Chapter 5

The following day, everyone was stunned to see Cynthia walk into the classroom with a thermal flask. It was brand new. The lid was only half screwed on, and steam curled through the gap.

She set it down on the corner of the lectern, opened a presentation, and tapped the laser pointer on the first chart. "Group Three's regression analysis. Who's going first?"

The group meeting went on as usual. It was fast-paced, and every comment Cynthia gave was so exacting it made chills run down their spines.

Emily got called out twice. The first time was because she'd labeled the y-axis with the wrong unit. The second was because she'd missed a reference in her citations.

She hunched over to fix the labels, barely daring to breathe, but her gaze kept drifting back to the flask on Cynthia's desk. The steam was a pale white, rising in thin wisps, carrying a faint milky smell. It definitely wasn't an iced black coffee.

Emily sniffed. It was warm milk.

She tilted her head toward Lauren, who was also staring at the flask. The two of them locked eyes across three seats.

Lauren gave the slightest shake of her head. Her lips moved, but she didn't make a sound. Her expression, translated, was basically, "Don't ask. You ask, you die."

Emily ducked her head again and continued fixing her labels. Her mind had already flown off, though.

Lauren had told her that Cynthia used to drink warm milk every day, bringing her own thermal flask from home. Only in the last year or two had she switched to iced black coffees, and no one knew why.

Now, the warm milk was back. Right after yesterday's pork and parsnip soup without the garlic.

Emily chewed on the end of her pen, her head full of questions—not that she dared ask a single one.

…

Ian sat at his workstation after lunch. In the open-plan office, his coworkers were chatting, scrolling on their phones, and snacking. Meanwhile, he had his headphones on, but his screen wasn't showing the CAD program.

It showed a browser instead. He typed "Brooksdale University" into the search bar. The cursor blinked for three seconds. Then, he added "youngest graduate advisor" and hit enter.

The first result was Cynthia's academic profile. The photo was a headshot of her in her graduation robes. Her hair was down, and she wasn't smiling.

Ian scrolled down. She'd published 12 papers in top journals and had obtained two major regional research grants. She'd been promoted to graduate advisory at 26 years old, way ahead of schedule.

Her advisor's review read, "The most promising young academician of the last decade."

Ian's right hand rested on the mouse, completely still.

Cynthia had already published 12 papers in major journals. Back in his senior year, she'd just gotten her first one accepted. She'd revised that paper over 40 times in their tiny rental, only sending out the final version at 2:00 am. She'd slumped against his shoulder and mumbled, "Ian, I'm exhausted, but I'm so happy."

In just three years, she'd gone so far on her own.

Ian closed the page and switched back to his CAD drawings. The floor plan for an old factory renovation filled the screen. From the entrance to the exhibition hall to the atrium, a curved corridor connected the three functional zones.

He went back to drafting. His hand was steady, and the lines were crisp and clean. His headphones were on, but there was no music playing. He just wanted to keep all the noise at bay.

At 2:30 pm, footsteps sounded behind Ian. He didn't turn around, assuming it was a coworker from the neighboring desk going to get water.

The footsteps stopped right behind his chair and stayed there for a long time. He took off his headphones and turned.

One of his superiors, Greg Lloyd, stood there. He was in his 50s, balding, and wore a polo shirt tucked into dress pants. He held a mug, the inside stained with years of tea.

He bent closer to the monitor, tapping his finger on the curved corridor. "Who taught you how to handle the circulation like this?"

"I came up with it myself," Ian answered.

Greg straightened. The way he looked at Ian in that moment wasn't the way one looked at just another employee.

"Hmm." He walked a few steps away, then stopped again. Without turning around, he said, "Come by my office when you have a minute."

Ian watched him disappear around the corner of the hallway, not thinking much of it. He put his headphones back on.

His coworker at the next desk, John Oldman, leaned over and lowered his voice. "Ian, did Greg tell you to go to his office?"

"Yeah."

"You know where the last person he said that to is now?"

Ian glanced over.

"In Arborton. He's making six figures and is the lead architect on a landmark project."

Ian didn't expect to hear that.

John pushed his glasses up and gave Ian's shoulder a meaningful slap. He said nothing more.

…

At 8:00 pm, the key turned in the lock.

Emily burst into the entryway and kicked her shoes off in a messy pile. Then she stuck her head into the kitchen and took a big whiff.

No garlic.

The tension visibly dropped out of her body; her shoulders sank a good inch. She asked, "Ian, what'd you make tonight?"

"Sweet BBQ glazed ribs and a tomato and cheese omelet."

"They're normal, right? No garlic?"

Ian flipped the ribs in the pan with his spatula. "Are you eating or not? If not, get out of my kitchen."

"Alright, alright. Your cooking's the best."

Emily grabbed a glass of water and leaned against the kitchen doorway, launching into her usual daily report. "I've got big news."

Ian didn't answer.

"Professor Lynch drank warm milk today."

The spatula paused for a split second, then kept moving.

"She brought her own thermal flask. The whole lab saw it." Emily sipped her water. "My jaw almost hit the floor. I nearly asked her about it, but Lauren shot me a death glare to shut me up.

"You have no idea how surreal it was, seeing the devil incarnate calmly sipping warm milk out of a flask. She didn't smile or anything, but her whole vibe was just softer somehow."

Ian slid the ribs onto a plate, still not turning around.

"There was something even crazier." Emily's words slowed down. "At lunch, I was eating the lunch you packed for me. You know, the tomato omelet and broccoli. Professor Lynch walked past with her own lunchbox and suddenly stopped."

Ian didn't falter as he wiped down the stovetop.

"She looked down at my food. From that angle, I honestly thought she was about to grade my lunch. I was totally frozen. I didn't even dare move my cutlery. Then, she asked if I made it myself. I told her you did."

Ian's hand stopped mid-wipe.

"She didn't say anything after that. Just walked away with her lunchbox." Emily hesitated, the rim of the glass resting against her lip. "She glanced back as she was walking away, though."

Only the hum of the range hood filled the kitchen.

"When she turned around, she wasn't looking at my lunch." Emily's voice wavered a little. "She was looking at me."

Ian turned around. It was the first time all day Emily had seen him face her instead of talking over his shoulder with his back turned to her. His expression hadn't changed much, but there was something in his eyes she couldn't quite name.

"It was a really weird look." She set her glass down and gestured with both hands, searching for the right words. "How do I put it? It was like…"

She thought for a couple of seconds. "It was like she was looking straight through me at someone else."

The kitchen fell silent. The burner was off, but the range hood still roared. Steam fogged up half the cabinet glass.

Ian stood before the stove, motionless, a rag clenched in his hand.

Emily didn't notice anything off. She was already heading for the living room, water glass in hand. Her indoor slippers slapped against the floor as she went, still chattering.

"Honestly, what's up with Professor Lynch? She didn't bite anyone's head off today, and she was spaced out all afternoon. She even missed it when Brandon's entire slide template was wrong. She used to nail us over punctuation, you know? She wouldn't let a single misused comma slide…"

Her voice trailed off into the distance. The TV clicked on in the living room, and waves of canned laughter from a variety show drifted back to the kitchen.

Ian didn't move. He clenched the rag so hard that he squeezed water out of it.

Cynthia had been looking through Emily at someone else. She'd been looking for him. The lie about him using garlic in his cooking hadn't fooled her.

The soup with no garlic, no onions, parsnips chopped into wedges of the perfect size, pork cooked to just the right tenderness, and the handful of wolfberries tossed in at the end… All those details pointed to only one person.

And that ridiculous mountain of garlic Emily had picked out of her lunch was the most ironic evidence of all. Why would a person who always cooked with garlic feel the need to suddenly go overboard proving it?

Cynthia was doing what she did best—gathering data, ruling out variables, and zeroing in on an answer. An academician didn't fear being wrong. They feared silence and a lack of response.

Ian had answered.

He tossed the rag into the sink, turned on the faucet, and rinsed his hands. Cold water streamed through his fingers. He stared at it for a long time.

Just then, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He dried his hands and checked it. It was a message from Greg.

"Come to my office at 10:00 am tomorrow, and bring every sketch you've got for that old factory project."

Ian stared at the text, his thumb resting on the edge of the screen. Emily was laughing along with the show in the living room.

He typed two words. "Will do."

Then he went to his room, opened the filing cabinet, and pulled out a large envelope from the very bottom. Inside was a thick stack of sketches in pencil, some of the corners already curled.

In the lower right-hand corner of the top sheet, there was a small line of handwriting. It was a date from three years ago. He'd finished these sketches the night before leaving Brooksdale.