At the moment, Dorian appears unruffled, his hands relaxed on the desktop, his attention focused on Mac. Male subjects always assume their most formidable opponent is another man, and too often they regard Frankie as merely an appendage, scarcely worth a glance. There are advantages to being overlooked; it gives Frankie the chance to observe without being noticed, to focus on body language and nonverbal cues. She notes that Dorian is still lean and fit at forty-one, that the hair at his temples is just beginning to show flattering glints of silver. He is certainly attractive enough to deserve the four chili peppers he’s been awarded on RateMyProfessors.com.

“Taryn’s death is a loss not just to her friends and family but also to the academic community,” says Dorian. “She was a brilliant student and an exceptionally gifted writer. I can show you the most recent paper she wrote for my class. You’ll see for yourself how promising she was. We were all shocked when we heard about her suicide.”

He does not yet know this is now a homicide investigation, and that is to their advantage. They don’t want to rattle him. They want him relaxed and talkative, and Mac is wearing his most congenial smile.

“You said you were Taryn’s faculty adviser,” says Mac. It’s an easy question, nonconfrontational. Nothing to alarm him.

“Yes. I was advising her on her senior project.”

“What sort of project?”

“She was writing a paper about how women are viewed in classical literature.”

“Would that be, um . . .” Mac glances at his notes. “‘Hell Hath No Fury: Violence and the Scorned Woman’?”

Dorian blinks in surprise. “Why, yes, as a matter of fact. How did you know?”

“We saw a draft of the paper in her apartment.”

“I see.”

“How well did you know her? As her senior faculty adviser and all.”

There is a three-second pause before Dorian answers. “I get to know all the students I advise. Taryn dreamed of a career in academia but she started off at a disadvantage. I know she was anxious to rise above that.”

“What sort of disadvantage?”

“Her father abandoned the family when Taryn was just a child. She was raised by a single mom, and I gathered it was something of a struggle to pay the bills.”

“Have you spoken to her mother?”

Dorian winces. “I know I should call her. But it’s, well, a painful conversation. I don’t know what I can say to make it easier for her.”

“Taryn’s mother is desperate to find out why her daughter killed herself, and we don’t have any answers. Do you?”

Dorian shifts in his chair, and the squeak of leather seems startlingly loud. “I’m not sure I do.”

“You deal with kids her age as part of your job, so you must have some insight into how their minds work. She was a pretty girl, and she was looking forward to starting grad school. She had her whole life ahead of her. So what went wrong?”

Dorian’s gaze drifts toward the window, where the wintry light casts his face in a chilly shade of gray. “Who knows what goes on in the heads of kids her age? I’ve worked with enough of them to know they’re on emotional roller coasters. One minute they’re deliriously happy, and the next, their whole life’s a catastrophe.”

“Why would she take her life?” asks Mac.

“That’s a question for a psychiatrist, not an English professor.”

“Even a professor who knew her well?”

Again a pause, but this one is longer. Frankie sees the muscles of his face twitch, and the fingers of his left hand are suddenly pressed flat against the desktop. “I have no idea why she did it.”

Frankie at last enters the conversation. “Did she ever mention her boyfriend?”

He frowns, as if suddenly aware of her presence. “The boy from Maine? Is that who you mean?”

“So you’ve heard about him.”

“Yes. His name was Liam something.”

“Liam Reilly. Taryn’s mother said he dated her all through high school.”

“He could certainly be the reason for her suicide, then. When they broke up, she was distraught about it.”

“You didn’t think that detail was worth mentioning?”

“You’ve just reminded me about it.”

“Tell us about this breakup.”

He shrugs. “For a week, she didn’t show up for class. Then she came to my office and told me she wanted to apply to grad school. I think it was to prove to herself, and to him, that she was worthwhile.”

“Did she seem suicidal at the time?”

“No, just . . . determined.”

“Did she mention having any other boyfriends? Anyone new she was seeing?”

Dorian’s gaze veers back to the window. “I don’t recall her saying anything like that.”

“You’re certain?”

“I was her academic adviser, not her therapist. Maybe her mother can answer that question.”

“She can’t. But parents are often the last to know.”

Mac says: “Do you know anyone who might have hurt Taryn?”

Dorian’s gaze snaps back to Mac, and Frankie catches the flash of alarm in his eyes. “Hurt her? I thought it was a suicide.”

“We’re exploring all possibilities. That’s why we’re here, to be certain we don’t overlook anything.”

Dorian swallows. “Of course. I wish I could help you, but that’s all I know. If I think of anything, I’ll give you a call.”

“Then that should do it.” Mac closes his notepad and smiles. That smile is not benign; it is more like a glimpse of a shark’s jaws about to clamp down.

And Frankie is the jaws.

Dorian is already rising to his feet when she asks him: “Are you acquainted with a student named Cody Atwood?”

Slowly Dorian settles back in his chair. “Yes. From my seminar.”

“Which seminar?”

“Star-Crossed Lovers. About tragic love stories from mythology and classical literature.”

“Was Taryn Moore also in that seminar?”

“She was. Why are you asking about Cody?”

“Because he’s been talking a lot about Taryn. And about you, Professor.”

Dorian says nothing. He doesn’t need to; his pallor tells Frankie what she needs to know.

“Cody said that Taryn had a very big crush on you.”

“It’s possible,” he admits.

“Were you aware of it?”

“She may have, um, flirted with me. That’s not unusual for female students.”

“Is it also not unusual for you and a female student to travel out of town together?”

He stiffens. “You’re talking about Amherst? The Annual Conference on Comparative Literature?”

“Where you stayed in the same hotel.”

“It was the official conference hotel. Most of the attendees stayed there.”

His attention has shifted from Mac and is now fully riveted on Frankie. Only now does it dawn on him who is really in charge. Yes, Professor, I’ve been here the whole time, watching. Observing. But you didn’t pay attention to this middle-aged gal in the size-fourteen blue pantsuit.

“Cody Atwood was so concerned about you and Taryn that he called the university’s Title Nine office to complain,” says Frankie.

“I was cleared of any accusations.”

“Yes, we spoke to Dr. Sacco. She said you denied it.”

“That’s right. That should have been the end of it.”

“Still, we have to ask. Is there anything you haven’t told us about your relationship with Taryn?”

Four beats of silence pass. He straightens and looks Frankie in the eye. “I don’t have anything else to tell you.”

She stands to leave, but at the door she stops. “I almost forgot to ask. Did Taryn ever mention losing her cell phone?”

“Her cell phone? No. Why?”

“We searched her apartment, but we haven’t found it. It seems to have disappeared.”

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I have no idea where it might be.”

“Oh. One final question.”

She sees the flash of irritation in his eyes. He is so anxious to get them out of his office that he barely manages a tight smile. “Certainly.”

“Where were you Friday night?”

“Friday? You mean . . .”

“The night Taryn died.”

“You’re asking me? Seriously?”

“It’s just a routine question. We’re asking everyone who knew her.”

“I was home all night,” he says. “With my wife.”

Frankie and Mac sit in her parked car, sleet ticking their windshield, and watch a leggy young woman in a miniskirt walk by, hugging herself in the cold.

“What the hell’s wrong with girls these days?” Mac says. “Look at that getup she’s wearing. Gonna get frostbite up in her you-know-where.”

Frankie thinks of her own twins and their sometimes-reckless choices of wardrobe. The see-through blouses, the minidresses on subzero nights, the skirts with thigh-high slits. How do parents protect them, she wonders, when kids are biologically programmed to take risks? Stay alive, stay safe is every mother’s prayer, the same prayer that runs through her own head late at night whenever her twins are out on the town. Stay alive, stay safe.

A prayer that failed Taryn Moore’s mother.

“So what do you think about the professor?” Mac asks.

“He’s hiding something.”

“No shit.”

“Maybe murder. Or maybe just an affair.”

“She was an adult. Even if he was boinking her, it’s not a crime.”

“But it is a motive. An affair with a student would wreck his career, not to mention his marriage.” She looks at Mac. “You get a look at his wife’s photo on the desk? She’s a good-looking woman, but a hot young student’s got to be a temptation.”

“Okay, so he’s got a motive. But that’s a long way from proving he killed her.”

Frankie starts the car. “We’re just getting started.”

CHAPTER 38

JACK