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  Have you ever asked a student for sexual favors? No.

  Has a student ever approached you in a sexual manner?

  I can feel Frances looking at me.

  “Professor West?” Stafford prompts.

  “Uh, yes. Maggie Hamilton did.”

  Frances lifts an eyebrow. “She approached you sexually?”

  “I’ll ask the questions, Professor Hunter, please,” Stafford says. “You say Maggie Hamilton approached you in a sexual manner?”

  “She implied she’d do something sexual if I’d approve her thesis proposal. We’d been having conflict about it for some time. Her research and methodology hasn’t been thorough enough for me to approve her idea. She hasn’t been able to even start writing. She’s been upset about that since last summer.”

  “And you’ve tried to rectify this?” Stafford asks.

  “I’ve tried to help her, steer her in the right direction, yes. I do that for all my students.”

  “Ms. Hamilton’s complaint is that you agreed to approve her proposal if she would submit to you sexually.”

  Anger burns my chest. “That’s a lie.”

  “I’m sure she’d claim your version is a lie too.” Stafford peers at his list of questions. “Are you married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has your wife ever had any kind of relationship with one of your students?”

  “No.”

  “Ever met any of them?”

  “Yes, at different university events or lectures.” I shift again. “Maggie Hamilton approached my wife last fall, asking for her help in convincing me to approve her proposal. My wife refused. I told Ms. Hamilton that her actions were entirely inappropriate and suggested that she seek another advisor, since there didn’t seem to be a way to resolve the problem.”

  “That was when, you claim, she approached you in a sexual manner?” Stafford asks.

  “No, she came into my office a few weeks ago and made the implication.”

  “How did you respond?”

  “I asked her to leave and told her again to seek another advisor. Then I wrote to Dr. Hunter telling her I could no longer advise Ms. Hamilton due to the deadlock over her thesis.”

  Stafford looks at Frances. “Do you recall such a letter?”

  “I do, yes. I was following up on it when you contacted me regarding Ms. Hamilton’s claim.”

  Stafford nods, checks his recorder, looks over his papers. More questions about my research, the classes I teach, the ratio of female to male students, the ratio of female to male professors. The number of female students I’ve advised over the years. The subjects of their theses and dissertations.

  Finally, when the interview starts moving toward hour four, Stafford stretches and sighs. “All right, then. I think I have what I need. I was supposed to interview Ms. Hamilton yesterday, but she needed to reschedule. Our next step will be to schedule a mediation meeting with both parties so we can hopefully come to a resolution and avoid any formal charges.”

  He leans forward to turn off the recorder.

  “Excuse me.” Frances puts out a hand to stop him. “I’d like to go on record stating that Professor Dean West came to King’s University with a stellar, unblemished reputation. Though he has only been on the King’s faculty for two years, he has proven himself a scholar and professor of great renown. Students give him excellent evaluations. Until now, we have not had a complaint of any kind regarding Professor West, nor has one ever been recorded at his previous institutions.”

  “Duly noted, Professor Hunter.” Stafford switches off the recorder and stuffs it into his briefcase. “I’ll be in touch about the mediation meeting. Meanwhile, both of you can be assured we are strongly invested in keeping this all confidential.”

  Both Frances and I rise to shake his hand before she escorts him to the door. As soon as his footsteps fade down the corridor, Frances swipes her hand across her brow.

  “That was unpleasant,” she remarks.

  I almost smile. At the very least.

  “Hey, thanks,” I say, not sure how to express how much her support means. “For telling him that. I appreciate it.”

  “It’s true. You’ve done great things for the department.” She crosses her arms and fixes me with a stare. “However, Dean, if Ms. Hamilton’s accusations prove true… I’ll gladly watch you fall while I protect this department and university from blame.”

  “Understood.”

  “Good.” She tilts her head toward the door. “Go get some sleep. You look like hell. Are you going back to California?”

  “Flight leaves tomorrow. I should be back in Mirror Lake next weekend, after my father is released from the hospital.”

  “I’ll keep you apprised of any developments via email.” Frances sits behind her desk again. “Have a safe journey. There’s an eastern storm approaching, so check your flights.”

  I leave, glad to get out of the stuffy office. I’m hungry since I haven’t eaten all day, but I need to work off this tension first. I stop by my office to get my duffle bag.

  “Professor West?” Jessica, one of my PhD students, waves at me from down the hall. “Thought you were out of town.”

  “I’m leaving again tomorrow.” I stop, one hand on my office doorknob.

  A week ago I’d have told her to have a seat so we could discuss her research, the grad seminar, whatever she needs to hash out. Now I’m scared to even let her into my office.

  I grip the doorknob harder. Anger seethes.

  “I found that paper you suggested.” Jessica digs into her satchel. “Do you have a minute to talk about it?”

  “No.” I close the door. “Sorry, I’m… I’ve gotta get going.”

  “Oh.” She seems a little disappointed, but shoves the paper back into her bag. “Sorry, caught you at a bad time.”

  “No.” I swallow a rising tide of shame as I literally back away from her. “Just an early flight tomorrow. Email me your questions, okay? I’ll get back to you soon.”

  “Okay.” She gives me a quizzical look as I turn and head for the elevators.

  Jesus. I suddenly have the sick feeling I’ll be on guard with all my students from now on.

  I try to shake off the thought as I head for the university gym. A few rounds on the heavy bag, weights, four miles around the indoor track. By the time I’m done, I’m too tired to feel anything. On the way back to the locker room, I grab a towel from a shelf.

  “Hey, Professor Marvel, seriously?” Kelsey’s voice cuts into my foggy brain. “Your department made you come back for one meeting?”

  I turn to face her. She’s standing by an elliptical machine, all righteous indignation in her workout clothes, her eyes blue lasers behind her rimless glasses.

  “What kind of department tells you to come back for one meeting?” she asks.

  I swipe the towel over my face and force in a breath. “I’ve got that conference coming up. A book deadline. New faculty possibilities. Lots of stuff going on.”

  “One meeting? They couldn’t wait a week?”

  I can’t deal with her nosiness. I turn and head toward the men’s locker room, holding up a hand to stop her from following me the way she once did.

  “Liv and I will be back in town in a few days,” I tell her. “Take care of her plants until then.”

  “Dean, you had a family emergency, and I think you should mention to the provost’s office that your department is—”

  “Leave it, Kelsey.” The order comes out harsh and cold.

  Kelsey blinks and takes a step back. “Wow. Okay.”

  I don’t have the energy to feel guilty for snapping at her. I shove through the locker room door and head for the showers.

  On the way home, I pick up a pizza and then eat almost all of it while wa
tching a sports channel. There are two messages on my cell phone from Liv. Finally I call her before it gets too late. For the first time ever, I almost don’t want to talk to her.

  Then I hear her voice, like warm honey, and the tension slides away.

  “I got your note, Picasso,” I tell her.

  “That’s called representational art,” she replies.

  “I’m more of an abstract artist, myself.”

  “Yes, I know.” There’s a smile in her voice. “I tried to call you earlier. How did the meeting go?”

  “Fine. Lasted most of the afternoon, then I went to the gym. Saw the pit viper there.”

  She chuckles. “How is she?”

  “Viperous.”

  “I’ll tell her you said that,” Liv remarks.

  “She’ll want an award.”

  “Hey, I was watching the news, and they talked about a storm hitting the Midwest tomorrow morning,” Liv says. “They said it could become a blizzard. I’m worried about you driving to the airport.”

  “I’ll check the flight and weather status before I leave.”

  “Okay, but don’t try and get to the airport if it’s unsafe,” she says. “You can always catch a later flight. Promise me.”

  “I promise. Tell me about your day.”

  She tells me about a walk she took, the café where she ate lunch, some weeding she did in my parents’ garden, the three oranges she picked, the book she finished reading. She says everything looks good with my dad. My mother is apparently bustling around getting a spare bedroom organized for his return home.

  To anyone else, my mother’s attentiveness toward my father seems genuine and caring.

  My fingers tighten on the phone. “How do you feel, Liv?”

  “Fine, actually. Second trimester in a couple of weeks. Hard to believe.”

  “Archer hasn’t…”

  “Dean, it’s fine, I promise. I haven’t even seen him today.”

  “Well, I’ll be back tomorrow, okay?”

  “Not if it’s stormy. I want you to be safe.”

  “I will be. Just can’t wait to get back to you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Liv says. “Love you.”

  “You too.”

  I turn off the phone and go to bed, crashing into a dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Olivia

  January 29

  m glad you didn’t try and drive to the airport,” I tell Dean. “It looks like the roads are a mess. The news reports say all the emergency teams are on alert, and they’re advising people to stay home.”

  “The airline can’t reschedule my flights yet,” he says. “I’ve called twice. I’ll try again later today.”

  “Okay. Everything’s fine here.”

  After I hang up the phone, I watch a few more news reports about the “big blizzard hitting the Midwest,” then go downstairs. With Dean gone, I’m more aware of the sounds in the West house. I hear the slightest noise—footsteps on the stairs, the front door opening, the low murmur of voices. And even the silence is strange, like a thin layer of ice stretched over waters still churning with waves.

  Everything is quiet downstairs. Joanna West is sitting alone at the kitchen table. She is holding a cup of tea and looking out the front window at the driveway.

  I pause in the doorway. Joanna usually has a rigidity to her, as if she’s holding herself together tightly, but now her expression is unguarded. I wonder for a second if I should leave her alone, but she turns to look at me. A coolness veils her eyes.

  “Hello, Olivia.”

  I step into the kitchen. I’ve spent very little time in Joanna West’s company without Dean there. I’m sure Joanna still blames me for taking Dean away, or at least for being the final reason he broke from his family.

  I’m not all that fond of Joanna either, truth be told. She forced a nine-year-old Dean, her own young son, to bear the burden of a secret that was her damned fault. Then she blamed him when the truth came to light. She’s punished Dean for the last twenty-five years because he told Archer the truth.

  The only thing that keeps me from hating her is the fact that she is Dean’s mother. For all the West family’s troubles, Dean became a man of integrity and honor. Not only did he know that he and I could change our lives, he knew how to make it happen. He taught me about love, trust, passion, and forgiveness. About hope.

  Whatever Joanna West did wrong, her eldest son turned out astonishingly right.

  I put the box of chocolates I bought on the kitchen counter. “I got these for you when I was out the other day.”

  “Thank you.”

  A movement out the kitchen window catches my eye. Archer is in the driveway, tossing a basketball into the hoop hanging on the garage. If I didn’t know it was him, he’d look like any other unkempt, lanky young man out on a pleasant morning. He shoots and misses.

  “He’s always struggled,” Joanna says.

  I watch Archer shoot again. The ball bounces off the backboard.

  “Not like Dean,” she continues. “Dean was meant to be successful. Everything came so easily to him.”

  Disbelief floods me. “I don’t think Dean would agree.”

  “Oh, he’s worked hard. I know that. But I also know he has a natural facility. Both with people and complicated matters. Archer is far less self-assured.”

  Considering this family’s history, that’s hardly a wonder. I look out at Archer, experiencing an unexpected sense of kinship with him. When you spend a great deal of your life unstable, the black sheep of your family… it’s not easy to feel as if you belong anywhere. I only did after I met Dean.

  “He never knew.”

  I look at Joanna. It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about Archer’s father.

  “Oh.”

  “He left town before I found out.” She’s still staring out the window at Archer. “I later realized that was a good thing. He might very well have made things messy if he’d known. Especially during the election when Richard was running to retain his seat.”

  I don’t know what to say. It occurs to me that Archer might have no idea where his biological father is. Or even who he is.

  “I’m sure everyone is glad Archer came back for a few days,” I say.

  Joanna is looking at her son as if he were a stranger, or some exotic zoo creature separated from her by a pane of glass.

  “So I enjoyed downtown Los Gatos,” I remark, aware of the forced brightness of my voice. “I was thinking of going back today. There are some really nice art galleries there, and I love that kitchen store.”

  Joanna rises to put her mug in the sink. “Did you go to the History Museum? Dean told me you work at the one in Mirror Lake, so you might enjoy visiting ours.”

  “I haven’t been yet.”

  “Use Richard’s car, if you’d like. The keys are hanging by the front door.” Joanna glances at her watch and says she needs to leave for a charity board meeting.

  After she’s gone, I wash the dishes and mugs left in the sink and set them to dry before heading upstairs. I decide that it would be nice to spend a couple of hours at the Los Gatos History Museum. Maybe I can talk with one of the curators and exchange exhibition ideas.

  I go into the bathroom, breathing a sigh of relief when I unbutton my jeans. Definitely time to start wearing the maternity clothes.

  The instant I pull down my underwear, I freeze.

  Blood?

  No.

  I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing on the white cotton that was just between my legs. My vision fades in and out as I stare at the brown stains. It can’t possibly be…

  My heart stutters, as if it stopped and is trying to start again. Panic swells in my chest so fast, so hard, t
hat I collapse onto the toilet. I press my hands against my face and squeeze my eyes closed.

  No. No way.

  Gripping the edge of the counter, I open my eyes and stare at my underwear. The stains look rusty, dried. With an unsteady hand, I take a wad of toilet paper and swipe it between my legs. Red smears the paper.

  Oh, God.

  I yank open the bathroom cabinet and search through the rolls of toilet paper and bottles of shampoo and lotion. At the very back, there’s a half-opened box of panty liners. I rip one open and affix it to my underwear, then yank my jeans back up.

  I’m shaking so much I can barely turn the faucet on. Reminding myself to breathe, I splash water on my face. My reflection is white, shocked.

  I don’t know what to do. I can’t tell anyone. No one knows I’m pregnant.

  I find my cell phone in my bag and place a call to Dr. Nolan. The receptionist says she’ll have the doctor return my call as soon as possible.

  I press a hand to my stomach. My heart is beating too fast. I’m scared. I go into the bathroom again and, with a trembling hand, wipe another tissue between my legs.

  Red blood.

  Holy fuck.

  My phone rings. I hurry to answer it.

  “Liv? It’s Dr. Nolan.” Her voice is calm and serious. “You’re having some spotting?”

  “I… it’s blood.” Inhale. Exhale.

  “How much is there?” Dr. Nolan asks.

  “Um… a few drops.”

  “Was there any on the tissue?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bright red or brown?”

  “Um… brown on my underwear, I guess, but then bright red on the tissue and the panty liner I put on.” I sink onto the bed, cold all over.

  “Any clots?” she asks.

  Jesus. Clots?

  “No,” I manage to say.

  “Are you having any pain? Cramps?”

  “No.”

  “Are you nauseous? Any vomiting? Fever?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “When did you last have intercourse?”

  I have to think. Dean and I have fooled around a few times, but the last time we had actual intercourse was when I’d woken from a nap and found him on the bed with me. “Uh, about a week ago.”