Two

Hollis walked from Mason Hall across the campus to the faculty parking, crunching leaves under her feet as she stepped. As she did, she knew that someone was following her. She was always listening for steps that patterned hers, slowing when she slowed, quickening when she stepped up her pace. Usually the pattern broke after a few yards as the person behind her moved away. Not following her, she would realize, just walking behind her.

But this time there was no break. The steps stayed the same as hers from almost when she left the building, through the quad, and even through the shortcut she took across the library’s front lawn. Every time she turned, the steps behind her turned.

She listened carefully. It wasn’t two pairs of steps, so it was unlikely that the parents were the ones following her. Besides, they would hardly just follow; they would likely be shouting her name, flagging her down to show her photos of Jim as a baby or high school valedictorian or something else that would send their son into therapy for years.

This was one set of footsteps. And whoever they belonged to, they were beginning to move faster. They were catching up.

In just a moment she would reach the parking lot. Her car was in the second row, fourth from the right, as always. She could move quickly and be inside before the steps caught up with her. Or she could turn around and face what she knew would be trouble.

She decided to turn.

“Dr. Larsson.” It was Angela, the grad student who was working as her teaching assistant for the semester.

“Were you following me this whole time?”

“I was …” She hesitated. “I was trying to catch up.” Angela stretched out her hand, in which she held a tan envelope. “I’ve got a letter for you. It seemed too important to wait until next week. It might have something to do with the donation.”

The donation—a multimillion-dollar endowment to the university that had been made a month earlier. The fact that it was anonymous hadn’t meant much; a lot of wealthy people donated anonymously to avoid future requests for money. It was that it was so specific in its endowments—the International Studies department would be expanded; a library would be built next to Meyers Hall, which housed the English Department; and the Art School would receive desperately needed funds to remodel a crumbling building and update their technology. She and Finn would both benefit from the money, or at least their departments would, so it shouldn’t have nagged at her, but it did. Whoever the donor was had to be someone who cared enough to focus on three normally overlooked departments. Though even with that tantalizing clue, the identity of their benefactor seemed a mystery to everyone. It had become the talk of the school.

Hollis reached out for the envelope. It was a plain four-by-six envelope that felt padded on the inside, the kind that could be picked up by the pack in any store. It was thick, but the contents were bendable. Papers, perhaps. There was no return address, nothing distinguishing. Hollis’s name and address were hand-printed in block letters, the sort of thing that could have been done by anyone. But it likely meant it wasn’t junk mail, which usually came with a pre-printed label. Intriguing maybe, but not much to go on.

“Why did you think this was too important?”

Angela looked down at the sidewalk for a moment. She was smart and worked hard. She’d traveled extensively, something to do with her father’s line of work, and she had a passion for international relations. Her ambition was to work in diplomacy, but she had one small problem: she was painfully shy. After only a few weeks of working together, Hollis had already learned to be patient. If she asked a question and waited, she’d get an answer. If she tried to force an answer, Angela would retreat. She felt a special responsibility to help this talented young woman reach her potential, but if she were being honest, Hollis also struggled with an urge to shake information from her. Especially when she was tired and anxious to get home.

Nevertheless, she stood waiting, hoping that Angela would explain.

“It was hand-delivered to the front desk by a guy I know,” Angela said. “I brought it to your office, but you had left.”

“What guy?”

“His name is Tommy. He’s getting his master’s in history. I’ve almost got him convinced to switch to international studies. I think he would really like taking a class from you.”

That was the most she’d spoken since Hollis had interviewed her for the position.

“He delivered it, but it isn’t from him?”

“No. He said he was paid twenty bucks to bring it to you.”

Hollis looked down at the envelope again. No stamp. That was a pretty significant detail to miss, she scolded herself. “Did he say who paid him twenty bucks?”

Angela shook her head. “Should I have asked?”

“No. Not important. But text me his contact info, just in case.” Hollis stuffed the envelope in her purse.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Eventually. Thanks for bringing this to me.”

“If I can help …”

“You already have. Enjoy the weekend, Angela.” Hollis turned and walked the rest of the way to her car. As she slid into the driver’s seat, she saw that Angela was still standing where she’d left her, watching.