Being back at Northern Arizona University to present a guest lecture was odd enough, but walking into Henry Clarkson’s office was even more unsettling. Regan Merritt had only been in the office of the Criminology and Criminal Justice Department chair a half dozen times. It would have been a large office if there weren’t so many towering shelves, overflowing with books and papers. The antique desk was twice the size of a normal desk, with a glass top to protect the old wood. The last time she’d been here was when she asked Henry for a recommendation letter for the US Marshal’s office, fourteen years ago. Not much had changed—except it seemed he had more books.

The trim, sixty-two-year-old professor, dwarfed by his stately leather chair, poured himself a Scotch, neat, then gestured toward her with an empty glass. “I imagine you enjoy Macallan from time to time, just like your father. It’s nearly five o’clock.”

“You’re a bad influence, Henry,” Regan said but took the offered drink, nonetheless. He poured her two fingers—more than enough—and she held it as she sat in his guest chair. She angled the chair so she could see the door, an instinct she doubted she’d lose after nearly fourteen years as a US Marshal.

“It may be against the rules to have alcohol in my office, but no one has turned me in yet.” He slid over a coaster—a tile with the emblem of Coconino County that looked like it had been bought from a souvenir shop off Route 66. “I would very much like you to teach a seminar here.”

“I don’t want to teach,” she said.

“You have a commanding presence. Very few students were on their phones today.”

“The lecture was optional. They wanted to be there.”

She’d guest lectured on careers in law enforcement, with an emphasis on the US Marshals Service. Though she’d walked away from her job last fall, she still thought it was one of the best law-enforcement jobs to have—and one of the hardest to get into.

When one of the students had asked why she’d left, she didn’t respond. It was no one’s business. Henry didn’t know the entire story, either, and she doubted her father would have shared the details, even though her former professor and father had become friends.

“You’re knowledgeable, articulate, young. I’m not asking you to be a full-time professor—”

She laughed; she couldn’t help herself. The idea of spending hours every week in a classroom was akin to torture. She was smart yet detested school. Not because she was incapable or bullied or opposed to learning but because she greatly preferred being outdoors than being trapped in a room.

“I’m well aware of your kinetic personality, Marshal.”

“I’m not a marshal anymore, Henry.”