“Oh yes, Maya mentioned you worked onThe Muse—and that you knew Melanie back then.”
“Yes, I did. Like everyone else, I was devastated by what happened. She was a wonderful person.”
I give him the chance to expound a little, to offer a tiny nugget about her that my always greedy hands can snatch away, but there’s only silence. I don’t blame him for wanting to be done with the topic.
“Is writing still a passion of yours?” I ask.
“Uh, not anymore. I used to dabble now and then, but my stories were never—in a manner of speaking—much to write home about ... Let me see what I can find out before the reception. And if there’s stuff of Melanie’s stored on it, I’ll get you a link.”
“Thank you, Chip. I’ve already asked the English department for help on some matters, and I don’t want to bother them another time.”
I’m hoping my last comment will guarantee he won’t go through Handler about this.
“Understood ... You must be heading over to Boyd Hall soon, right?”
“Yes, in a bit. I’m going to check out theMuseoffice first and then make my way there.”
By the time we sign off, I’m chilled. I pick up my pace until the humanities building looms ahead of me. Though the first-floor classrooms are all dark, there are lights shining from some of the arched second-floor windows, probably a sign of faculty working late.
My gaze flicks to the very end, where I know Handler’s office is located, and to my surprise I see the backlit shape of a man standing right against the window, obviously staring out at the quad. Is he simply lost in thought, or looking at something? Is he even looking at me?
I reach the building and push open the door, nearly colliding with a dark-skinned girl in cornrows, zipping a hooded Carter sweatshirt.
“Oops, sorry,” I say and offer a smile. “Would you know where I can find theMuseoffice?”
“Yeah, it’s down one flight,” she says, kicking up her chin toward the nearby stairwell. “And then all the way to the end. But I don’t think it’s finished yet.”
“That’s okay, I’m just here to see how it’s coming.”
She smiles distractedly as she exits, wishing me good night. Once she’s gone, I seem to have the floor to myself.
I descend to the lower level, the clicking sound of my heels echoing up the stairwell. Pushing open the fire door at the bottom, I find myself in a brightly lit corridor with classrooms and meeting rooms on either side. I hesitate for a moment. It appears deserted on this level. But after hearing muted voices coming from one of the rooms farther down, I start along the corridor. Once I reach the room with the voices, the window in the door offers a glimpse of several people sitting around a meeting table.
Finally, I near the end of the corridor, where the door facing me has a work permit taped to the outside. Against the wall on the left is a metal worktable with a large roll of brown paper on top. To the right of the door, there’s a brass plaque. It says, “In Memory of Melanie Chase.”
So here it is, Logan’s other gift to Carter College. I wait for a swell of pride and/or pleasure, but there’s only dead calm—which I guess shouldn’t surprise me. Mel isn’t here to see her name on the door and never will be.
I’m pleased to find that the door’s not locked. Once I’ve pulled it open, I smell fresh paint, but it’s too dark to see anything. I carefully pat the inside wall until I find a switch, and seconds later the space floods with light from a recessed ceiling fixture. I step across the threshold, taking everything in. The office is still partially cluttered with stuff like tarps, a couple of sawhorses, and paint cans, but it’s far enough along for me to see how impressive the final results will be.
I glance behind me down the empty corridor. The group must still be in the meeting, so I’m not alone on the floor. And since there seems to be no harm in taking a closer look around, I lay my evening purse on the top of one of the sawhorses, unbutton my coat, and step farther into the office. I’ll just have to mind the wet paint.
The first part of the space is taken up by the conversation pit that Handler described at the dinner party, and beyond that there’s an open area with six modern-looking workstations. To my left as I walk is what looks like a meeting room, and beyond that are two glass-walled rooms that will probably be the podcast studios. I picture each of them with a table and mic and students conducting interviews, maybe dreaming of their own shows one day.
Bravo, Logan,I think. When I was on the literary magazine in college, we worked as a group at a dented metal table in an otherwise empty room, and that was just fine for us, but I see how a place like this could be exciting for students, providing them with a sense of being on a real publication. And it will certainly be an impressive feature on campus tours.
Footsteps stir me from my thoughts, the sound of someone in the outside corridor, possibly headed this way. As I twist my head, the overhead light blinks off and the room goes partially dark.
“Hey,” I call out, spinning around. It must be a worker or custodian who thinks the lights have been left on by mistake. From where I’m standing, I see the main door start to close, so fast I can’t tell who’s on the other side. “Someone’sinhere,” I yell.
A second later the door slams shut, and I’m standing in total darkness.
Chapter 23
My heart skitters.
“Hey,” I call out again, even louder now.
No one responds this time, either, but a second later I hear the faint scrape of metal like something’s being dragged along the corridor outside. What the hell is going on?
