“Well, well, class, it looks like we have an unexpected visitor this morning.”

The students realize Lance is looking toward the door, so they follow his gaze toward me.

Lance goes on. “Late of Commonwealth University. Late of the Gatewood city jail. Clearly, you miss the limelight of being in the classroom, Dr. Nye.”

“Lance, I think we need to talk.”

He has his hands folded on top of the desk, and he shrugs. “I have office hours after this class. Why don’t you wait for me down there, and then I can finish imparting the wisdom of the ages to these eager young minds?”

The students, faces I know so well, turn to look at me. Ordinarily, they’re sleepy and a little dazed this early in the morning. But my appearance and my request to talk to Lance have them wide-awake and confused. And as I look at them and they look back at me, I realize I’ve been out drinking with more than one of them. And I feel embarrassed by the thought. I may not be as bad as Lance and his parties, but I’m on the continuum. I could use grief as an excuse, grief that made me turn to my students for companionship. But that’s all it is—an excuse. And I need to get my life on a different track, if I get the chance.

The students don’t all keep their eyes on me. Many of them turn back to Lance, waiting to see what he’s going to say or do next.

“Class, you may not all be aware of it, but Dr. Nye certainly is. He’s currently suspended from the university, pending an investigation into some of his off-campus activities. He’s really not allowed to be here in any capacity.” He looks at me now but addresses his remarks to the students. “I’d hate to have to call the campus police on an esteemed colleague of mine, one I admire so much. But if he doesn’t leave the premises, I’ll have no choice.”

“We can talk about this right now, Lance.” I unroll the paper tube. “This story written by Madeline O’Brien.”

When I say her name, a ripple of recognition passes through the room. Some of the students gasp, and others begin to whisper. They’ve heard by now that a former student has been found dead. Murdered. I can only imagine the kinds of rumors swirling on social media and in the dorms and the bars and everywhere else students congregate.

Lance pushes back from the desk, and a cloud passes across his face. The smug certainty drains away, and he presses his lips together into a wire-thin line.

“We don’t have time for this, Connor.”

“Let me read this last part,” I say. “The part that gets really interesting is here at the end when Madeline says—”