1
The Secret Door
All Emily did was hit send on an email, but every pixel on the screen wobbled and came to rest off-kilter. This computer wascursed.It refused to restart, so she dialed tech support—three times in one day, a personal record—and punched in her ID.
When Alexander Hartgrave stomped into her sort-of office fifteen minutes later, she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at his expression.
“You’re a menace,” he said, scowl deepening.
“I’m telling you, it’s not my fault.”
He crossed his arms. “It most certainlyis.”
“Just replace the thing—”
“Dr. Daggett,” he said in an even silkier tone than normal, “the day you get another computer to torture is a day I’m no longer working here.”
A much-anticipated day.
“Get back,” Hartgrave said, like a threat, and put a protective arm around her PC tower. He glared at the screen for a few seconds. Then he tapped three keys, and the reboot window that wouldn’t appear for her popped up for him as if nothing were wrong. He clicked “restart.” It worked.
No one could make her feel idiotic the way he could. Of all the bad things about her job, he was—well, not really the worst. Just the most aggravating.
He glanced at her as he straightened up, the sharp angles of his face lit up dramatically for a moment by her desk lamp. “I don’t suppose you could stay off the computer for a while and give me a break? Read more books about lies and fairy tales, perhaps?”
She’d had plenty of dismissive comments about her specialty from fellow academics. It seemed even more insulting, somehow, coming from the college’s help-desk guy.
“You can learn a lot about a society through its mythology and magical belief system,” she said, trotting out her usual defense.
Hartgrave’s lips twitched, the closest he ever got to a smile. “And you can save me considerable trouble by staying off the computer. Win-win.”
His cell phone chimed. Next victim calling in. Out he went, shaved-bald head gleaming in the fluorescent light, black duster flaring out behind him.
“People who dress like vultures shouldn’t cast aspersions on anyone else’s preferences,” she muttered.
Bernie Ballantine, the only other person with a basement office in Ashburn College’s humanities building, cleared his throat in a way that suggested a covered-up laugh.
“Switch computers with me and see how amusing you find it,” she called across the corridor.
Bernie gave up the battle and chortled. “I don’t think that would help.”
Emily minded it far less coming from Bernie, who liked her, than from Hartgrave, who did not. She grabbed a book about the history of the Faust legend (or lie, depending on your point of view) and walked over to spend her technology time-out on the English professor’s couch.
Bernie shook a finger at her. “Don’t settle in—it’s getting late. And it’s supposed to snow tonight, you know. You don’t want to get stuck here all weekend.”
“I won’t read for long.”
He gave her a look that said he had her number. Emily Daggett, near-friendless workaholic.
“Some of us don’t have tenure,” she said in her defense. “Publish or perish, etc.”
“Take a break tonight, publish tomorrow. Tag along with me to dinner if you like Mexican food.”
Perhaps Bernie couldn’t remember his pre-tenure days, a quarter-century ago, but she had exactly five dollars in her wallet, little more in her bank account and student loans she might not pay off before retirement. She shook her head.
He rolled his eyes and shrugged on his coat. “All right, but don’t stay long. Imeanit,” he added, undoingwhat little seriousness he’d managed by doffing his beat-up cowboy hat and putting on a neon-yellow pom-pom beanie.
She laughed. His vast collection of hats never failed to improve her mood. “See you Monday. Oh, and shut off the lights, would you?”
