When I got to Winchester’s Pub, Justin was sitting in one of the worn wooden booths near the front, the ones with the initials of university students from decades long past carved into the now-polished surfaces. With his scruffy face and beat-up jeans, Justin could have passed for a good-looking graduate student, if there hadn’t been two actual students with him—a boy with bad acne and a huge Adam’s apple, and a girl with a pixie face and spiky black hair with green tips—both of whom looked about twelve by comparison.
When I’d texted him, he’d said he was back from the conference, grabbing dinner with some advisees if I wanted to come by. And I did. I needed to see him. I’d felt shaken ever since I’d left Harold’s house with that bracelet in my pocket, turned over in exchange for an old box of CDs I happened to have in my trunk.
Speaking to Steve afterward hadn’t helped, either. I called him as soon as I’d driven a safe distance from Harold’s and pulled into an empty driveway.
“I think you should consider speaking again with the man who lives across the street from where you found the baby,” I’d said, trying not to sound pushy or judgmental. “I think he may have seen something the night the baby was left.”
“Harold told you that, did he?” Steve had taken a loud breath. “Did he also tell you that he’s a convicted felon—aggravated assault—with a history of mental illness and a record of filing false reports?”
“No,” I’d said, feeling reprimanded and embarrassed again. “He didn’t mention that.”
“My personal advice is to steer clear of Harold,” Steve had said. “Nothing you’ll get from him could possibly be worth the risk of sticking around long enough to find it out.”
Justin grinned and waved when he saw me. I was about to head over when my phone rang. I paused on the side of the bar: Richard Englander. I dropped my phone right back into my pocket and let the call go to voicemail again. I’d gotten several more texts from Erik, including one praising my essay about infanticide, but none had said a word about Richard. Erik was due back in a day or so, he’d said. If Richard had an issue with my being on the story, he’d have to take it up with Erik when he got back.
“Guys, this is my wife, Molly,” Justin said when I’d made my way over to their table, which was covered with half-empty plates and glasses. They’d long since finished eating. “Tamara and Jeff are in my nineteenth-century fiction class. They were just telling me that the dean of students has shot down the Animal Rights Committee’s plan to lock themselves in cages in the middle of the quad to protest factory farming.”
“Factory farming is totally disgusting,” the girl said, glaring at me as if I had a bunch of baby cows jammed in cages in my backyard.
“Yes,” I said, because I was kind of scared to disagree. “Absolutely awful.”
“I promise I will do what I can to help plead your case. But I’m afraid right now I’m on borrowed time with the wife,” Justin said, winking at me. “Can we pick this up later, guys?”
“Yeah, sure,” the boy said, grabbing his stuff and digging in his pockets for cash.
“No, no, Jeff,” Justin said. “It’s on me.”
“Thanks, Professor Sanderson.” Jeff elbowed the girl. “Come on, Tam.”
The girl was still squinting at me.
“Tamara, we’ll work it out,” Justin said. “Don’t worry.”
“Okay, Mr. Sanderson,” she said before pouting out the door.
“Wow, she’s quite the ray of sunshine,” I muttered.
“Hubris of youth.” Justin shrugged, watching them go. “Someone needs to keep on fighting the good fight now that we’re too old and decrepit to care about anything but getting a good night’s sleep.”
“They’re, what, freshman? They look like babies.”
“That’s because they are babies. They’re extension students from Ridgedale High School—juniors and seniors.” His brow wrinkled. “Speaking of which, I’m pretty sure they aren’t supposed to be joining the clubs, much less protesting anything on campus. But I may let Thomas Price handle that. He supervises the high school exchange program. Anyway, they’re good kids. The boy is really sharp, more insightful than a lot of the actual freshmen.”
“And the girl?”
“Hmm, not so much. Being angry may be taking up a lot of her mental energy,” Justin said, which made me laugh.
“Well, if she’s pissed about factory farming, her head is going to burst when she hears about the police department’s DNA dragnet.”
Steve had briefly mentioned the planned community-wide voluntary DNA testing when we spoke about Harold. He’d asked me to post an alert about the community meeting, where he would be making the official announcement.
“‘Dragnet’? That sounds daunting,” Justin said as I sat across from him and started picking at his leftover french fries.
“I think it might be,” I said. “Can you get Ella on your way home? She’s at Mia’s house, having dinner.”
“Sure,” Justin said. “Everything okay?”
“I just need to cover the community meeting so I can be there to record the town’s collective conniption when the police announce this thing.”
“In their defense, it doesn’t sound very constitutional,” he said. “Oh, and by the way.” He pulled out his phone and showed me the text I had sent earlier. “What is this? It looks like an address.”
He could tell it wasn’t innocuous. Wasn’t a mistake. And it didn’t seem wise to lie. If I wanted him to trust me, I needed to be trustworthy.
“I had to do an interview.” I shrugged. “The guy made me nervous. It seemed best if someone knew where I was. Just in case.”
“Just in case?” His eyes were wide.
“Excess of caution. Isn’t that what you wanted?”