Chapter 6

It was 8:00 am on a Saturday. Ian sat at the coffee table in the living room. An A4 sheet lay spread out in front of him. On it were Emily's class schedule for the semester, her classroom times, and the timing for her lab meetings.

With a red pen, he circled every time slot when he might have to be anywhere near Brooksdale University. One by one, he added notes.

Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, 8:00 am to noon. Classes on the third floor of the humanities building. Off-limits.

Tuesday and Thursday, 2:00 pm to 6:00 pm in Room 312. Off-limits.

Every Wednesday night at 7:00 pm, lab meeting. Absolutely off-limits.

When Ian finished, he got up, walked to the fridge, and stuck the schedule to the door with a magnet. Next to each time block, he'd written a corresponding plan—lunches would be boxed and left on the table, any deliveries to Emily would go straight to the parcel lockers by the north gate, and his commute would be rerouted across town to avoid the street in front of the university.

He checked his phone. His online order of six black face masks and two long-brim baseball caps would soon be delivered. The plan was flawless.

Emily came out of her bedroom to use the bathroom. On her way past the fridge, she stopped short. Her eyes went red in an instant, and she rushed over to hug Ian's arm. "Ian! You copied my whole schedule? Because you were afraid I'd forget my classes? You're way too good to me!"

He pried her off, his face blank. "You're in the way."

She bounced back to her room, totally unaware that the schedule Ian had painstakingly written out was actually a tactical map for avoiding a certain someone.

Ian sat back down on the couch and opened the navigation app on his phone. His old commute cut right past the university's south gate and was within walking distance of the humanities building.

The new route looped around the east side of the city and added 15 minutes. He took a screenshot and set it as his phone wallpaper.

Once that was done, he made another copy of the schedule, notes and all, went to the bedroom closet. He pulled open the bottom drawer, where there was a brown envelope.

He slipped the paper inside. His fingers brushed against something at the bottom of the envelope—a stack of old drawings. They were architectural design sketches from three years ago.

His hand froze for a second, then he pulled it back and shut the drawer.

…

Cynthia sat at her desk in her apartment on the sixth floor of the university's faculty housing building. Next to her hand was her new thermal flask, half full of warm milk.

She slowly scrolled through her contacts, stopping on Emily's name. Her thumb hovered there for close to a minute, neither tapping in nor scrolling past. Then, she locked the screen and set the phone face-down.

She turned to look out the window. From the sixth floor, she could look straight down at the main campus road. Plane trees blocked most of the view, but a corner of the old gray-and-white humanities building roof still showed.

Three years ago, she'd run that building's third-floor hallway end to end, checking every classroom. She'd made over a hundred calls, but all she'd gotten was the robotic response telling her that the number she'd called was no longer in service.

It had taken her three whole months to cycle through the anger, panic, and despair.

Cynthia opened the bottom drawer of her desk. On top lay an envelope that had been folded and refolded so many times the edges were fuzzy, and the creases were so deep they were almost splitting open.

She took it out and ran her fingers along the sealed flap. Instead of opening it, she traced the edge once more, then pushed it back to the very bottom of the drawer, covering it with a thick academic journal.

She closed the drawer and straightened in her chair. Her expression smoothed out, even carrying a hint of self-mockery. Her voice was very soft, as if she were afraid someone might hear. "My rational side is telling me that there's no way it's that much of a coincidence."

She took a sip from her flask. The milk was at the perfect temperature.

But she'd had to figure that out herself. The first time, she'd burned her tongue. The second time, it had gone cold. The third time, it was barely acceptable.

In the past, she'd never had to worry about the temperature.

Cynthia woke up her laptop and pulled up a student paper to review. As the screen came on, her desktop background filled the display—a wide shot of Brooksdale University's library taken in fall, the plane tree leaves blazing gold.

That day, she'd stood on the library steps and waited for someone to come pick her up for dinner. He'd been ten minutes late. When he finally arrived, he'd shoved a baked sweet potato into her hands, the skin already peeled.

She dragged her gaze away and opened the paper to get to work.

…

That evening, Ian was in the kitchen making dinner. He weighed out his ingredients on the kitchen scale to make sure he was making exactly enough for two.

Sauteed eggplant, poached shrimp with garlic butter, and risotto. Once the dishes were done and two place settings were on the table, he glanced back at the stove… to see an extra saucer of dipping sauce for the shrimp. It consisted of vinegar, a few drops of olive oil, and finely chopped chili.

He didn't even remember when he'd mixed it.

Cynthia had loved her poached shrimp with that exact sauce.

Ian stared at the saucer for a few seconds. Then, he picked it up and dumped the sauce into the sink. The running water washed every trace away.

When Emily got home, she sat down and started complaining as she dug in. "Ian, I'm gonna die. Starting Monday, the devil incarnate is giving us an extra reading assignment. We have to be in class by 7:30 am every morning.

"That means I've gotta start waking up at dawn. Ugh, in bed at 2:00 am and up at 6:00 am. I bet the Grim Reaper himself thinks I have a fantastic sleep schedule."

Ian gave her a look. "Maybe stop calling her the devil incarnate. She's just another young woman."

Emily pouted. "Young, my ass. She's practically a dried-up spinster. I'm gonna keep calling her the devil incarnate, so shoot me."

Ian dropped it and said nothing else. In his head, he mentally updated the schedule on the fridge—Monday through Friday, Emily would leave the house before 7:00 am. He would need to have lunch ready by 6:30 am, which meant a 5:30 am alarm.

He did the math automatically, not quite noticing that he was already building an extra lunch into his daily routine… despite just pouring out that extra saucer of dipping sauce just ten minutes earlier.

After dinner, Emily curled up on the couch and scrolled on her phone. Suddenly, she said, "Oh, right. Ian, Lauren told me something today."

Ian kept wiping down the table.

"She said Professor Lynch has been acting really different lately. She used to be out of the building by 8:00 pm at the latest. But recently, Lauren's stayed late a few times and still seen the light on in Professor Lynch's office, with her sitting there alone.

"And she also brought her own flask again today. She was drinking warm milk instead of her usual iced black coffee. The whole lab saw, but nobody dared to ask about it."

Ian paused for a fraction of a second, then kept wiping. When the tabletop was spotless, he rinsed the dishcloth, hung it up to dry, and headed into the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed and opened his phone, pulling up the search bar. It sat blank as his thumb hovered over it for a long time.

Instead of typing anything, he locked the screen, shut his eyes, and sat there in the dark for a full five minutes. Then, he got up, went to the closet, and pulled out the envelope. He slid out the A4 sheet with his plan and read through it again.

Every line was reasonable and necessary.

He folded the paper and slipped it back into the envelope. Under his breath, he muttered to himself, "There won't be a next time."

It sounded halfway between a vow and a plea.

…

At 11:00 pm, Ian turned off the light and lay down. All of a sudden, he remembered Emily talking about Cynthia sitting alone in her office every night.

In the past, Cynthia had never been okay with being by herself. She hated the quiet because it made her spiral and made her thoughts run wild. She used to say that when it was too quiet, she couldn't stop her brain from churning.

But now, she sat alone in that office every night.

Ian rolled over and buried his face in the pillow.

His phone screen lit up. Emily had sent him a message, followed by a string of panicked emojis.

"Ian, Professor Lynch just dropped a message in the grad group chat and told us to fill out a form. There's a section for emergency contact info, and she wants a family member's name, phone number, and workplace. I'll give her your details, alright?"

Ian's eyes widened, and he jolted upright.