Oxford, England

1

Hadrian Prior studied the man sitting behind the two-way mirror of the Thames Valley Police Station.  With his white hair and beard, Rodney Martin looked like Santa’s younger brother, not a killer of three adulterous couples in the Oxford area.  Hadrian picked up his notebook, and paged through to find the passage where he’d first put himself in Rodney’s head. 

Rage fills me up, oozing out of every poor as I cut through connective tissue.  I look down at his lifeless eyes and feel a pang of regret.  This poor sod was just her tool.  For that she’ll pay.  Three taps on the door.  I shiver in anticipation.  She’s here. 

“If you’re to have any chance of making your flight we need to get started.”  Detective Chief Inspector John Skinner, Hadrian's closest friend, handed him an earpiece. 

Missing his flight to self imposed purgatory sounded like a brilliant plan.  Still Hadrian nodded and put his earpiece in. 

“Don’t worry, mate,” John said.  “We’ll get this guy.”

“I'm not worried.”  His statement wasn't bravado.  The first two couple murders were flawless, but by number three Rodney had started disintegrating.  A witness had caught a glimpse of Rodney at the last scene and a review of closed circuit camera footage confirmed Rodney was in the area at the time of the murders.  A confession would tie things up nicely. 

Hadrian crawled back into Rodney’s head.  I show mercy to the men.  The women have earned every moment of pain I bring them.  Rodney had killed the men quickly, mutilating them post-mortem.  He’d slaked his rage on the women.  “John, I’d suggest probing Rodney for any guilt about his male victims.” 

Hadrian turned to the other occupant of the room.  Detective Inspector Kathy Marsh reported to John, but today she was playing the role of John’s supervisor.  “Once John’s softened Rodney up, you’ll go in and assume control of the interview.  Having a woman order him about should incite the rage simmering beneath Rodney's placid exterior.”  Rage blocked reason.  If they got Rodney angry enough, he would make a mistake.

The roots of Rodney’s anger towards women were obvious – losing his job and his marriage in a one-two punch.  First Rodney’s female manager fired him and then his wife left him for another man.  Unfortunately when Rodney’s rage built to an intolerable pressure, he’d chosen a most inappropriate coping mechanism. 

“I’m ready to channel my inner bitch,” Kathy grinned. 

John laughed.  “As if that’s difficult.”

“Hey,” Kathy punched John’s arm.  “Enough of that.” 

“I’m off.”  John picked up two cups of tea from the table and breezed into the interview room.  “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Martin.  Tea?” 

“Cheers.”  Rodney took one of the cups.  “Why am I here?” 

“You’ve heard about the series of couples murdered in motels in the Thames Valley area, right?  Front page of the papers nearly every day.”

“Might have seen something on the telly.  Don’t read the papers.”  His shoulders hunched like a cornered animal. 

“We are talking to everyone who showed up in camera footage near the last murder scene.  Strictly routine.”

Rodney’s shoulders lowered.  “How can I help?”

“Bollocks.  I forgot to read you the caution.”  John sighed and picked up a card from the table.  “You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention now anything you later rely on in court.  Anything you do say will be given in evidence.”  John dropped the card and raised his eyes to the ceiling.  “You understand, right?”

“Sure,” Rodney nodded. 

“Glad that’s done.  Now Mr. Martin, last Tuesday you were seen near the Idlewild Motel.  Any chance you noticed anyone unusual?”  John flipped open his notepad.

“No.  Sorry.” Rodney blinked rapidly as he took a sip of tea.

Time to start rattling Rodney.  Hadrian leaned into the microphone, speaking into John’s earpiece.  “Mention the castrations.”  They’d withheld the mutilations from the vultures in the media. 

“The murder scenes were gruesome.”  John lowered his voice.  “The killer cut off the balls of all the male victims.” 

“I heard something about that.”  Rodney blinked several times in succession and then looked down at the floor, breaking eye contact. 

No, you didn’t.  You were there, Rodney.  “We’ve hit a pressure point, John.  Keep pushing.”

John shook his head slowly.  “What kind of a man cuts off another man’s balls?” 

Rodney blinked in a quick trio. 

His tell.  

“Right, John,” Hadrian said.  “If you imply the attacker was impotent, perhaps Rodney will justify his actions.” 

“You ask me, I think our guy has trouble satisfying a woman.  He tortures the blokes because he’s jealous of men who can get the job done,” John said. 

Rodney sat up straighter in his chair.  “Maybe you’ve got it wrong.”

“How so?” John sounded skeptical.

Rodney’s eyelids flickered again – blink, blink, blink.  “The papers said the men had their throats cut.”  

So he did follow the papers.  Hadrian smiled at Rodney's first admission, the first crack in the wall. 

John shrugged.  “Yeah.”

“Maybe this guy waited until after he cut their throats.  It’s not torture if they were already dead.”

“Brilliant,” Hadrian whispered.  Rodney suggesting the castration occurred after death was significant.  “John, tell him Kathy is keeping you in the dark and then I’ll send her in.”

John grimaced.  “Wouldn't know about that, haven't even seen the autopsy report.  The inspector in charge tells us blokes nothing.  Thinks she's better than us.”

“Sounds like a right bitch.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Nicely played, John.”  Hadrian turned to Kathy.  “You’re up.  Assert yourself over both John and Rodney early on.”

“No problem there.” 

Ten seconds later, Kathy opened the interview room door, slamming it behind her. 

Rodney jumped in his chair.

She threw a file onto the table.  “What are you playing at, Skinner?  I told you I was conducting this interview.”

“Sorry, ma’am.”  John sounded appropriately cowed. 

“Sorry doesn’t cut it.”  Kathy sat down and stared at the suspect.  “Do you know why you are here, Mr. Martin?”

“I was near a motel where one of those couple murders occurred.  Told John here I didn’t see anyone or anything unusual.  So we’re done, right?”  He started to rise from his chair.

“Kathy, use his first name,” Hadrian said.  “Flaunt your authority over him.”

“Sit down, Rodney,” Kathy snapped, pointed a finger at his chest.  “I decide when you can leave.”

Rodney eased back into the chair, his mouth twisted in resentment. 

“Good, Kathy.  Now confront him about the witness.”

“Unfortunately for you Rodney, a maid at the Idlewild saw a man fitting your description leaving the room where the bodies were found.”

The maid had only seen the back of a white-haired man.  But Rodney didn’t know that.

Rodney blinked three times in rapid succession, his eyes flitting from side to side.  A few beads of sweat decorated his brow.  “You’ve got the wrong guy.” 

“Mock him, Kathy.  He’s incompetent, he’s weak,” Hadrian said.   

“Quite stupid, Rodney, letting someone see you like that,” Kathy gloated.

“It wasn’t me,” Rodney said. 

“You’re a lousy liar, Rodney.”  Kathy pulled out several photos from the file.  “Let’s talk about the women.  Stabbing them again and again made you feel powerful, yes.  Sad it takes that much blood to get you hard, Rodney.” 

Blink.  Blink.  Blink.  Rodney shook his head.  “I don’t know what you're going on about.”  His words came faster. 

“Make him feel small, impotent in every way,” Hadrian said.  They needed Rodney angrier before he would break. 

“Sure you do, Rodney.  Bet you can’t even get it up unless you’ve got a woman tied down, bleeding and helpless.”  Kathy’s tone was dismissive.

Rodney bared his teeth.  “I can get it up just fine.” 

“Bait him, Kathy.  He’s close to losing control.” Hadrian said.  He'd scripted her for precisely this moment. 

“One question Rodney, who took your balls?”

Tendons stood out on Rodney’s neck.  “No one took my balls,” he shouted. 

Rodney's rage was building to critical mass. “Keep maligning his manhood, Kathy.  Start with the wife and then link to the boss,” Hadrian said. 

Kathy leaned forward.  “Come on, Rodney.  Did your wife leave because she got bored with your three minute poke?  Or can’t you even manage that anymore?  Is that why she went looking for a little action on the side?”

“Shut it, you slag.”  Rodney spit the words at Kathy. 

They were close.  Hadrian leaned forward, waiting for the final blow. 

Kathy crossed her arms and smiled.  “Or had your wife finally tired of being tied to an aging, unemployed loser?”

“I retired.”  Rodney's face flushed beet-red. 

Hadrian could almost taste Rodney’s rage.  “Quote the boss.  Make it hurt.”

“Retired?” Kathy laughed.  “I don't think so, Rodney.  Your former boss, lovely woman, was very forthcoming.”  Kathy pulled a page from the file and ran her finger down the lines of text.  “Here it is.  She said you were ‘a worthless excuse for a man, just taking up space.’”

“That bitch.  I’ll get her, just like I got them.”  Rodney lunged across the table, fastening his hands around Kathy’s neck. 

John pulled Rodney off her as several constables rushed into the room.  The officers pinned Rodney to the floor, carrying him off as Hadrian ran into the room.  Rodney’s howls rang in his ears. 

“Nicely done, Kathy.”  Hadrian hunched down to examine her neck.  She’d escaped with superficial bruising.  “You’d make a good actress.”

“Only if you’re the playwright.”  Her voice sounded slightly raspy.

“Hardly.”  It was easiest to break the ones fueled by rage.  “Rest your voice.”

“Like that will happen,” John said, as he crouched down next to Kathy.  He looked down at his watch and swore.  “I’m having an officer drive you to Heathrow with the lights flashing.  If you’re lucky, you’ll make your flight.” 

“Welcome to British Airways Flight 869, non-stop service to Detroit, Michigan.  Our flight time will be eight hours and fourteen minutes.”

Hadrian’s chest tightened despite the two glasses of Scotch he’d downed.  He craned his neck.  The plane's door was still open displaying the connected jetway. 

It wasn’t too late to flee. 

He shook his head once.  He’d committed to helping Ryan Mackey achieve his lifelong dream of teaching at Oxford.  Ryan had helped Hadrian when he was a newly minted psychologist and now it was his turn to repay the favor.  Swapping teaching positions for a semester might be tedious, but not life threatening.  Assuming he survived the flight and made it to Ann Arbor. 

A flight attendant shut the door, closing off any hope of escape.  The engines rumbled to life.  The mechanical growl had to have been one of the last sounds his parents heard before their small plane ditched into the Channel all those years ago.  On that cheerful thought, the cabin shook as the plane's wheels lifted off the pavement.  Hadrian gripped the leather armrests tightly as the plane ascended into thin air. 

Running was no longer an option.  He pried one hand off his armrest and pressed the call button. 

The taller of the two flight attendants assigned to First Class made her way down the aisle.  “May I help you, Dr. Prior?”

“Another Scotch, please.” For the five thousand pounds the airline charged to travel in First Class, they should offer to deliver Scotch intravenously.

She narrowed her eyes but complied. 

New drink in hand, he contemplated his destination.  What little he knew about the town encompassing the University of Michigan came from Ryan.  Ann Arbor was smaller than Oxford and reputed to be quite safe.  Hadrian drained his glass dry.  With no criminals to hunt, he would have to take up a hobby or find himself bored out of his mind. 

Ann Arbor, Michigan

2

“The library will close in thirty minutes.”

Amy Mason mouthed the words in time to the announcement, one of the many predictable elements of working at the Graduate Library.  Predictable was a plus. 

The back of her ponytail was tugged sharply down.

“Stop that,” she said, snapping her head around to see her antagonist. 

Josh grinned and raised his arms in the touchdown position.  “Gotcha.”

She rolled her eyes, unable to understand why the guys she worked with found the occasional game of ponytail tug so amusing.  “What are you, five?”  

“Five was a great year for me,” Josh said.  “If you're taking off, I'll walk you out.” 

Amy pointed over at the carts piled high with books to be re-shelved.  “Not yet.  I have two more carts to unload.”

“I could stick around and help.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I could use a little overtime.”  Tuition at the University of Michigan wasn’t cheap, every extra dollar helped. 

“See you tomorrow then.”

Waving him off, she pushed the first cart down the aisle.  Working at the Graduate Library was usually great – good pay and lots of down time to study.  Except tonight every student on campus had decided to return books.  The majority of her current cart contained books on medieval history, allowing her to shelve the books quickly. 

She stretched her arms over her head and yawned.  Good thing she only had one cart left.  She took a quick inventory of her last cart and groaned.  The cart contained books on at least twelve different subjects.  She was going to be here for awhile. 

“The library will close in five minutes.”  Amy nodded along to the announcement. 

The wheels on her last cart squeaked as she moved further down the shelves.  As she stood on tiptoes to place a book onto a high shelf, a vent blew cold air onto her.  She rubbed her arms, warming her chilled flesh. 

“The library is now closed.”

Her floor was quiet.  Dead quiet. 

Maybe she should have taken Josh up on his offer to stick around. 

Deciding the time she spent pushing her heavy cart from one aisle to the other counted as her workout for the day cheered her up.  Finally she slid the last book into place.  She got lucky; the door to the back stairs was only ten feet away.  She passed through the unmanned security scanner, designed to set off an alarm if a student attempted to sneak out a book, and turned the metal handle.  The door opened, presenting a view of the empty stairwell – light grey walls, dark grey concrete steps. 

Amy paused.  The back of her neck prickled. 

Stop being silly.  She’d used this staircase a million times.  A few flights of stairs and she'd be halfway home. 

She stepped into the stairwell.  The door banged shut, the sound echoing off the walls.  She jolted and then laughed at herself. 

“No more late-night horror movies on cable.”

Halfway down to the third floor, the light on the second floor landing flickered and then went out.  A particularly gruesome image from a zombie movie her roommate insisted on watching last week popped into Amy's head. 

“Forget it.  I'm taking the long way home,” she muttered as she climbed back up to the fourth floor.

Amy jostled the door handle.  The metal handle refused to budge. 

“C'mon.”  Leaning against the door, she pushed down on the handle.  Nothing happened. 

She took a deep breath.  Of course the door wouldn't open.  The doors leading to the back stairs only opened one way, into the stairwell, because of some fire regulation.  After a year working at the library, she should have remembered that useful fact. 

With nowhere to go but down, she might as well get it over with. 

Amy jogged back down the stairs, reaching the third floor landing.  She kept going, picking up speed, her steps echoing in the empty stairwell.  When she reached the next, now dark, landing, she was breathing hard. 

A gloved hand clamped firmly over her mouth.  Another hand grabbed onto her ponytail, holding her in place. 

Her eyes opened painfully wide.  She tried to draw in a breath around the glove, so she could yell for help. 

“Don’t scream,” a male voice said behind her.  He released his grip on her hair. 

Something glinted in the dim light. 

Oh God.  He had a knife. 

Cool metal pressed against her throat. 

Terror paralyzed her.  She whimpered at the sting of the blade. 

“Stay quiet and I won’t hurt you.”  He moved his gloved hand from her mouth.

She managed to suck in a breath of air before he slapped a strip of duct tape across her lips.  Sweat beaded up on her brow.  Every cell in her body screamed at her to run.  She forced herself to stay still while she silently prayed.  Please God, I want to live.  Please don’t let him hurt me. 

“You've been very good.”  He moved the knife away from her skin. 

She felt a hard tug on her hair as he yanked her ponytail again, forcing her head back, exposing her throat. 

The air behind her moved. 

And the blade connected.

3

“He held the knife against my throat.”  Amy Mason touched the place where a small cut had started to scab up. 

Detective Roger Simpson was happy to let his partner, Claire Burke, take the lead on this interview.  Nineteen year old Amy reminded Roger too much of his youngest sister for comfort.  Today’s featured nut job had grabbed five foot Amy in the stairwell of the Graduate Library and then hacked off her hair. 

“He told me he'd hurt me unless I stayed quiet and then he taped my mouth.  I thought he was going to kill me.”  Tears leaked out of Amy's eyes.

Claire nudged a tissue box close to Amy.  His partner was particularly good at interviewing students.  Claire's open smile and unlined face made her look harmless, like a college student herself.  Appearances were deceiving.  Claire held the highest score on the firing range two years running. 

“I'm sorry you had to go such a traumatic experience.”  Claire paused to let Amy blot her tears.  “Can you tell us what happened next?”

“He cut off my hair, pushed me down the stairs, and ran off.”  Amy tugged on the ragged ends of what remained of her blonde hair. 

Roger looked down at his notes.  “You mentioned your attacker wore a ski mask and leather gloves.  Do you remember anything else about his clothing?”

“He wore a long sleeved t-shirt and jeans.  I think the t-shirt was black.”

Roger suppressed a grimace.  That description could fit thousands of men in Ann Arbor:  students, teachers, and locals.  “Did you see any writing on the shirt?” 

“I don't think so, but it was dark.”  Amy stiffened in her chair.  “The light on that landing went out as I was starting down the stairs.”

Claire glanced over at him and nodded.  Roger knew what his partner was thinking.  They needed to get someone to check the light fixture for prints.  Maybe this asshole had gotten sloppy.

“Amy, have you had any problems with men?”  Claire asked. 

“Problems?”  Amy looked confused.

“Do you have any angry ex-boyfriends?   Have you turned a guy down for a date recently?” 

Amy shook her head.  “I'm still with my high school boyfriend.  He's a student at Hope College.”

“What about work, any problems with your co-workers?” Roger asked.

“A couple of guys I work with tug my ponytail when I’m not looking.”  Amy's eyes widened.  “They wouldn’t hurt me.  We’re friends.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Amy.”  Claire’s reassuring tone seemed to soothe her. 

Roger pushed a piece of paper and a pen across the table to her.  “Write down their names for us so we can clear them.”

Amy scribbled three names on the paper.  “It wasn't someone I work with.  I would have recognized their voice.” 

Probably true, Roger thought as he folded the paper and put it in his pocket.  “Anything else you remember, Amy?”

“No.”  She sniffled.  “I’m sorry.” 

“You have nothing to be sorry about, Amy.  You've been very helpful,” Claire said.  “Don't worry, we'll catch this guy.  I'll have a squad car take you home.  Try and get some rest.” 

Roger stood up, holding the door open.  While Claire escorted Amy to her ride, he reviewed his notes.  Most assaults, the attacker knew his victim.  In this case Roger wasn't so sure.  The attacker didn't use Amy's name.  Didn’t accuse her, didn’t insult her.  He took her hair and got the hell out. 

Roger called in a request for any related case files and then walked over to the coffee station.  He filled his cup with high octane and Claire’s with decaf and then doctored the contents of both cups heavily.  When Claire turned the corner, he handed her a cup.  “Two sugars and fake cream.”

“Thanks, partner.”  She took a sip.  “This is close to drinkable.”  A crease appeared between her brows.  “Our perp, he’s a trophy taker.  That’s not good.”

“Damn straight.”  Trophy takers were rarely satisfied with one prize.  Roger gulped down half the contents of his cup, wishing he’d added another sugar to his still bitter brew.  “I’ve had files pulled for all prior assaults in a thirty mile radius in the last two years.  Maybe Amy Mason wasn’t his first.” He had a bad feeling she wouldn't be the last.  Burnt coffee churned in his gut. 

Claire nodded, and her dark curls bounced.  “On the bright side, Campus Security confirmed an alert has been issued and they’ve increased patrols.”

Trust Claire to find the tiny pony in this pile of shit.  Ignoring his complaining stomach, Roger slugged down the rest of the coffee.  “Let's go find us an asshole with a hair fetish.” 

4

A woman had taken everything from him.  A woman had stolen his strength and vitality.  Women should be the vessel for its return.  He’d embarked on a journey to reclaim his destiny, following the one man in history who possessed unparalleled strength in mind and body – Hercules. 

Hercules had been called Heracles by the Ancient Greeks.  He preferred the name chosen by Ancient Rome.  Hercules completed twelve nearly impossible tasks, known as the Labors of Hercules, to prove his merit and earn his place among the gods.  He would do the same.

Once he’d completed his Labors, he’d have reclaimed his strength and earned his reward – a place by his soulmate’s side. 

His hand tenderly stroked the silken hair laid across his lap, hair almost as beautiful as his true love’s. 

For his first Labor, Hercules had slain the Nemean Lion, taking the lion’s golden mane as a prize.  He ran his fingers through the ash-blonde strands.  Like Hercules, he’d taken a mane as well.

“Some lion killer you are.  All you did was cut off some hair.”  The witch’s voice hissed through his head.

“Shut up.” 

He wouldn’t let the witch divert him from his quest.  Technically he hadn’t slain his lion, but that made him superior to Hercules.  He’d claimed his trophy without taking a life.  His quarry could remain alive – as long as they followed his commands. 

Which Labor should he undertake next?   Creating a rendition of the Labors in order felt obvious.  Picking up the relevant text, he flipped back and forth between the pages, reviewing his options. 

Capturing Cerberus, the hellhound that guarded the land of the dead, had potential.  He licked his bottom lip, considering the possibilities.  Finally he shook his head.

“Not yet.”  He’d save the final Labor of Hercules for a special occasion.

With so many options to choose from, it was difficult to decide.  He'd let the gods guide his path.  After a few moments of deliberation, he pulled out a coin and assigned one Labor to each side.  He flipped the coin in the air and watched the metal disk's trajectory until the coin clinked against his wood floor.

“Heads.  So be it.”  The gods had spoken. 

The capture of the Golden Stag of Artemis, the Cerynian Hind, would be his second Labor.  Hercules had triumphed over the deer with golden antlers that ran faster than arrows could fly.  The favored stag of Artemis, the Goddess of the Hunt, had lived in the forests of Arcady. 

“Forests.”  He knew instantly where to hunt his golden-haired, fleet-footed quarry. 

A current of energy snaked through his brain to his heart, ending at his rock-hard cock.  He reached down and began stroking himself. 

5

Sarah Roth walked along the deserted beach, her footprints the only marks on the pristine white sand.  Reaching the edge of the lake, she slipped off her flip flops.  Soft sand cushioned her feet.  She turned to face the barely rippling water and inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with humid air.  Stepping closer, she allowed the edge of the water to nip at her toes and then swirl around her ankles. 

A cool wind blew toward shore.  She shivered and stepped further into the water.  Dunking herself, she began to swim.  As she stroked her arms through the modest waves, the water grew warmer.  Closing her eyes, she flipped over and floated on her back, letting the lake support her.  Gentle swells bobbed her along.  As she relaxed, her breathing slowed and deepened.  The air smelled like damp earth mingled with a hint of copper. 

Without warning a large breaker tipped her onto her side.  Sarah opened her eyes and swam.  The water was crimson now, but she wasn’t afraid.  The scarlet lake’s warm embrace felt like home. 

  Lightning slashed across the darkening sky. 

“Grace.”  The wind howled the word at her.

An invisible current snaked around her legs, pulling her beneath the surface.  Her lungs burned, begging for air.  She opened her mouth for one final scream. 

Sarah gasped and bolted upright in bed, sucking in a lungful of air.  She was in her house, not under the lake's surface.  Once she caught her breath, she pulled out a spiral-bound calendar from her nightstand drawer and made a notation for last night's nightmare.  Flipping back through the pages she found her last note in July.  Fifty days without a nightmare was nearly a record, but today marked the start of a new semester.  New office, new classes, new students were all good things – except when the emotional excitement resurrected her night demons.  She should have anticipated this and taken an extra dose of sleeping pills last night. 

Her home, her place of refuge, didn't feel so safe right now.  Side effects of her bloody dreams included edginess and guilt.  Needles of nervous energy pricked her skin.  She threw on a t-shirt and shorts.  A hard run would sweat off the shadow of the nightmare. 

The Huron River trail seemed nearly deserted.  She'd missed the early rush of hard core runners.  After a minute of half-hearted stretching, she started running down the path, the familiar pull and tug of her muscles grounding her.  Sunlight glinted off the water as a group of ducks quacked in greeting.  A couple came into view from around the curve, pushing a blue running stroller.  As Sarah closed the distance between them, she saw the tow-headed toddler belted into the stroller.  His squeals of delight filled the air.  A lump lodged in Sarah's throat. 

“Good morning,” the couple said in unison.

“Morning,” she said, swallowing hard. 

“Hi,” the little boy joined in, his chubby hand waving.

Sarah missed a step, nearly tripping over her own feet.  “Hi to you too.”

The boy’s happy squeals echoed in her mind long after the family was gone from view.  Did they know how lucky they were to have each other?  Want shot through her. 

You know better. 

The classics were littered with the corpses of those who chased after what they couldn’t have, their transgressions punished by death. 

She wasn't up for dwelling on death this morning.  Increasing her speed made her mind go quiet.  Halfway through her run, her legs started trembling; payback for skipping a real warm up.  Legs, please don't fail me now.  She slowed her pace, hoping to avoid the dreaded cramps.  Finally the last curve of the trail came into view.  She rounded the curve and leaned against a tree for support as she began stretching out her tight calves. 

The family she’d seen earlier had stopped to watch the ducks waddling along the bank of the river.  A cacophony of quacks erupted as the little boy toddled toward the ducks with bread crusts clutched in each hand.  Halfway to his quacking quarry, the boy fell forward onto the ground, letting loose a loud cry.  The boy’s mother scooped him into her arms and kissed his tears away as the father reached his arms around his wife and son. 

A fresh wave of want washed over Sarah. 

Stop the self pity. 

Turning her back on the family, Sarah began the journey home.  Her house might be empty, but she had Karen and Stavros, good friends that cared about her.  She had her students, who shared her love of learning. 

That should be enough for anyone.  That was more than enough for her. 

As Sarah climbed the front steps of Angell Hall on the way to her new office her calves tingled, reminding her not to skimp on the pre-run stretch again. 

“Hey Professor Roth,” Camille Stevens and Seth Aronsky, two of her favorite students, waved as they passed on the steep stairs. 

The lobby of Angell Hall buzzed with the energy of the first day of the semester.  Sarah shifted the bags on her shoulders as she headed for the elevator.  The tingling in her calves increased to twinges of pain.  Today she'd skip the last two flights of stairs.

“Hi Professor.” Michael Lancaster, another of her students, touched her arm briefly as they passed each other in mass of people milling inside the neoclassical building. 

Sarah reached the elevator and suppressed a groan.  A white sign covered the elevator's call button:  Out of Order. 

So far today had not been her day.  She doubled back to the stairwell and started up the next flight of stairs to her new office.  When she’d started teaching, there hadn’t been space for her with the rest of the Classics faculty in Angell Hall, but last week Facilities Management sent a notice with her new office number and a key. 

She passed the second floor, where her best friend Karen had an office, and kept climbing to the third and final floor.  The twinges of pain escalated to sharp spikes jabbing her lower legs.  She exhaled in gratitude when she reached the top step. 

According to Facilities Management, her new office was the second one on the right.  Leaning against the doorframe, she rummaged through her bag for the envelope containing the key.  The door swung open from the inside and she came face to face with a very angry colleague. 

“You!”  Paul Timmons, another associate professor in the department, glared at her.  “Of course, you’re the one kicking me out of my office.” 

Behind him she could see empty bookshelves and a pristine, paperless desk.  No boxes in sight.  Paul had already cleared out his office and then waited around to confront the next occupant.  Lucky her.  She swallowed a sigh.  Paul was model handsome with a degree from Harvard.  He was also arrogant and combative.  “Paul, I’m sorry.  I had no idea I’d been assigned your office.” 

“Liar.”  Paul's face flushed with anger.  “First you stole my students and now you’re taking my office.” 

It wasn’t her fault Paul’s teaching ratings had started low and gotten worse, but she couldn’t help feeling sorry for him.  If she believed someone threatened her position, she'd be traumatized.  Teaching was everything to her.  She held out the envelope containing her office key.  “Take the key.  I'll tell Facilities Management about their mistake.”  There was no reason she had to have an office in Angell Hall.  She’d move back into her old office. 

He batted the open envelope out of her hands.  The metal key clanged against the floor.  “The key means nothing.”  His voice rose up an octave.  “My classes are cancelled.  I don't have enough students, because you stole them all.”  Paul took a step forward, looming over her. 

Her heart skipped a beat.  “Paul, I did not steal your students.”  She kept her voice low, soothing.

He jabbed a finger at her chest.  “Thanks to you, I have to go teach on the Flint campus.  Flint.”  His eyes narrowed.  “Watch your back.” Paul pushed past her and thumped down the stairs. 

She blew out a breath.  Super.  She'd made her first enemy in the department.

When she bent down to retrieve her key, she grabbed the single piece of paper off the floor – a memo from Campus Security.  She glanced at the header and then froze. 

“Campus Alert:  Student Attacked in Graduate Library Stairwell.”

Her stomach flip-flopped.  Of all the places on campus, the library should be safe.  She scanned the rest of the memo.  Details were limited to the sex of the victim and the time and place of the violent event.  Sarah wished the girl a full recovery as she slid the memo into the recycling bin. 

Her bags weren’t going to unpack themselves.  She looked around the office, considering her new space.  The Oxford Classical Dictionary and a few other frequently used reference books went on the credenza behind her desk.  The rest of the books she stacked on the bookshelves.  Her second bag was full of file folders, which she piled on her desk to be filed away later.  The last item in her bag was wrapped in newspaper.  Sarah carefully peeled the pages away, revealing a silver frame holding a ten year old photo.  She stared down at her mother's image.  Her mother stared back from behind the glass, her mouth pinched in the tight smile Sarah knew so well.

Had her mother ever been content?   Had Sarah ever made her happy? 

“Tell no one.”  Her mother’s mouth moved.  “Tell and you’ll be locked away.”

Sarah's hand opened and the frame fell to the floor.