearing a pair of gym shorts and nothing else. He’s broad-shouldered and has so much hair on his torso, it looks like he’s wearing a sweater. But Rebecca has to admit she feels a lot safer having him in the apartment and is glad he’s spending the night. “I’ll tell them to get lost. And my dad has a few guns. I can get one and bring it back tomorrow. And protect you guys.”

“Just answer the door. Okay?”

He strolls across the living room, arms swinging at his sides. Rebecca steps back into the hallway, out of sight of the front door. She tells herself it’s likely a mistake. There’s so much turnover in these off-campus apartments that it’s not unusual for someone to knock on the wrong door, looking for a friend who used to live there. Or maybe one of Mikaila’s drinking companions decided to show up. Even that sounds good to Rebecca. As far as she is concerned, Mikaila can have everybody over, the whole gang. And they can sit in the living room all night if they want.

Anything so she’s not alone.

Rebecca hears the door open. And Steven’s muffled voice.

“I’m not sure if she’s able to talk to anyone right now,” he says. “I have to check.”

It’s someone for her? No one ever just drops in on her. No one she knows drops in at all. They text first. It’s not 1993.

Rebecca hears the door close and then Steven is back. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward the door. And he’s wearing a little half smile on his face.

“Rebecca, it’s for you. The dude says he’s one of your professors, and he needs to talk to you about something important.”

Rebecca thinks Steven is kidding around, playing another joke on her. But Steven isn’t the kind of person to do that, unlike Mikaila. And she isn’t even sure Steven could think of something this weird—a professor showing up on her doorstep. She remembers fiction-writing class with Dr. Nye. He always says the weirder the detail, the more likely it is to ring true with the reader. And what could be weirder than a professor coming to her apartment unannounced at night?

“Who is it?” she asks. “What’s his name?”

Steven looks stumped for a moment, like he already forgot the name. Then he snaps his fingers. “Hoffbrau? No. Hoffman. Lance Hoffman.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE