He didn’t answer.
Let her make up whatever story she liked.
Victor, a department chair, intercepted him by the entryway, hand outstretched.
“Lincoln,” he said.
The handshake went long, Victor’s fingers squeezing just past polite. He wore his conference uniform. Wool vest, paisley tie, wire-rim glasses.
“You look preoccupied,” Victor said, his eyes searching Lincoln’s face for the cracks Malik had made.
Lincoln met his eyes. “I am. Last-minute edits.” He tried to pull free, but Victor held another beat.
“You always were a perfectionist,” Victor said. “You could try enjoying the panels for once.”
“I’ll work on that.” Lincoln kept his voice flat, pulled back, and slipped past.
The lecture hall buzzed with noise. Malik’s seat was already reserved. Back row, center, perfect view of the stage and exit. Lincoln found his spot two seats over, maintaining the professional distance he preferred.
He set down his bag, scanned the schedule, then looked up just in time to see Malik arrive. Their eyes met. Malik gave a small, sharp nod. It wasn’t the nod of a colleague. It was the nodof a man who knew exactly what Lincoln looked like when he lost his breath.
The panel started. Julia, an associate professor, took the podium, her energy sharp enough to cut the noise down to a low murmur. She welcomed the crowd, then introduced the first speaker, a visiting scholar with a nervous tick and a PowerPoint that kept skipping slides.
The talk blurred past, Lincoln barely tracking it. He studied the lines of Malik’s face instead. The set of his jaw. The way he wrote in the margin of his program with a black pen, left-handed.
Questions followed.
Julia called on Lincoln first.
“Would you say,” Lincoln asked, “that the translation challenges you described reflect a deeper cultural erasure, or simply a lack of effort on the part of prior editors?”
The speaker blinked, surprised by the bluntness. Lincoln kept his voice mild, eyes on the podium, but he caught Malik’s smirk out of the corner of his eye.
After the applause, Malik took the podium. He walked to the front, papers in hand, and began with an unscripted joke that loosened the room. Lincoln braced himself for the sound of Malik’s voice, the way it dropped low when he addressed the crowd.
Malik’s presentation ran tight, each point linked to the next. Lincoln tracked the slide order, the subtle shifts of emphasis, the offhand reference to a joint paper they’d coauthored a decade ago. Malik shot him a look as he said it, the words hanging a little longer than necessary.
Julia steered questions to the audience. Shelly, Emmy’s fiancé, spoke up from the side aisle.
“Dr. Okonkwo, would you argue that institutional memory is more critical than the individuals who perpetuate it?”
“Memory is nothing without a witness,” he said, “and nothing’s more dangerous than a witness who believes himself above the story.”
It stung. Lincoln’s ears burned, but he smiled for the audience. When he looked over at Shelly, she didn’t smile back.
The panel closed with a clatter of applause. Lincoln rose, making for the exit, when a hand caught his elbow. He turned, expecting Malik, but found his sister, Emmy, standing there. She looked immaculate, her coat draped over her arm, her eyes narrowed with a terrifyingly keen intelligence.
“Lincoln,” she said, her voice a low, melodic chime. “I didn’t expect to see you looking so...unraveled.”
Lincoln’s mouth dried out. “It’s been a long morning, Emmy. The symposium is demanding.”
Emmy stepped closer, pulling him away from the flow of exiting scholars toward a quiet corner of the lounge. She looked toward the podium where Malik was still surrounded by a small crowd of admirers.
“Interesting dynamic, the two of you,” she said, her gaze returning to Lincoln. “I know I’m the one who suggested this little arrangement for the mom’s sake, but I wasn’t aware it was going to be quite so...effective.”
“I wasn’t aware it was a topic,” Lincoln said, trying to regain his professional footing.
Emmy’s expression became unreadable, a small smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. “It’s always a topic, Lincoln. You know that. But up there? During the Q&A? You two didn’t look like colleagues playing a part. You looked like a fuse that had already been lit.”
