My eyes burned from exhaustion. A ring of thoughts circled like vultures inside my head—the warning message, the tampered door, Project Asphodel, Michael.
I tamped them all down except Michael.
My phone felt heavy in my hand as I stared at his contact. Before I could second-guess myself, I pressed call.
The phone rang once, twice, three times. With each unanswered ring, my resolve weakened. What was I doing? He clearly didn't want to hear from me. I was about to hang up when the line connected.
"Alex." His voice sounded clipped and distant.
My words tumbled out. "I know I shouldn't have called, but something's happening. Someone sent me a warning when I was researching Reeves. My apartment—I think someone was here. Someone tampered with the door. I'm not making this up, Michael. I'm not—"
"Alex." His voice was sharper and cut through my rambling comments. "You need to stop. Stay away from this."
He sounded as exhausted as me.
"I just—"
"I can't get involved. I'm not a cop right now. I'm not anything right now."
A sense of defeat filled his words. It wasn't the voice of the man who'd held me on the beach and seen my grief. Something had happened since Tahiti.
I spoke softly. "You don't have to fix it. I only wanted to hear your voice."
I thought I heard his breathing change. For a moment, I let myself believe he might talk to me.
"Don't contact me again. Please."
The line went dead.
The rejection burned inside my chest.
"Damn it, Michael," I whispered to the empty room.
I pushed myself up from the floor, legs stiff from sitting too long. I headed for the bathroom and stared at my reflection in the mirror—hair disheveled and dark shadows under my eyes. I barely recognized myself.
Michael's warning didn't dissuade me. It felt like confirmation. If there were nothing to my suspicions, he would have laughed them off.
He would have called out my paranoia. Instead, he'd told me to stay away—which meant there was something to stay awayfrom.
The apartment felt suddenly too small and exposed. I needed to go somewhere that was neutral ground. It needed to be public enough to feel safe but private enough to work.
As I stepped into the hallway, a neighbor's door opened. Mrs. Petrovich, eighty-three and sharp as a tack, peered out at me.
"Dr. Kessler, you look terrible. Not sleeping again?"
I managed a thin smile. "Only working too hard, Mrs. P. You know how it is with the end of the term approaching."
She frowned, the disbelief apparent in her eyes. "My Albert was a policeman for forty years. I know what trouble looks like on a man's face. Be careful out there."
"Always am."
Outside, I walked quickly, not toward campus where colleagues might ask questions, but toward a small coffee shop I frequented when grading papers. It was anonymous and quiet, with decent Wi-Fi and excellent espresso.
As I waited for the crosswalk signal, my phone buzzed with a text message. I pulled it out of my pocket, hoping that Michael might have had a change of mind.
It was from a number I didn't recognize.
Unknown:You should have listened to him.
