If Dr. Preston was sun and surf, Professor Deana Senegal was at the other end of the spectrum. Since Althea Monroe had taken a leave, Professor Senegal was Kristi’s only woman instructor. Senegal, who taught journalism, was a woman around forty who spoke in rapid-fire sentences and stared through sleek, rectangular glasses. Deana Senegal was pretty, smart, and had worked at newspapers in Atlanta and Chicago before getting her master’s and accepting a position here at All Saints three years earlier. She’d taken a sabbatical for the birth of her eighteen-month-old twins, but now was back to work. With thin lips stained a deep wine color, porcelain skin, and green eyes that snapped fire behind those designer frames, Senegal was all business. She’d barely cracked a smile for the entire class period.

Kristi made her way down the stairs, thinking how she’d met several people who resided in the building. A married couple lived next to Mai on the second floor, and on the first, in the unit abutting Hiram’s, was another single man, maybe a student, but one who kept odd hours; she’d only seen him late at night, either leaving or going. He was tall and usually wore a dark coat, but she’d never seen his face well enough to decipher his features.

Today, as Kristi grabbed a textbook she’d left in her car, she spied Mrs. Calloway’s PT Cruiser roll into the lot. The white car with its convertible top was distinctive, and not what Kristi had expected the older woman to drive.

Kristi reached her driver’s door just as Irene was climbing out and scowling at some dead weeds growing at the edge of the crumbling asphalt. “Damned things,” she said, then caught sight of Kristi. “Oh. Hello. I heard you fixed those locks yourself.” She was already shaking her head and reaching inside for a wide-brimmed hat to add to her outfit of brown corduroy slacks, a pink flannel shirt and a beige cardigan sweater with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. “I told you Hiram would handle it.”

“I couldn’t get hold of him in time.”

She plopped the hat upon her head, covering her curly salt and pepper hair. “Well, then, I’ll need a set of keys to your unit, and if you think you can take the expense of changing the locks off your rent, then you can think—”

“I’ll see that you get a set,” Kristi said, irritated with the money-grubbing landlady. “I heard that Tara Atwater lived in my apartment.”

The older woman reacted and Kristi knew she’d hit a nerve. “Tara? The girl who ran out without paying her last month’s rent? That’s right, she lived upstairs.”

“And she’s missing.”

“All I know is that she took off on me without paying.”

“Or was taken. Some people think she was abducted.”